I was screwing around with my Pentax Optio W20 (a waterproof point-and-shoot that is, apparently, worth more now than what I payed for it a few years ago), and I rediscovered its time-lapse functionality.

The above movie was shot from pre-dawn to post-dusk from the balcony of the condo we’re staying in near Dillon, Colorado.

A note on the camera: this movie was made from over 500 pictures taken using the W20′s ‘interval shoot’ feature. At the end of the shoot, the camera’s battery is reporting itself as fully charged. Whatever Pentax did when they designed this feature, they did a good job.

A note on the movie: The 500+ photos were imported into Apple’s iMovie ’11 (9.0.4) and exported as a movie (at 0.2 seconds per picture). That movie was imported into a new iMovie ‘project’ and sped up by 150%, which smoothed out the transitions a little, and re-exported.

I’m taking a spare phone that I’ll try and get a SIM card for; I’ll post the number here if I pull that trick off.

I’ll be back at the end of the month.

And my Flickr page is pretty much all Guam by now. Click the pic if you don’t believe me.

Seasons can matter four times as much in Michigan.

I showed up beat (and without a rental-car reservation, which added more time).

The time difference is huge. Right now it’s 3:38 pm here, but 38 minutes past midnight in Ann Arbor (which is Friday night, really). In the morning, I can talk to people in Michigan (where they’re about to go to bed), and, if I stay up a little late, I can catch them right when they get up.

There is zero overlap during the work-day, which makes contacting the office annoying.

Mom and Mike are probably getting upgraded again.

Still, I had a bad feeling about that stretch, and stopped for a break right before the on-ramp. Resolve restored, I motored on. Right on the on-ramp, which was up-hill, the engine hesitated, so I pulled over short of the freeway to regroup. Back down the on-ramp? Nope. So — continue.

The short rest seemed to have helped, and I got up to near sixty. More engine hesitation, so I backed off (and tried not to feel bad for taking up a lane at, oh, 52).

I got off at the next exit and continued on slower roads. The hesitation started manifesting at lower and lower speeds, and ‘resting’ the motor started having less effect, so I gave up and put-putted to a hotel to rest and think.

[Moderately talented automotive trouble-shooters will already have a pretty good idea of what was probably wrong. I didn't, but I was a little too close to the problem.]

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday, OK for the first hour (where top speeds were about fifty), but the hesitation eventually showed up again (at about 53 MPH) and then crept down to 40. That’s it. I called a wrecker figuring he’d know a shop to tow me to, and I was right.

Speedy, at the Haas’ Service Station in Stony Ridge, agreed to take a look at it on Monday, so off to another hotel (Howard-Freakin’-Johnson!) to wait.

I am now very happy, though, ’cause Speedy pointed out what I should of seen for myself the previous day — and could have tested by visiting any parts shop: It’s probably a slightly clogged fuel filter.

Having slept on it, I am now certain that it was the fuel filter. I’m also patting myself on the back a little too for never pushing it when it was hesitating. The mixture gets real lean right before it cuts out, and lean mixtures burn much hotter than the normal (slightly rich) mixture. Air-cooled engines hate extra heat much more than water-cooled ones, and can break.

Update: It was the fuel filter; I got home fine.

Tonight I’m going through two emotionally wrenching experiences. By ‘wrenching’ I have to admit I’m referring to the small sort of wrench we used to use (in airplane-wrenching school) for the very small nuts and bolts associated with fuel-control systems — the ones around a quarter of an inch or less.

Emotionally wrenching experience one: My humble room happens to be next to the room that next weekend’s local golfing outing is using for their Thursday Night Poker Room. That sucks in about the way you might think. Being me, the smell of cigars is actually comforting. The yelling, not so comforting.

Source: Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)

Hotel Ho*tel”, n. [F. h[^o]tel, OF. hostel. See Hostel.]
1. A house for entertaining strangers or travelers; an inn or
public house, of the better class.

2. In France, the mansion or town residence of a person of
rank or wealth.

“[O]f the better class”

Emotionally wrenching experience two: I’m trying to watch the movie Little Children.

Um, wow. Way different than trying to ignore drunken golfers. Way harder as well, yet way more rewarding.

I’ve got almost 55 minutes of it left, yet I recommend it. Tough stuff.

One million miles.