Our wandering path
As we roll back out on the road this year, it’s clear we’ve lost some of our camping sea legs, so it’s good we’re out on a soft start visiting our camping buddies Jeff and Ann, who are camp hosting at McDowell Mountain Regional Park, a mere 45 minutes from my mother’s house, where we’ve spent copious amounts of time during the pandemic.
We’ve done several short trips and one or two long ones during the pandemic, but haven’t been out nearly as much as we’d like. This year, we’re planning loops to both the East and West coasts, with family reunions, hiking, biking and rafting along the way. We’re pretty pumped about it.
So, only 45 minutes away, we thought. A breeze. We’ll get up, do some last-minute errands, and roll in around noon. We arrived at 4:30 p.m.
First, we were getting our room, which becomes the guest room when we’re not there, back into guest shape with clean sheets and stuff stuffed into the closet.
Then I spent an hour madly searching for the cord bag for the Jackery battery, a vital piece of equipment that keeps our phones and iPads charged when we’re parked and not plugged in (most of the time). I looked through all the (limited) places it might be in the van, NOT in the wire shelves with the books and cans, where I ALWAYS keep it, NOT in the tiny closet with our clothes, cheese board and (new) mousetraps, an oddly satisfying juxtaposition, NOT under the bed in back, NOT ANYWHERE. Back to the bedroom, NOT in the closet or on the shelves in the closet, NOT on the bookshelf, NOT in the many stacks of books on my side of the bed, NOT in the many stacks of books on Tom’s side of the bed, NOT in any dresser drawers, NOT under the bed, NOT, alas, hanging from the ceiling. Finally, FINALLY, found it. On the shelf of my bedside table in plain sight. I say it’s because it’s black and was in a shadow, NOT because I’m blind or senile. Another hour of my life I won’t get back.
Then I had to run to my Periwinkle Polka Dot studio to drop off the last lot of Kantha quilts from India, freshly laundered the night before, so they’ll happily be waiting for me when I return.
Then we threw the rest of our clothes, the coffee fixings, and toiletries in the van and headed to the grocery store to stock up. No problem.
Last thing, propane.
Off we roll to our regular propane spot at the U-Haul on East Indian Shool Road. No can do. Someone stole the adapter for RVs. Later, we learned, it’s because they’re solid brass and worth something on the scavenging circuit. On to the next U-Haul. Out of propane. On to a third. Only the manager fills RVs and he’s not there. Onto a fourth, no connector. Finally, fifth one’s a charm.
When we FINALLY rolled into the park, Jeff and Ann were on duty at the kiosk, laughing at our tardy buts. We settled in before dark, had a margarita when Jeff and Ann got off duty and slept soundly in the dark, quiet hills, happy to be back in The Epic Van.
Like I said, good thing it was a soft launch to get us ready for the Death Valley trip that starts this weekend with camping buddies Keven and Georges. Stay tuned.
I have a studio. Which, I guess, makes me a nomad with a little perch. It definitely makes me happy.
We’ve been visiting the Dahl House in Carmel for decades as the grateful guests of my step-brother Barry and sister-in-law Leslie. And after our visit to the eastern Sierras, we stopped here again.
By Tom Nichols
We’re baking in the midday sun, even while sheltering under old-growth Douglas firs at Rockport State Park.
“I’m in the sun again and I’m about to cry,” Judy says, as our chair dance, perpetual jockeying on the checker-boarded forest floor, moving away from sunshine and into soothing shade. It’s our third day in the northern Cascades.
Blitzed by a record heat wave in the Northwest, worst since the 19th century, Judy and I scramble to stay as cool as possible while keeping close enough to a sports bar to enjoy the Phoenix Suns playoff run in the Western Conference finals.
Winging It Rule #1: When you find a near-perfect campground, stick around for a while. (I just made up this rule, but I like it. Kind of like Jethro’s rules in NCIS.)
When you’re winging it, all camps are relative. It’s a balancing act between weather, availability, hiking access and routing.
We took off Friday for our first big post-vaccination jaunt: eight weeks through Arizona, up the eastern Sierras, then the California coast, then Oregon and Washington, and back past the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho. We don’t have reservations anywhere. We’ll find our camp spots where we stop at night.
It’s a feeling of freedom similar to when we first got in the van and headed down the road seven years ago.
In January, we camped for two nights near Oracle, Arizona, in the Peppersauce Campground where, the first night, we were all alone.
The next morning we were greeted by a rafter of turkeys. (Trust me, I looked it up.)
We rang in a chilly New Year at McDowell Mountain Regional Park with our Yellow Pine, Idaho, pals, Jeff and Ann. We ate Tom’s Hoppin’ John around the picnic table wrapped in winter coats and blankets, toasted with champagne, then broke out our bourbon with Christmas cookies. When the alcohol no longer kept the cold at bay, at 8:30 p.m., we retreated into our respective vans. The only thing howling at midnight was the coyotes.
Looking backward, it felt like 2020 fell into a black hole of despair. We lost friends and family members to COVID. We feared for our own safety and that of everyone we love. We donated to food banks, heartbroken by the long lines of hungry people.
Our travels were severely curtailed with parks, campgrounds, museums, and historic sites closed. And we hunkered down for long stretches in Scottsdale with my sister, Nancy, and our 90-year-old mother, grateful that they remain well.
We found joy, hanging out with our son, Nate, taking short looping camping trips to southern Arizona, Utah and even up to Idaho, where Jeff and Ann installed a new bed in The Epic Van. We cooked a lot, read a lot, and put together a lot of puzzles.
On New Year’s Day, we got up with the crows, literally. They glide around McDowell Mountain Regional Park in pairs, looking for peanuts that Jeff puts out and monitoring the comings and goings of hikers, bikers, and horseback riders, all hitting the trails that head into the foothills just steps from our campsite.
Tom took off on a 10-mile New Year hike, while Jeff and Ann, volunteering at the park, manned and womanned the front kiosk, checking in campers and day users, sharing their expertise about the many mountain bike trails and the competitive track. They also ride the trails, checking for problems, picking up trash and monitoring visitors. And they cooked us delicious meals, like stuffed peppers topped with egg.
I took the slow roll, having coffee in our new bed, then unfurling my yoga mat in the sun, like a lizard, getting in an hour session (on my iPad) with a view of Four Peaks, gathering strength for 2021.
Somebody going to emergency, somebody’s going to jail. – Don Henley
Well, no one got arrested, but by the time we left Yellow Pine, Idaho, a guy we don’t know was lying at home with more than 30 stitches in his hand, and our friend Ann had routed off the end of her pinky finger.