The Rusty Nail

For the third time, Buena pounces out of her spot at the foot of my bed and races to the front of the RV. Grrrrruffff! Gruffffff! Waiting, I listen for her intensity, hoping she will just stop barking and come back to bed. This is the reality of the Rottweiler side of her. She’s incredibly protective of me and the RV. Grrruuff! Gruff! Gruf! Gruf! Gruf! Gruuuuuuooooo! Oooh! Ooooooooh! The rapidity of her barking and the almost-howl on the last note tells me she needs me to see “it” to determine threat level.

Ugggggh! I groan and roll over in bed, feet to the floor, toes like heat-seeking missiles searching for the warmth of slippers. The cool night air feels good on my arms and shoulders, but my toes don’t like the cold floor. As my feet slide into a cushiony softness, I listen for a moment to the tap tap taptaptap of rain hitting the roof as Buena continues to punctuate the night with her almost-howls. I shuffle to the front, pulling back the curtain that separates the house from the garage. “What, Buena?”

Grrruuuff? she questions, staring intently through the sliver of windshield not covered by the Gadsden flag sun visor.

I bend across the front seat and peer through the slat. “It’s just another camper pulling in for the night. It’s nothing. Go back to bed,” I say, already turning to the back of the RV. On the way to the back, I stop and open the refrigerator to check the temperature. I could write a novella on my episodes with this refrigerator and how for the first four years a keen relationship developed between my faith and the Norcold RV fridge.

Opening the door, the white light stuns my eyes, which quickly find focus while searching for the temperature reading. The “safe zone” is marked in blue, 33 - 40°. The thermometer is easily at about 43 or 45. To remedy this and bring the temperature lower, I nudge the settings dial more toward the cold end, expecting the familiar clicking as the flame lights and the propane does it’s magical thing behind the fridge. (Somehow the flame heats something to make it get cold. It’s been explained to me dozens of times, but the whole process still doesn’t sink in.)

Only…there’s no whoosh! of flame after the clicking stops.

Again, I move the temperature dial.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Silence.

At this point, I feel the familiar nudge on my faith and ask the Lord to please start my refrigerator.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Silence.

I know there’s a lesson to be learned in all this about faith, mechanics, and my part in all this, but it’s the middle of the night, and I just want to get back to bed.

Suddenly, wisdom pops to mind: The refrigerator doesn’t work efficiently if the RV isn’t properly leveled. The RV isn’t too much off kilter. I’m at a slight angle toward the back as I ran out of leveling blocks for the passenger side. Besides that…the refrigerator worked all day. Why would it stop now? And why does it always seem to quit working after I’ve spent significant money on groceries? With that thought, I quickly open the freezer and pull down a couple of the emergency frozen-water bottles and stuff them into the refrigerator hoping to lower the temperature…or at least maintain it while I figure out this problem.

Buena, satisfied that we weren’t in any danger, steps down from the front, goes to the door, scratches the door, and looks up at me.

“No, we’re not going outside now,” I say. The annoyance in my tone sounds sharp, even to my own ears. I pull on a flannel shirt and change into hiking boots. I’m going to have to move the RV and go outside into the rain to pick up the leveling blocks.

As I drive around the lot, looking for a level parking space, I feel like a cat, circling around and around until finally settling down into comfortable sleep. Beneath the harsh white glare of overhead lights beaming down on the blacktop, I drive around the lot twice. There is no level space on this lot. The entire lot is sloped. The only semi-level spot is already taken by a big pickup truck pulling a fifth wheel. For a moment, I consider just driving onward. I’m awake now, but it’s dark and rainy. Not a good combination if the RV gives me troubles.

I return to the original parking space and resolve my mind to the notion that I might lose some groceries. As I’m repositioning the leveling blocks, I suddenly think that I forgot to move the roof tarp and the logs I have over the leaky spot on the roof. (I’d hastily put the tarp on the roof yesterday afternoon when the strong winds blew a large, dark grey cloud in my direction. I could smell the rain, so the tarp went on the roof, and the fire logs were positioned to hold it in place.) Since there’s nothing I could do about the tarp now, and the last thing I want to do is climb up the wet aluminum stairs onto the roof, I go back inside. Looking up, I check the light level through the front skylight. Still dark. Great! I didn’t lose the tarp, and if the logs moved, then so be it. It’s already stopped raining, and I just want to get back to bed. Passing the Norcold, I flip the dial all the way down to “warmest” and then all the way back up to “coldest.”

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Ffffwhhhooooooosh! The flame kicks on.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

Back in the bedroom, Buena looks up at me from atop my sleeping bag. “No,” I say, “you don’t get to sleep in my spot.” I point to her spot, and she lazily moves over.

Buena is up early, again bark-howling at people moving about the lot. There’s a McDonald’s here, so many of the campers move back and forth getting food and coffee. The rain has stopped, but clouds still fill the sky, filtering early morning light into a soft grey.

I can’t stay here.

Plopping onto the long bench couch, I pick up my phone. A quick search of elevations and temperatures shows me Oatman is at a higher altitude than Havasu and the temperatures there look good for another week. For a moment I consider just going on to Havasu, but my weather app shows me temperatures there will still be in the 90s.

With Oatman only a short drive from Searchlight, I leave as the clouds start to break.

A few years back, I stumbled upon an excellent campsite just south of Oatman, up in the mountains. It was a great camping spot. The two things I remember most, however, are the cactus and the storm. Puppy-Buena got stuck with a cactus branch that was almost a third of her size, and a night storm came through with lightning, thunder, and winds that strongly rocked the Godspeed from side to side.

I find the spot and sit on the desert, passing my time grading papers, walking with Buena, and trying to bring my sleep cycle back into a circadian rhythm. The hotel job really messed with my sleep. With my eyes on the computer and the bright lobby lights welcoming guests, my energy levels stayed high, but then I’d have to try to tune them down so I could be back at work at 7:30 to open. It was a process of ramping myself up for work with caffeine and chocolate. Since sleep is such an important part of the healing and restorative process, I want my cycle back. I want to realign it with the season and restore my natural energy levels. To accomplish this, I keep the lights dim after sunset and make myself get out of bed at first light. I try to limit screen time, but that is particularly difficult when the screen is my only connection with others right now.

It’s quiet where I’m parked. The only noise is the occasional vehicle on its way to Oatman. I’m just south of Boundary Cone, a large peak with a prominent position on the skyline. From Bullhead City, the Boundary Cone Road leads right to it. From there, it’s north to Oatman or South to Catfish Paradise along the Colorado River.

I sleep. I work. I watch the mountains change in the light.

Buena and I walk out on the desert. There’s a lot of sharp things out here. I count three different kinds of cactus. The rocks look sharp. Rusty pieces of metal and glass litter the desert floor. One day, an archaeologist will stumble upon these things and call them “artifacts.” They might even end up in a museum. But, today, they are litter, and I worry about Buena’s paws.

We return to the RV, and I dig out the dog shoes Laurel got her. As always, when I first put them on her feet, Buena forgets how to walk. Paws flopping on the floor, her high prancing steps are uncoordinated, and her body moves awkwardly. I hurry her outside where she suddenly remembers how to walk and dashes ahead of me out into the desert.

On the third day, my water situation concerns me.

I carry 15 gallons of drinking water in the RV, in addition to the washing and bathing water storage built into the RV. I don’t know how many gallons that tank holds, but the size reminds me of a 20- or 35- gallon aquarium. It’s only Tuesday morning, and I’m down to 4 gallons of drinking water. It’s going to be hard to make that last until the weekend. In addition, the sound of the pump indicates that it’s getting harder to draw water from the reserves.

In the evening, the well runs dry. I’m out of onboard RV water.

Should I just go to Havasu and forget trying to wait out the heat?

I check the temps again. Still in the 90s! I can’t do my job and grade papers inside the RV in heat like that. The interior is always 10ish degrees hotter than outside temperatures.

The maps show me Kingman is at higher elevation than where I’m at. Weather projections show temperatures in the upper 70s and lower 80s for the remainder of the week.

Wednesday morning, I drive through the old mining town of Oatman on my way to Kingman. Oatman is now a tourist destination along Historic Route 66. Others come to Oatman to visit the donkeys that wander about town. The donkeys are not unique to this town; rather, the wild donkeys are regional the way some regions might be prone to big horn sheep or black squirrels. But, the people here feed the donkeys, so a particular group of donkeys hang around the town. As I pass through the old mining town, I see a lady feeding the donkeys. One of them climbs up onto the walkway to get closer.

Between Oatman and Golden Valley, I see several other clusters of donkeys as I make my way through the narrow, winding mountain roads.

In Kingman, I begin my errands. The first stop is the RV dumpsite where I refill the water tank and dump all onboard holding tanks. The next stop is the Denny’s restaurant to cash in on my free birthday meal. (The digital coupon is good for the month of your birthday. These days, you have to sign up for it online first.)

Then it’s on to Walmart and Smith’s groceries.

Next, I look for the Home Depot for parts to fix one of the grey water lines beneath the RV. Back near St. George, I ran over a small desert bush. It retaliated by taking out the black pipe that runs from the shower water holding tank to the valve conjunction with the poop tube. This is something that needs to be fixed right away…before something goes terribly wrong.

Hopping out of the RV and onto the blacktop, a sharp pain hits my right foot. It hurts…really hurts, so I pause a moment. Pulling off my sandal, I see a small red spot on my foot. Whatever it was, it made me bleed. Upon inspection, I find a small rusty nail poking all the way through the sandal bed. Pinching the nail head, I pull it from the shoe and inspect it. Fortunately, it’s only about ½” nail, but—unfortunately—it’s a rusty nail. I have no idea where it came from. The desert or the Home Depot Lot?

I throw the nail in the trash as I continue in to Home Depot to buy my parts and dream about projects I’d like to do. Somewhere in the garden center, it hits me: Rusty nails cause tetanus. My mind flies back to my last tetanus shot in the late 80s at the Cleveland Clinic. After receiving the shot, I started to pass out near the elevators. It was a good thing a nurse was there to catch me.

Should I get a tetanus shot? Should I just keep an eye on the wound?

I text the church and ask them to pray. One of the saints on the prayer list texts back information about where to get tetanus shots while traveling. I text my kids and my stepdad. Bob sends me back all kinds of information about tetanus, including the fact that it is not curable! It causes neurological disorders that could leave a person paralyzed! This is not something to mess with.

I find an urgent care clinic next to the local hospital and go inside and explain to the lady what happened. At this point, I still don’t know if I want to get a shot or not. This is an inquiry stop.

“Do you have insurance?” she asks, looking up at me through the glasses perched precariously above her mask.

“I do have insurance, but I don’t want to go through my insurance. I just want to pay cash.”

She looks at me for a moment and then calls over her shoulder, “Hey, Melissa, if someone has insurance but they don’t want to use it, can we still check them in?”

The other woman, maskless, comes to the window and explains. “Yes, an out-of-pocket charge on this chart here. You’ll see it’s 65% less than what we bill through insurance.”

Once they get that settled, the woman with the mask gives me a ballpark figure and asks if I’d like to proceed.

It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon, and I see the clinic accepts patients until 6:30.

“Ummmm,” I say, trying to decide, “let me think about it a minute.”

“If you decide, just make sure you’re here by 6:30,” she says sternly.

The young security guard at the door stands politely and holds the door open for me. (I noticed he did that for everybody. Such a nice young man!)

[ I WISH I HAD PICTURES OF THIS LAUNDROMAT. IN PLACE OF A PICTURE, IMAGINE ROWS OF STAINLESS STEEL WASHERS AND DRYERS SET INTO THE WALL AND GLEAMING IN THE BRIGHT WHITE LIGHT.]

Next, I head over to the laundromat. I’ve got a closet full of blankets, clothes, and towels that has been building up for about two weeks.

While doing laundry, I think about what still needs to get done: water jug refills, grade papers, repair the pipe, update the blog, write the book, estudiar espanol, and maybe…just maybe…return to the clinic for the tetanus shot.

I’m just so afraid of passing out. I don’t like medical stuff, and facing something like this—something that knocked me out at 18—alone makes my anxiety skyrocket.

After folding the clothes and putting most of them away, I hop in the driver’s seat and head back to the clinic.

Check-in is a breeze, and I grade papers while waiting to be called back. After almost an hour, a nurse stands in the doorway and calls: “Pyra.”

In the back, the nurse weighs me, takes my temperature, and checks my blood pressure.

143/90!

“How can that be?” I ask aloud.

“Excuse me?” she asks, adjusting the mask on her face so it sits below her nose.

“I’ve usually got low blood pressure. I’m usually like…118 over 80. This seems high. Could we take it again?”

“It might be from nerves. Anxiety makes the reading higher, and you said you didn’t like shots.”

“But, I’m worried that…”

“How about if we take it again after the shot?”

I agree, and the nurse goes to get the doctor who comes in to consult me about what happened. He doesn’t think the puncture looks that bad, but he agrees a tetanus shot is a good idea. “If it gets infected,” he says, “it will start looking red. That’s how you’ll know. You can come in and get an antibiotic.”

I explain I’m traveling and would prefer to carry a prescription with me. I promise not to use it unless I absolutely need it.

The nurse comes back in with the shot. “Are you ready?”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t want to pass out. I did the last time…”

“Just get in your happy place.”

In that moment, there is no happy place, only this sterile room with the white floor and the plastic chair I’m sitting on. “Can I prop myself against this table and put the other chair in front of me in case I start to pass out?”

“That’s a good idea,” she says as she preps the needle.

I try not to look at it.

“My happy place is the beach,” she says, coming over to where I’m sitting.

“Okay…I like the beach,” I say, thinking about the blue waters off the Yucatan peninsula. “I’m thinking about a fresh pina colada, too. Like the fresh ones they make in Mexico.”

Leaving Isla Mujeres on the Ultramar in January 2020.

“Oh, I’ve only ever been to the beach in California,” she says, swabbing my arm with alcohol. “The sand, the waves, and an ice cold pina colada…”

I feel something cold in my arm. “Is that it? Is that the shot?”

“Yep! It’s all done!”

They make me sit in the chair for a full fifteen minutes before letting me leave…just in case. Meanwhile, the nurse comes back to take my blood pressure. The doctor pokes his head in the room just before she takes it, waiting for the reading. This time it’s 140/90. Still high. The doctor advises, “Monitor it at different times throughout the day for a couple of weeks. See if it changes.”

* * *

I lay awake at the Cracker Barrel in Kingman. They allow overnight parking, and the Cracker Barrel lots are usually quieter than the Walmart lots. Not this Cracker Barrel. They play their outdoor music until three in the morning, and all I can hear is the muffled sound of a rapid drum rhythm while a low bass weaves around every beat.

As I wait for the music to finally stop, I think about lifestyle choices. My health. My mortality. What am I doing with my life?

In all, I get about four hours of sleep and drive to the Walmart in the early morning to check my blood pressure again. I slip my arm into the cuff and press the button.

113/78.

All was right with my world again.

But, I still need to monitor this. I still need to get—and be!—healthy. It’s time. I’m 54 years old. I don’t need to eat chocolate every day. I need to incorporate more vegetables into my diet. Exercise. I need that, too. Once I get settled in Havasu, I’ll get myself into some routine. Only a few more days until the weekend, which is when the weather app promises the arrival of cooler temperatures.

It’s already Thursday, and I’ve still got a ton of final projects to grade. With this new resolve, I find a spot to refill the water jugs and return to the desert to work. This time I park near the Hualapai Mountains, just south of Kingman.

P.S. Since I didn't include any pictures from Kingman other than the water jug station, here are two pictures of the Godspeed that I wanted to include in this blog entry, but I couldn't figure out where to put them in the context of the narrative. I've been playing with the way the golden light hits the rig. I really like how these turned out. And, interestingly, one was taken the night I first arrived near Oatman, and the other one was taken at my new desert parking space near Kingman!