No Bad Days

Life in Havasu

 I bought a t-shirt today to give to a friend, a souvenir of this year's Huntsman Trip. (Normally, at this time of year, we come out to Lake Havasu, on the Arizona-California border, and spend some time just hanging out; then my wife goes up to Utah and plays soccer in the Huntsman Senior Games while I go hiking in various places on the Colorado Plateau with my dog Carly and my former law partner, who now lives in Las Vegas. We call it the Huntsman Trip.) Things are a little different this year, which is why I'm still in Lake Havasu City and able to go shopping for t-shirts. 

 The t-shirt I bought says "Lake Havasu City: No Bad Days." That seems to be the current motto for the local tourism industry. And it got me thinking about the time I've spent here this year. Let me tell you about it.

 The house we have here is reasonably spacious. I could wish that it was furnished more with tall people in mind: there is one chair that isn't too close to the ground, and some bar stools that are high enough to be comfortable; so I make do. This year my brother in law and sister in law were here, too. Well, she's usually here when we are, but it was unusual for him to come along. Until this semester he's always been otherwise engaged and unable to come, but now he's retired, so he could come. He's even taller than me, so I insisted that he should have the one good chair. (He's older, too, so that's the official reason: respect for my elders etc., etc.) Besides, I spend a good part of my time out back under the gazebo, and this year I spent another good chunk of time in the home office, writing a treatment for a television series that will surely go nowhere. (I had planned for that project to encompass the entire three weeks of this trip, but it went faster than I'd expected.)

 My wife and her sister are able to have fun on the lake. Usually that means taking the boat out, or the jet-ski, but this year they've taken up SUP-ing (stand-up paddleboarding) and, after a week and a half of fairly steady progress, seem to have attained a level of competence at it. Or at least comfort. It's a work in progress, I guess. My brother in law went out with them once or twice, too, but it's difficult for him just now because, at the moment, he's kind of attached to some kind of medical device that makes it a little inconvenient. I'm pretty sure that if it weren't for that he'd have been out on the lake a lot more than he was. But as for me, I don't care for boating. I'll drive the boat if somebody wants to water ski, but I'd just as soon not be out on the lake. I just find it ... well, kind of boring. Likewise jet-skiing: I don't get a thrill from taking turns going in circles on a jet-ski; we only have the one, and even if we had two, where would we go? The same places we'd go in the boat. Watersports on Havasu means going to this or that cove and floating in the water. I suppose we could go across the lake to the casino, but we're not casino-type people. (And I don't imagine it's much of a casino anyway.) Plus, they always wait until the hottest part of the day to go, because it's too cold before that to get wet. So when they go out on the lake, I stay at the house.

This is a rail.

 The other thing we have equipment for is railing. A "rail" (or a "sand rail") is like a dune buggy, but without a body. It's a VW engine and transmission mounted on a slab of sheet metal and surrounded by a cage of steel bars. It, too, is not built for tall people, but it can take a lot of punishment, and driving it out in the desert, up and down barely-there tracks and creek beds, over steep hills and down sharp slopes (and hoping there is a sharp slope on the far side of each steep hill) can be fun. But every year, there's something wrong with the rail. One year it was just a flat tire, I think; one year it was the steering; one year it was ... I don't know; I don't remember. I was out here three times before the rail was operative at all. Most years, it goes in the shop when we get here and we hope we get it back before it's time to leave.

 This year, the rail was, as far as we knew, fully operative. But nobody suggested taking it out. Each day's plans involved the boat and the paddleboards instead. Then, after my wife had left for Utah, my brother in law mentioned that he would like to go out in the rail. At that point, with only one afternoon left before he returned home to Colorado, it was almost pointless to mention, but as my sister in law and I got ready to drive the rail over to the North End to pick up the Tahoe, which was being repaired in anticipation of our drive up to the airport in Las Vegas the next morning for their flight out, she told me what he'd said, and I said, Well, I guess you'll be going out in the rail this evening.

 Nope. The transmission went out on the way to get the Tahoe, so we had to have the rail towed home from the repair shop. Next April, it will be in the capable hands of its dedicated mechanic Ronnie, and maybe will be in operating condition in time for next year's Huntsman Trip.

 My former law partner, the one who lives in Las Vegas, has been kind of out of touch this year. He has serious medical issues in his family that he's having to deal with, so I was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to go hiking. (I planned, instead, to spend that time working on my television treatment, the one I finished in about a week.) Last year all we managed was to meet up for lunch in Laughlin, about halfway between Vegas and Havasu. But I haven't been able to get a hold of him, by email, or text, or telephone to arrange even that. So I intended to go up to Las Vegas and knock on his door. That was why I undertook to deliver my sister and brother in law to their flight: killing two birds, so to speak. I wasn't comfortable driving the Tahoe up to Las Vegas and back, a 300-mile-plus trip, with the "check engine" light on, so my sister in law made sure to get it into the shop before that trip. (The light went out on the way over to the shop; the mechanic said that was because it automatically resets every hundred or so times you start the car, but pointed out that "that doesn't mean the problem goes away." I learned the hard way not to ignore that light when I had my old black Firebird.) We picked it up on Tuesday afternoon, had the rail towed -- an adventure in itself, as the insurance company that covers the rail didn't have its act together, which meant we sat out in a mild version of desert heat for an hour and a half trying to get that straightened out -- and then headed up to Vegas early Wednesday morning. I dropped them at the airport, then went to visit my friend. 

 The Google Maps app on my phone wasn't working ("You seem to be offline.") I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and had breakfast while trying to figure out what the F was wrong with it. Finally did, though why that problem should occur is beyond me. Anyway, finally got the directions to his house, drove out there and knocked on the door. I was greeted by the new occupant of the apartment, who moved in last Saturday. No idea where he'd moved to, of course, and the apartment manager refused to give me any information, of course. So. Back to Havasu. (I'd figured on stopping in Laughlin if I had no luck at his house, but wasn't in the mood. I was more concerned about leaving Carly cooped up in the house for too long, though I shouldn't have worried; so I skipped a repeat visit to the Laughlin Automobile Museum.) 

The view of The Island from the island.

 A trip to Las Vegas and back from Havasu uses a full tank of gas in that gassucking Tahoe. I wasn't comfortable with the gauge so close to E, so I stopped along the way and bought a little gas, knowing that I could get it for a lot less in Havasu, if only I could get there without running out. (I did.) Then I noticed two tiny chips in the windshield. So this morning, after taking Carly for a walk around Water Safety Island (that's just what I call it; I don't know that it has an actual name) I spent an hour or so arranging to get the chips filled. That was the exciting thing I did this morning. And then, as long as I was out, I stopped for lunch at a Thai restaurant very close to a t-shirt shop. The great Circle of Life.

 That's what it's been like, here in Havasu. It's a little too hot for comfort during the afternoon, and the furniture in the house isn't made for people like me, and technology continues to disappoint and frustrate, and all kinds of little things go wrong and get fixed. And I've already seen London Bridge like a dozen times so I'm a good two and a half hours from anything to do. But you know, there are, in fact, no bad days in Havasu.

 Though of course I'd still rather be in Los Angeles....

County Counting Update

 My recent trip, to Kansas City and then Michigan, went reasonably well despite technological issues, and I got to two new counties in southeastern Nebraska, and all the remaining counties in Iowa (10) and Michigan (20). The trip home went nothing like I'd planned it -- not really a surprise there -- so I didn't get to any new counties in Kentucky or Tennessee. 

Who cares. Since I very much enjoy driving my little convertible on such winding mountain roads as abound in both those states, I'm sure I'll be going to those places soon enough. 

Meanwhile, here's the updated situation. I've now been to all the counties in 37 states, shown in green on the map below. The states in yellow are those where there are only "a few" counties left to visit, which I arbitrarily define as ten or less. The number of remaining counties to go to is shown in red.

The grey states, Georgia and Oregon, are those with more than ten counties left to visit. And then there's Alaska, which doesn't have counties. I've decided that any step taken in that state is good enough: One and Done.

 This last trip was the first I've ever made with county-counting as the express objective, and the last. The only remaining areas where there are enough to tempt me to go for that purpose are (1) the state of Georgia, with its surfeit of tiny little counties, and (2) the Northwest. But doing the Northwest all at once would be an exceedingly long and no doubt dull wander, while doing Georgia in a single trip would be just plain tedious; so I won't attempt it. Best to collect those counties as I pass through on the way to places more interesting.

 The dearth of counties left to visit for the first time has prompted me to change my goal to visiting all the car museums in the country. There are hundreds of them, and they're nicely scattered across the country, often in small towns. They are the new excuse to wander, not really the objective. You know the old saying, "It's not the destination, it's the journey"? That applies here. 

At the same time, I will not get all worked up about it. On my last trip, at one point in the planning I counted 17 car museums among my planned stops. (That number included, I think, five in Hickory Corner, Michigan, because I didn't understand the set-up there; there are actually 19 separate buildings, but some of them are operated by various car clubs and, I suppose, count as separate museums. Since I went to all the ones I'd planned to see, and several others, over two days, I'm counting it as five museums.) I actually went to 13 of the ones I'd planned. The rest I skipped because their hours of operation didn't fit my schedule. (A lot of them are only open a few days a week.) I did get pissed off when I showed up at one museum -- the first, as it happens -- and they had changed their hours within the last few weeks. Well, it happens. I got more pissed off when I drove half a day out of my best route to see a museum that doesn't deserve that name. Even so, I enjoy car museums, even most of the mediocre ones. And since they come and go like cellphone plans, I'll never run out of new places to go. Will I.