When Las Vegas was famous for its mushroom clouds

As you drive northwest of Las Vegas on U.S. 95, you’ll pass the Nevada National Security Site, formerly called the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons were tested from 1951 to 1992. In the 1950s, the mushroom clouds of nuclear blasts could be seen from downtown Las Vegas’ hotels, and became tourist attractions. In this photo from the era, a showgirl wears a mushroom cloud headpiece to promote the tests. Photo courtesy of the Las Vegas Historical Society.

Dumping in Phoenix to an audience

Driving into Phoenix was horrible. It's a big, sprawling, congested city with freeways every which way. The last place on Earth I want to drive my motorhome is in a big city.

I had to be there for a business meeting. After spending the previous night in a gorgeous, spacious campsite surrounded by saguaro cactus and wildflowers at Picacho Peak State Park outside Tucson, I was forced in Phoenix onto a stingy-sized gravel pad smack dab at the entrance to the sprawling Desert Shadows RV Park. There — at the very lip of the park — at its very portal — I enjoyed the sights and sounds of passing cars, RVs, UPS trucks, scooters and golf carts.

The locals — those snowbirds who come each winter to escape Minnesota, play horseshoes and walk their poodles — strolled by one after another. They were very friendly, laid back, enjoying their golden years. They smiled and waved. Some said hi. But they stared at my RV. What did they see? Then it hit me! They were reacting to my prominent position at the gateway to the park: "How did he get to become the official park greeter?"

But, there I was, just inside the park, no more than 20 yards from 29th Street. I immediately met my neighbor, a dog named Ruby, a Lab/Border Collie mix who believed that life is not acceptable unless you have a stuffed doll in your mouth. Ruby became my instant friend as I prepared to hook up my RV to the three camping essentials — water, electricity and sewer.

Ruby's owners seemed nice, a couple from Colorado. As I prepared to attach the sewer hose in preparation of dumping, they smiled from their lawn chairs not more than 12 yards away — a superb vantage point to witness sewer dumping, all the while relaxing with a cocktail.

Hooking up to electric and water is no big deal to me. I don't care if anyone watches. But hooking up the sewer, especially when the very first action is to dump full tanks — in my case nearly overflowing tanks — is not something where I want an audience.

AT SUCH MOMENTS, should someone be watching, I think, "What if the hose should come unattached, or breaks, or pops a huge leak and spews the vile contents every which way?

Oh, it was okay for Ruby to watch. Dogs don't count.

As I gathered up my hose in preparation of the forthcoming purge, I struck up a conversation with the neighbors. I think it was a subconscious defense mechanism — just in case something should go wrong. Maybe if they got to know me a bit they would not be so upset if the hose broke or came unhooked or sprung a massive hole. "Boy, they sure do pack the RVs tight in here," I said to the woman as I prepared to attach my hose. "Oh, this is nothing," she said. "We were in a place on this trip where there was only six inches from our slideout to the neighbors'. You couldn't even walk between our coach and theirs."

I told her I, too, had experienced such places.

That ended the small talk.

I felt better. I returned to the matter at hand — the dump!

Finally, both ends of the hose in place, I pulled gently on the handle, ever so slowly at first to be sure all was okay, that no unwanted ooze was spewing forth. All was good. So I pulled a little harder. With each tug, I could hear the increasing, reassuring sound of liquid flowing like perfection into the bowels of Mother Earth.

It was a flawless dump. No smell. No leaks. My neighbors drank their cocktails. Ruby played with her doll.

I retreated to my RV and listened to traffic.

Younger than 55? You can still stay at a "55+" RV park

If you are younger than 55, you can still stay at an RV park that advertises itself as "55+." You don't really need to be 55 or older.

A federal law says that if a park wants to call itself 55+ it must not rent more than 20 percent of its spaces to people younger than 55. So should someone show up younger than that, the park management can accept them, provided the park is still below the 20 percent "young people" occupancy limit. But they have the right to turn them away if they choose.

"We're a don't tell, don't ask park," one 55+ park owner told me, which was her way of saying "we can take anybody." But what she did not say is that the main reason a park would turn away people younger than 55 would be if they had kids along.

Their residenets don't want kids around. They don't want them riding their bikes, screaming or otherwise making noise. "These snowbirds would rather be around snakes than kids," a friend in the RV industry told me.

So instead of advertising "no kids" on its sign, a park says "55+."

You find these parks mostly in snowbird areas like Arizona. You seldom see them elsewhere.

When I was younger I once got turned away at a 55+ park. I was probably around 40. I didn't have any kids with me. But I did have an old, ugly motorhome, so maybe that was the reason. Whatever the case, I was not allowed to stay and that made me mad.

My Spaceship RV

There is a clear Plexiglas skylight above my overhead bunk in the motorhome. Last night after climbing in, I glanced up. Oh, my goodness! There were a thousand stars! It was beautiful!

If you have read much of my writing, you know I am fascinated by Space and space travel. So last night in bed staring at the heavens, I thought to myself, “If my little motorhome were a spaceship, this is what it would look like out my window.”

Back in Tucson a week ago, I visited the Pima Air and Space Museum where there's a prototype of the Apollo capsule, the tiny spaceship that took men to the Moon. It was used by Tom Hanks in the movie Apollo 13, so you know it must be exactly like the real deal.

I observed that there was very little room inside — about the same as in a 10-foot travel trailer. I felt claustrophobic just looking at it. What must it have been like for three men to be in such a tiny area, hurling through Nothingness, a quarter million miles from Earth? I tried to imagine. I couldn’t.

Last night in bed looking at those stars, my mind was thinking again about Space.

I recalled reading a year ago about a billionaire who's planning a mission to Mars and back in a spaceship about the size of my motorhome. The craft won’t land, just slingshot around the planet and return home.

He has already recruited potential astronauts. Two people will go. The ideal candidates are a happily married couple in their 50s. The idea is that they will be in a tiny, confined area for six months. They must have a history of getting along well: there’s nowhere to hide if Mama and Papa are having a spat.

I THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT IT MIGHT BE LIKE to take such a trip. From my overhead bunk I looked into my motorhome. The shades were pulled. It was dead quiet. I could have been anywhere, even in Space.

What would it be like to be in a tiny space about the size of my RV for months on end? Could I do it? As is, I can step outside whenever I wish. I can run to the store when I need something. I can talk to other people. I can breathe fresh air!

But what if I couldn’t get out for six months or even open a window?

I thought about it. I tried to imagine that at that very moment I was traveling through Space. I mean, I could have been. It would have looked and felt exactly the same. Pretty close, anyway.

But, no, I concluded, I could not do it. I love my little motorhome, and I love being in it. At night, when it is all closed up and I am comfy, maybe on my couch reading a book, I am as content as a person could be.

But a good part of a year in such a tiny place? Nope. Couldn't do it.

I guess I’ll never make it into Space. I’m too old anyway. I feel sad admitting that. It’s one lifetime dream I need to abandon. I think maybe I was born 100 years too soon.

A stupid RVer

Sometimes you wonder how some people can be so stupid.

I am in a campground in the desert. There are perhaps six RVs nearby. I would define "nearby" as the distance I could throw a baseball with a good roll. So, for example, if I were a major league catcher this might be the distance from home plate to short center field.

Now here is the "stupid" part: An RVer, who I can't see but can hear, is talking on his cell phone. He must be outside because I can hear him loud and clear. It's not that I am trying to listen, it's just that he is speaking loudly.

And do you know what he just said? He gave out his credit card number to someone! He reeled off the numbers one after another, slowly and clearly. He included the card's expiration date and security code. In this age of rampant identify theft, this is not just stupid but super stupid.

If I wanted to, I could go ahead and charge something right now with those numbers. I wouldn't of course, because I am an honest person.

I don't know exactly where this guy is because I can't actually see him. But if I knew, I would walk over him to him and say," You're the stupidest person I have come across in at least a month!" But, as I said, I don't know who or where he is, and, to be honest, I probably wouldn't say anything anyway because he might get mad and pop me one.

Stupid is stupid, plain and simple.

My campsite is nice.

This is my campsite at the Gilbert Ray Campground which is outside Tucson. It feels like it's far, far away from civilization. But at night you can see the lights of Tucson in the distance. It's pretty, but the light spoils the night sky, drowning out the Milky Way, which is too bad if you are like me and enjoy seeing that big ol' nighttime "cloud" high above.

It costs $20 a night to stay here with a seven day limit. That includes a 30-amp electrical hookup. You can't make reservations at this Pima County park. You just show up. Most of the time you will get a space.

If you click the picture it will get much bigger, which will give you a better idea of what it looks like here.

Coyotes howling in the night

Coyotes were howling when I went to bed last night and they were howling again when I woke up early this morning, which was before sunrise.

I know I am not home when I hear coyotes. The howling does not bother me like the sound of a barking dog.

The last time I was at the Gilbert Ray Campground, which is just a few miles outside of Tucson, I surprised a couple of coyotes as I wandered through the desert. They took one look at me and ran off, looking back off and on to make sure I wasn't in pursuit.  I didn't think much about the encounter until a few weeks later when I read in the news how a ranger somewhere had been attacked by a coyote. I think that was a rare thing.

Yesterday evening, as the sun set, I walked by the same saguaro cactus I photographed a few years ago. It's right along a trail from the campground. Even though its appearance is like thousands of others, for some reason I recognized it. So I took another picture — a selfie, just me and the cactus. I put in on this page for you to see.