Monday, January 12
Yesterday, before going inside the Best Little Trailer for the night, I fold up the lounger and put it in the side door of the Perfect Tow Vehicle. With my claw hammer I pull up the stakes that secure the outdoor mat, fold it up, and toss it in the back of the PTV. I tidy up the interior of the BLT.
Well, as it turns out, I wake up with a slight headache. When a cup of coffee and breakfast don’t make it go away, I know I’m in for a day-long siege. The beauty of being retired is I can change my plan. We’ll leave tomorrow! I go back to bed. Bridget thinks that’s a good idea and crawls under the covers with me. We take it easy all day. Our only walk is up to the pay station where I deposit another four bucks.
By evening I feel good again.
I position a camp chair on the west side of the BLT, throw a doggie bed on the ground, put Bridget in her sweater, and wrap a quilt around me. We settle in for another Arizona light show. Of course, I do jump up to take this photo for you!
Goodbye, Painted Rock! You’ve been a great camp.
If it weren’t for the waste tanks needing to be dumped, I’d stay a few more days.
Bridget is in the mood for travel. She makes herself comfortable on the bench seat. We zip down Painted Rock Dam Road to Interstate 8, turn east, and travel the ten miles to Gila Bend. The speed limit is 75 mph. I keep us right below 60.
At the intersection with Route 85, I drive into Love’s Travel Center.
Gas is $2.29 a gallon. After topping off the tank, I pull away from the pumps, park, and run inside for a second cup of coffee. Opening the door I walk smack dab into a road-rage confrontation in progress.
Two very large men curse each other…. “Move your ^#%@* truck, you &#(@*!!”, yells one man as the other man retreats out the back.
Meanwhile I stand frozen at the door.
The man turns, sees me, and changes his tone.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I am very sorry,” he says, his face still red from anger.
“That’s okay,” I reply. “Stuff happens. You have a good day, okay?”
He heads toward the back of the store. Oh no, let it go, man, let it go . . . .
I pump my coffee, the cashier appears, I pay and leave!
It’s a straight shot across flat desert on Route 85.
The road borders the Barry Goldwater Missile Range. Shortly before Ajo we pass through rocky hills where creosote and saguaro grow in abundance. If the light were better I’d stop for photos. There’s heavy cloud cover today. I hope I can find a camp before it rains. Looks like sunshine ahead. Maybe we’ll drive into it.
In Ajo I turn into Belly Acres RV Park.
A man comes trotting out to greet me. I tell him I want propane, to dump tanks, and to take on water. I lift the propane tank cover, unscrew one of the tanks, and heft it over to where the man is preparing the hose to pump the propane. The tank takes 4.3 gallons of propane ($15.05) and the dump and water costs $10.00. I follow the man into a little office and write a check for $25.05.
A big motorhome is ahead of us.
I put my seat back and amuse myself by examining my Arizona Benchmark atlas. Bridget keeps her eyes on the man taking care of his tanks ahead of us.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That guy is going to take a while, probably five or ten more minutes.”
“No problem. I’m not in a hurry. Thank you.” That’s the second person saying sorry to me today.
By the time I’m done with our tanks, a light rain is falling.
“Okay, Bridge. Now we search for our next home. It won’t be long, honey.”
We leave Ajo and continue further south.
It’s partially in view from the road which I don’t like. Well, we can camp here tonight. Tomorrow the rain will be gone and I’ll find something better.
“Hey, Bridge. Let’s walk the road while we can. Maybe we’ll find a better campsite.”
Bridget is good about staying on the dirt road which is clear of the menacing cholla clusters of needle-thin spines.
Can’t camp in all this cholla. I’m almost at the point of giving up when we come over a low rise and the cholla thins out. We discover a campsite with a circular “driveway” going around a stately saguaro.
“Oh, look at this! It’s beautiful here!”
Bridget and I hurry back to move the BLT to this lovely, secluded spot.
Later, with camp all set up — chocked, level, unhitched, mat staked, chair out, Bridget’s bed and drink dish on the mat — I sit in the camp chair admiring our view.
“Ya’ know, Bridge. I think I’ll have spaghetti for supper. I haven’t had spaghetti in ages.”
I step inside and Bridget hops up the step behind me.
“And guess what you get . . . . Kibble! Yay!”
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