Sunday, April 13
The Best Little Trailer is rockin’ and a-rollin’ here on a bluff in the Coconino National Forest north of Flagstaff, Arizona.
At the end of our road, I see a national forest marker which points out that I reported the wrong road number for our camp in the previous post.
We see no one and hear no one because no one is here but us!
Yesterday’s “whoosh” of the pines is now a low roar. We take a break in a sunny spot, then keep moving against the wind. It’s invigorating to be in the forest on a day like today!
Bridget, however, does not agree.
I turn around and see her several yards behind Spike and me, her gnome-like body in the middle of the road. I know what that stare means.
“C’mon, Spike. Let’s go back. I’ve had enough of this wind anyway.”
Except for brief lulls in the wind, we stay inside all day.
I can see the Painted Desert from the back window. As the day progresses the view shortens due to the wind-blown dust across the desert. I’m glad I didn’t try to move camp today.
What does one do when shut up in a tiny trailer all day?
Clean the bathroom, of course! I also go through the pile of receipts I collected for January, February, and March. I tally up all the categories, suffer a near-stroke at the total spent on raw meat for the crew, and start putting together the money reports. This takes a couple hours.
Then I take a backhoe to my purse.
Well, not really. Man, how does so much stuff end up in that black hole?
What else do I do? Let’s see . . . Oh, yeah, I eat about 137 salted peanuts. I take everything out of the food cupboard and put it back in again. I also open up my picture file and delete a few hundred duplicate photos.
I wash dishes and silverware and hang the damp kitchen towel on the antenna wire to dry. I write a postcard with a picture of a saguaro on the front to send to my aunt in New York state.
I react to Spike cuteness.
I roll him over on his back and rub his chest and belly until his lip curls ever-so-slightly into a grin. I clip the crew’s toenails which sends Spike pawing at the door to escape into the wind. Bridget doesn’t flinch. She acts like a lady having her nails done. I chase the kitchen towel over the hill.
See? There’s always something to do and there’s always something to blog about.
Why try to be relevant or opinionated or informative or exciting when the highest action of the day is chasing a dish towel in the wind? When the deepest thinking is wondering how far the PVC pole that holds up the Wilson antenna can bend without breaking in gale force winds? When the biggest thrill is seeing the bottom of my purse?
Time to close this post . . .
Actually it’s past time.
These next photos were taken during the crew’s last potty run before being tucked into bed.
NOTE: A wind advisory and a blowing dust advisory posted for Flagstaff tonight:
“A wind advisory means that sustained winds of 30 to 39 mph… or gusts from 40 to 57 mph… are expected. A blowing dust advisory means that blowing dust will restrict visibilities to between one quarter and one mile. Travelers are urged to use caution.” — wunderground.com
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