MY 50-STATE STRATEGY

HOME ON THE RANGE: Top) The outbuilding down in the avocado grove; and Right) the sign marking the property.
FINALLY,
THE REAL
FRUITA!

After some questions involving the overdrive override switch for the truck transmission, I settled all debts in St. George, Utah and hit the highway, heading west.
You see, the override switch was the culprit in the transmission troubles, having burned out long ago and taken the dashboard warning light with it. As explained in a simple fashion to me by Scott, the boss at the garage, the overdrive override governs the engine’s output by computer and its ruin led to the transmission’s failure and the eventual expense of much time and treasure for its replacement. Now I don’t know from overdrive, but Scott said, without the automatic override, the transmission would have failed eventually and, he added, “Towing a trailer, you never had a chance!”
There was a possibility that I would have to wait ‘til the first of the week to leave, as an override switch replacement couldn’t be located in town. Scott suggested I could get the trailer and travel over to Las Vegas and have a switch installed there, but I wouldn’t consider the transmission overhaul completed without the switch put in place here. I volunteered to drive over to Las Vegas in the rental car to retrieve one, but a switch was found locally, and all’s well that ends well.
I made time to visit the Mormon Temple in town, and spent several hours chatting to various folks there. I wasn’t interested in changing religions, which did disappoint the missionaries, but instead, as I explained, held a healthy curiosity about the faith, and its connection to the current news cycle, given Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney’s impending Presidential quest, the controversy surrounding renegade fundamentalist bigamist leader Warren Jeffs, who now occupies a prime spot on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted List, and HBO’s new hit serial, Big Love, which, set in Utah, details the triumphs and travails of a bigamist family. (I will reveal my findings here and any conclusions and/or opinions in a later post.)
I then drove the 85 miles north to Orderville,Utah once again traversing through Zion National Park, and rescued the trailer from where it sat for the past five days. There didn’t seem to be anyone around the trailer park/thrift shop to inform when I smelled smoke as I was leaving. I then saw that the ranch-style fence fronting the property was full afire. I kicked down the burning fence and snuffed out the flames, ruining a new pair of sneakers in the process. Not to worry though, as one good turn deserves another: the woman who owned the property was very fair to me about a storage rate on Memorial Day, even though it was apparent I was desperate after the transmission turned to toast.
It was now around dinnertime, so I decided to avoid Zion’s steep winding canyons and instead drove north then west through the beautiful Cedar Breaks National Monument. This area contains fabulous cliffs and rivers among the abundance of cedars. It still had a decent snow pack and was full of white-tailed deer. The climb up through it offered the new transmission a stiff test, especially over Summit Mountain (elev. 9,633 feet). I could only get one radio station up here. It came in clear as a bell and, strangely, it was an Oldies signal from Odessa, Texas, between 900-1,000 miles away to the southeast as the crow flies.
I found an area to coop in for the night and early the next morning was back on the highways, bound for Southern California. Down the road I went, through St. George and then the fabulous Virgin River Gorge, a scenic 12-mile canyon. Out over the ribbon of road in the Mojave Desert I continued, bound for southern California. Driving all day, I touched four states, first Utah, then Arizona and Nevada with finally the bulk of the miles coming in California.
Passing through Mesquite, Arizona, then Las Vegas and Barstow, California, I was now swimming with the current of cars, the occupants returning home through the desert after a weekend of losing in Los Wages. The temperatures reached 112, but that’s dry heat, no humidity. My truck seemed to have been the only vehicle with the windows open, as I was luxuriating in the extreme warmth. I’ve grown to love this heat. It makes me feel good, limber, but some would find it uncomfortable. And there is no quicker way to turn a gallon of gas ($3.74 at one desert stop) into a half-gallon of gas than to roll along with the windows up and the AC on.
As I rounded the corner at San Bernardino and headed southwest down toward the San Diego area, the humidity returned and I felt it for the first time in weeks. Then I could smell the cool salt air from the Pacific rolling over me. As someone who grew up on The Right Coast, it was a welcome scent and sensation.
Just as darkness fell, I arrived in Escondido, California. The trip was 476 miles on the highway, but the 477th mile was the most work.
My cousin, “Pistol,” who in his younger days played a bit of pro basketball in Europe and now is a fruit farmer, came down to the highway’s edge and warned me that it would be tough sledding for the final little bit, the 4/5ths of a mile of steep road up to the hilltop hacienda. And he was right.
Near the beginning of the climb, I stopped briefly at a fork in the road in a moment of indecision and lost all upward thrust. After struggling up a further portion of the hill, I became stuck on a particularly steep section. After some futile maneuvers, like failing at backing the truck and trailer down the steep narrow incline in an effort to find some flat territory on which to gain some speed and momentum, Pistol and “Volleyball Viv,” the mother of Pistol, Jr., managed to tow me, the truck and the trailer up over the crest of the rise, no small effort, no small feat. With a dip into a gully coming up to slingshot me onward and upward, it was smooth sailing from there.
Also living on the hilltop is “Pistol Jr.,” who is in recovery from a very serious auto mishap, which occurred just under four years ago. As he is currently confined to a wheelchair, the well-appointed ranch-style house affords him easy access around the compound. Maintaining a positive attitude as he rehabilitates and reconfigures his life skills, Pistol Jr., who is the spitting image of his father at that age, spends some time on the Internet and with family and his many friends, often venturing out to visit. He also has the constant companionship of his huge dog, Ruby, a part-St. Bernard, three cats and one monster fish in an aquarium. All of these animals are one shade or another of brown-orange – just a coincidence, Pistol Jr. told me. Soon, I’m told, a monkey will be joining this menagerie.
Unfortunately, the weather, termed called “Gray May, June Gloom” (during which moisture from the Pacific mixes with heat from the desert, producing fog), prevented me from capturing the scope of this splendid property, and its surrounding hills, on film and showcasing it to you. Including the house, the property here is five acres total. There is also a comfortable outbuilding down in the avocado grove (see above), which I was ensconced in during my stay. At night, you could here the call of the coyotes echoing throughout the hills.
The sign calls this place Ruby Ranch, but I think it should be named Fruita, just like an oasis in the Southwest. Besides the 400 25-foot tall avocado trees that cascade down the hill in an orchard manner, they grow grapes, lemons and limes, tangerines and tangelos, grapefruits, naval and blood oranges, peaches, plums, apricots and nectarines. Then there are the granny apple trees, the strawberry and blueberry patches, the vegetable garden and the veritable spice rack sprouting up out in the herb garden. I got tired just typing that list; imagine the care and attention that goes into maintaining this wonderland, never mind the water bill.
Pistol, a talented carpenter, helped me out with several nagging problems inside the trailer and we also spent a lot of time catching up. Though separated by eight years in age, we share some friends and acquaintances in common and Pistols was full of questions about their status.
We did venture out for dinner one night, but had several fabulous meals at the house. Though Viv herself is a vegan, she still sets a mean table for a crew of carnivores, but featuring some sumptuous salads with much of the ingredients gathered from around the property.
My visit to Escondido was then touched with sadness, as word came west that Pistol’s father and my uncle, Charles Richard, had passed away in Massachusetts at the age of 95 (see Timeout for Tears). Pistol would soon be winging his way eastward for the services.
With Hollywood on the horizon, it was my last night in Escondido. Pistol and Viv’s daughter, “Caggie,” and her husband, “He Who Likes Meatballs,” joined us for an Italian feast of Pistol Jr.’s favorite, lasagna, alongside some of those meatballs. I got my first peek at their darling daughter “Maitilyn,” a tot just at that age where she’s getting into everything and anything. She was shy, but quite amusing.
It was a pleasure to find family so far from home and I was quite thankful for their hospitality, as well as Pistol’s assistance in solving the problems within the trailer.