Channel Islands Part 2

October 9, 2025 

We woke up bright and early… mostly because we went to bed at 6:30 p.m. the night before. That’s what happens when you get only four hours of sleep, backpack 1.5 miles with plantar fasciitis, and fight off ninja foxes all evening. On the plus side, being the first ones up meant we could hit the trails before the sun tried to roast us alive.

Our goal for the morning: hike to Black Mountain, a 10-mile round trip. Ambitious? Sure. But we were feeling strong—right up until we met Sam, a park staff member who’s been working on the islands for 28 years. He took one look at our water bottles and said, “You need more water.” Then gave us a lift back to camp in his off-road golf cart to save us the extra mileage. 

Once we'd grabbed another water bottle each, we started the hike again. The trail was gorgeous—tons of vegetation, sweeping views, and not a venomous creature in sight. This island has no snakes or predators. Just adorable-but-evil foxes and an armed ranger who takes his job very seriously. I took a photo of every single type of plant I saw. There were a lot. My phone now thinks I’m a botanist.

Unfortunatley, we forgot sunblock, and I didn’t have a hat. My face was already crispy from the day before, so we got creative. George handed me his SPF 15 chapstick and said, “It’s better than nothing.” I smeared that chapstick all over my face like war paint. SPF is SPF.

After our hike, we returned to camp for lunch. As we sat down, a fox jumped up on the table to join us. We shooed him away and told him to stop begging. He left, but he was not amused. (Remember this part—it becomes relevant later.)

The afternoon was pure bliss. We spent hours on our private beach—walking, swimming, reading out loud to each other, and ignoring the slow sizzle of our skin. George found a freshly deceased sea urchin, scraped off the poison spines, and pocketed it like a pirate finding treasure (also remember this for relevance later).  

When we returned to camp, we discovered a little, steaming pile of fox poop right in the center of our picnic table. Revenge! Apparently, Mr. Fox didn’t appreciate being denied lunch earlier. Message received, my furry foe. This was war.

That evening, we put the fly on our tent to block the blinding full moon. The wind kicked up and started battering the tent. Every few minutes the wall would bend inward and bonk me in the face. George tightened the guy lines like a pro, and by some miracle, the tent held up. Score one for aluminum poles. (I still retain the trauma of our tent poles snapping on trek.)

The next morning, we hiked to see the Torrey Pines—one of only two places in the world where they grow naturally. At home, we get ravines full of tumbleweeds. Here, the ravine was full of pine cones. The torrey pines hike was stunning, but we had to hurry. The boat was scheduled to leave at 3:00 p.m., but the captain warned he would arrive and leave earlier without warning if the weather was bad, and the weather was definitely bad. If we missed the boat, we’d be living off George’s stockpile of granola bars until the boat came again 4 days later.

We made it to the dock in time—windblown, sunburned, and slightly salty (in every sense of the word). The sea, however, had turned into a monster. The trip back sported twelve-foot waves, sea spray, and passengers gripping the rails like they were about to meet Poseidon himself. Gone were the dolphins and whales from our journey out; even they had the good sense to stay home.

Once we'd cleared the rough seas, the captain steered our 80-foot boat into the Painted Cave—a massive sea cave carved into the cliffs. The space got narrower and narrower until I was convinced we were about to wedge ourselves in like a cork. Then, with Jedi-like precision, the captain backed out. It was terrifying and incredible.

When we finally reached the mainland, we drove back to our friends’ house, reversed our entire pre-trip packing process, and slept in their driveway.

Final verdict: Channel Islands National Park = 10 out of 10. Would absolutely return—there’s still so much we haven’t seen! If only bikes were allowed, we could’ve covered the entire island: from the highest windswept peak to the furthest hidden beach. 

PS – This is what I looked like when we made it back to civilization. My hair was a crunchy blend of sea, salt, wind, and sand. I took my ponytail out... and it stayed in the shape. 

Every story has a soundtrack. Can you guess the song for this post? 

Channel Islands Part 1

October 8, 2025

The big day finally arrived—our long-awaited trip to the Channel Islands! Santa Rosa, specifically. For us, getting to the island was no easy feat. First we had to pack up all our backpacking gear. Easy enough… until we realized we also had to empty everything from our car into the camper. Unfortunately, crime is a thing here. And when I say everything, I mean everything—bins, solar panel, homemade shelf, and even the bikes. Fitting it all into the camper was a little bit like playing tetris again. 

Next, we had to get to our friend's house super early to park the trailer. There is no beating the traffic here. The freeway was already jammed at 5:30 am. Bless our friends—they actually got up to see us off. These are people who don’t see the sunrise unless it’s on a coffee mug, so that’s true friendship right there. And we were there well before sunrise. Or maybe they just wanted to make sure we didn't accidentally back into their garage door when we parked the trailer. 

Then came the drive to the boat launch, where we finally checked in and could start feeling excited again. The hard part was over! 

The boat ride to Santa Rosa takes about three hours, but what a ride! We saw sea lions lounging on bouys, dolphins doing their best synchronized swimming routines, and even two whales. The weather was perfect, everyone on the boat was happy, and I was basking in the beauty of it all—until George asked what food I’d packed for our three-day stay.

 

Apparently, “all the food we had left in the camper” was not the answer he wanted. The man went into survival mode, dashed to the galley, and bought an armful of granola bars like he was preparing for the apocalypse.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a very serious ranger who gave us the “Welcome to the Island” lecture. He was armed, proud of it, and made it clear there would be no funny business on his island. I half-expected him to start checking bags for contraband marijauna—legal in California, but not on Federal land. Then it was time to schlep all our gear 1.5 miles to the campground. 

There were only about 15 of us on the entire island (plus a few park staff who decided to ignore the government shutdown). It felt a little like we were on the set of the movie "Lost." Only more barren, less tropical.

I've been battling Planter Faciitis since July and today was not a good day. So instead of going on the kind of excrutiatingly long hikes that we like, we treated ourselves to an afternoon on the mile-long white sand beach, which we had practically to ourselves. It was magical. 

Until the foxes showed up. These island foxes are adorable, but they are way too bold and comfortable around humans. They used to be endangered, but now they’re thriving—probably thanks to their impressive talent for stealing campers’ snacks. Each site has “fox boxes” to store food and toiletries because these little guys will literally jump onto your picnic table and swipe your granola bar mid-bite.

We didn’t put a fly on our tent that night so we could stargaze, which the foxes took as an open invitation. They started jumping on the sides of the tent, trying to peek inside for food. I threw a rock at one to scare it away—just to scare, mind you—but it chased the rock like a dog. It thought I was throwing it food.

                                                

                

By 6:30 p.m., we were wiped out and collapsed into our tent. Getting up at 4:30 am to get here had taken its toll, not to mention the packing, schlepping, and dodging fox bandits. We slept under the stars, lulled by the ocean breeze… until George kept waking up all night wondering why there were streetlights shining in our tent. Spoiler alert: it was the full moon.

So yeah, getting to Santa Rosa was a lot of work—but totally worth it. Beautiful views, private beaches, a bright moon, thieving foxes, and one very over-prepared husband. What more could you ask for from island life? And this was just the beginning of our stay. 

Track Day

October 6 - 7, 2025

When George bought his shiny new BMW Z4 in October of last year, it came with a free track day at the BMW Performance Center—in Thermal, California. Well, it just so happens we would be in California a year later. Today was that day of destiny.

We left our cozy little BLM campsite in Joshua Tree (home of copius amounts of dirt and tackweed) and drove to Thermal, California, for George’s official “race car driver” training at the BMW Performance Center.

The drive to Thermal was interesting. The landscape was sprinkled with rows of giant windmills—normal enough—but then someone also installed miniature windmills among them. Like a windmill daycare. Or maybe a windmill starter pack for young turbines working their way up.

Yakima, Washington, a town near our home, has a sign that proudly claims: "Yakima: The Palm Springs of Washington.” I always thought that was weird because Yakima is a small desert town covered in sage and rabbit brush, and I imagined Palm Springs as an oasis of tropical lushness. Hah! Joke’s on me. Palm Springs is basically a glamorous furnace. It was 94 degrees. In October. There were palm trees though. But I still don't understand why someone in Yakima thinks it's the Palm Springs of Washington, other than the desert aspect. The desert plants aren't even the same! 

The BMW experience itself? Honestly… meh. They taught George how to take corners and brake and other nonsense he already knew. I think the highlight for George was when they drove the car up a 15% side incline to show how it wouldn’t tip over. This has now become George’s favorite party trick. Every time we’re near a slant, he purposely drives the side wheels up onto it and checks the grade. I think he's getting ready for another Three Forks hot spring adventure. Another funny thing he likes to do is take pictures of the odemeter when it reaches a "cool number." I'm not a math person and had no idea there were so many cool numbers. 

        

Afterward the track day, we met up with one of George’s old work colleagues—someone he hasn’t seen since 1999. Thanks to Facebook, it didn't feel like 27 years had gone by and we had a great time visiting with Rob Lowe. 

We rolled back into our Joshua Tree camp late that night and sitting on top of our trailer was a full-on Harry Potter owl. I wonder if young George was trying to forward our mail? 

The next morning, we hitched up the trailer, said goodbye to our dusty spot in the middle of the Joshua desert, and pointed ourselves toward Ventura, California, where the boat waited that would take us to Channel Islands National Park.

Going from Joshua Tree to Ventura is like night and day. One minute you're surrounded by tranquility and dirt … and the next minute it's concrete, traffic, and smog. Hours of brake lights and red roads on our google maps later, we finally reached our oceanside campground. “Oceanside,” by the way, means crammed between the ocean, a busy highway, and a well-used set of train tracks. Yet, it was surprisingly beautiful and peaceful. Too bad we didn't actually spend any time relaxing there. 

There are only two campgrounds in the area and both are squeezed so tightly that campers are basically playing RV Tetris. One of them is literally 60 parallel parking spots along the main road. Oversized RVs somehow slide into those spots like majestic whales on rollerblades. We, meanwhile, struggle backing into a normal spot with our tiny trailer—so parallel parking? Hard pass.

That evening we went into town for dinner with ZSCCA friends Sherrill and Steven Smith—car people, just like us George. They were kind enough to let us park our trailer in their driveway for the next three nights while we hopped over to the Channel Islands. Bless them for rescuing us when we couldn't find anywhere else to park.

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's one in honor of Joshua Tree: 

Conference Weekend

October 4–5, 2025

We spent most of the drive from Pixley to Joshua Tree, California listening to conference talks—nothing like a little spiritual guidance while traveling.

We made a pit stop in Bakersfield for a 24-mile out-and-back bike ride on Bakersfield's wonderful bike path during the lunchbreak for conference. It wasn’t my finest ride—mostly because I was on day two of being sick. I have a hard time taking it easy.  We saw a California King Snake! 

George and I have always dreamed of biking across the country, but now that we’re older, sleeping on the ground feels less like “adventure” and more like a sore back. Plus, sharing the road these days is a lot more dangerous. So we’ve adjusted our plan: we’ll bike in as many different ZIP codes as possible. It’s like biking across the country… just in little spurts. And fewer chiropractic bills. Zip codes 93304 through 93314 accomplished! 

Driving into Joshua Tree felt like crossing into another dimension. There was exactly one paved road, and everything else was dirt—like the kind of dirt that swallows your shoes if you stand still too long. The “houses” (and I use that term loosely) looked like a mashup between survivalist bunkers and a sci-fi movie set.

Every driveway? Dirt. Every yard? Dirt. Every property? An RV that was clearly doubling as someone’s actual home and a water tank the size of a small pool. The general energy was "we survive here, but barely."

Even the paved road was different—it had been plowed recently, but not for snow. For sand. Because apparently in this area weather works backwards and sandstorms get snowplow treatment.  It’s a whole ecosystem of dirt management I never knew existed.

Between the alien landscape and the minimalist living setups it was a glimpse into a lifestyle I’ve never seen before—but it was exactly the kind of weird, wild, wonderfully dusty stop that makes road trips worth it.

That night we boondocked on BLM land in Joshua Tree. Right across from several survivalist camps. 

Sunday was a full reset day. We relaxed, listened to General Conference, and caught up with five of our kids on the phone. The wifi was good and the price was right so we stayed in Joshua Tree again that night. 

Every story has a soundtrack: A song from conference seems right for this weekend! 

Sequoia

October 3, 2025

Last night we camped in Sequoia National Park. Instead of King Canyon's non-existent staff, there was one lone ranger on duty, valiantly checking camping reservations. Gotta admire his work ethic! 

Because of the government shutdown, the visitor center was closed—but the general store and laundromat were open because they are privately operated. Capitalism never sleeps, even when the federal government does. Thankfully, so we could spend our glamorous national park evening washing socks instead of watching sunsets.There actually weren't any sunsets anyway because it was overcast. 

Once everyone everyone retired to their RVs and tents, the heavens let loose. And I don’t mean a gentle drizzle—I'm talking downpour. RIP to the tent campers who probably woke up floating on their air mattresses (that actually happened to me when I pitched my tent in the wrong spot at Slickrock near Moab). Boy was I thankful I didn't have to unzip a soggy tent at 3 a.m. to trek through mud for a bathroom break. To me, that’s the equivalent of being on Survivor, not camping in a majestic national park.

By morning, the serene little stream that ran through camp had transformed into a mini-river. While everyone else wisely packed up and left, we thought, “We're toughter than a little rain!” So we set up camp under the eave of the closed visitor center to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi...and tried to work.

This time, it wasn't connectivity issues that kept us from being productive. It was the rainy 42-degree weather, with bonus rounds of hail. My hands were so cold I couldn’t type. I finally told George, “I can’t take it anymore.” After thirty years of marriage, he knows when I'm about to lose it. We packed it up and left like all the other smart campers. Side note - although it was cold and miserable, it turns out I was getting sick and had a fever so that's why I was extra cold and miserable. 

On our way out, we made one last stop to visit the world’s largest tree—General Sherman. The line to take a picture in front of the tree was crazy long, so we just took a random picture with a random couple in front. The tree was indeed massive, but the real attraction was the bear. A crowd was gathered with phones out. George and I decided to join the throng (against park policy) because really, you don’t have to outrun the bear—you just have to outrun the slowest person. And we certainly can't be slower than the guy in flip flops! 

Between the rain and hail situation, there was no chance of hiking or biking in Sequoia. The week after we left, it actually snowed, confirming that our decision to flee was not cowardice—it was strategy. Still, Sequoia doesn’t disappoint, even from the comfort of a car. As we drove out of the park, we oohed and aawed from inside our warm, dry car at the towering trees, mountain vistas, and fog curling around the numerous switchbacks. 

That night we couldn't find anywhere decent to stay, so we turned to one of our favorite travel hacks—Boondockers Welcome. Basically, asking people on the app to “please let us sleep in your driveway.” We found a host in Pixley, California. 

We parked in the host’s driveway, leveled the rig, and felt absurdly grateful for pavement that wasn’t trying to swallow our tires. No rain, no mud, no rogue rivers—just the sound of big rigs zooming by on the road outside. 

That's adventure...sometimes you get Sequioa and sometimes you get someone's driveway on a bustling country road. 

King's Canyon

 October 1-2, 2025

Today we headed into Kings Canyon National Park—rolling right past the unmanned entrance kiosk thanks to the government shutdown. There was no ranger, no fee collection, no one asking for camping reservations, and most importantly, no gate. So, we drove right in. 

The park was eerily empty—like we’d scored a VIP pass to nature. Of course, we were slightly annoyed that we’d actually paid for our campsite like responsible citizens when we could have camped for free. But hey, we basically had an entire national park to ourselves, so I should stop complaining. 

We biked downhill to Grant’s Grove to visit the third-largest tree in the world (by volume)—a giant sequoia so massive it made us feel like LEGO people. There was a group of cowboy-boot-wearing farmers there for some kind of all inclusive customer appreciation event for buying massive amounts of fertilizer. We knew they were from the south because they were throwing out "ya-alls" left and right. 

While we were admiring the majestic General Grant tree, one of them casually traipsed right past the barrier meant to protect the third-largest tree in the world. He struck a pose for a photo and proudly declared, “President Trump said I could! And no one’s here to stop me!” Technically, he wasn’t wrong. The park was closed, the rangers were gone, and apparently, the rulebook had gone on vacation too.

After sufficiently admiring General Grant's glory and being entertained by the questionable decision-making of our new cowboy friends, we hopped back on our bikes and started the climb back to camp. 

That’s when we saw it: a sign that read “Panorama Road.” We assumed this led to an epic view and naturally we had to see it. What we didn’t realize was that “Panorama Road” translates to “1,000 feet over 4 miles.” At 6,000 feet elevation, every switchback was a personal crisis for me as I contemplated quitting. But some stubborn part of me needed to prove that I could have ridden the road to Garnet Ghost Town—if only it had been paved. 

When I finally reached the top (without stopping once), I felt triumphant. But I also felt like throwing up. Maybe altitude sickness? Hard to say. But then I saw it—the view. Mountain after mountain fading into blue haze, Lake Hume glimmering in the valley below. Totally worth the suffering. And the best part? The ride down. Four miles of pure gravity-powered joy on a paved road—no pedaling, no regrets. 

The next morning, we drove into the main part of Kings Canyon National Park. Fun fact: the park is split into two sections separated by Sequoia National Park. Honestly, I’m still not sure why the smaller part isn’t just part of Sequoia National Park; it's like King's Canyon had to have its share of Sequoia trees. 

The drive in was spectacular—mountains unfolding like a nature-themed pop-up book, with cliffs, waterfalls, and enough scenic pullouts to derail even the most disciplined itinerary. The road winds down into a dramatic canyon with a river slicing through the middle, and then… it just stops. It's literally called “Road's End.” Points for clarity, I guess.

At Road's End, we hopped on our bikes for a short 7-mile ride along the river on a rocky, dirt road that sometimes felt like pedaling through a smoothie. I wanted to take a picture of George riding up ahead of me through the frangrant pine trees, but self-preservation won out as I was too busy trying not to faceplant into the pine mulch, sand, or rocks.

Kings Canyon is another one of those underrated must-see parks that I had never heard of before. To commemorate our visit, we added a shiny new Kings Canyon sticker to our growing collection on the side of our camper. 

Yosemite

September 29-30, 2025

We moved to a new campground for our second night in Yosemite—not because we wanted a change of scenery, but because we didn’t plan ahead and are flying by the seat of our pants. I’ve never seen so many RV and van rentals in one place. It felt like a renters' convention! 

We "worked" in the morning (meaning we accomplished slightly more than zero). Unfortunately, our Starlink worked about as well as a cell phone in a cave. Trees and satellites are not friends, even if you can see the open sky. Mostly we kept saying, "I've lost service again." 

In the afternoon, we decided to see Yosemite on bikes. The only problem? The park’s definition of “bike path” is basically: here’s six mile of pavement—good luck! Everything else is “hiking only.” I mean, who wants to hike 20 miles when you could bike the same twenty in a fraction of the time? Plus, I'm not even sure I can hike twenty miles in one go. So, in a bold display of efficiency (and questionable legality), we took our bikes on the hiking trails.

 

It was glorious—gorgeous scenery with just the right amount of dirt, rocks, curves, and rolling ups and downs . No traffic and only six startled hikers in twelve miles. We were perfectly polite when we encountered hikers, slowing to a respectful crawl as we passed, pretending we were totally supposed to be there.

When we were back exploring in the main part of the park (where we were allowed to bike), we found a federal courthouse. In the middle of Yosemite! I thought maybe it was an interpretive display, but no—the security guard confirmed it was very real. There are only two national parks with federal courthouses: Yosemite and Yellowstone. The judge even lives in the park, which sounds like the setup for a Hallmark movie Kate Blatter would watch titled Justice Among the Pines. 

We also learned that every infraction in the park—yes, even a parking ticket or, hypothetically, biking on a hiking trail—is a federal offense. So if I ever have to explain my criminal record to an employer, it’ll be, “Yes, ma’am, I have a federal offense… for biking on a hiking only trail in a National Park.”

That evening, we met up with our acquantance (now friend) Paul Whyncoop from the ZSCCA (our BMW Z-series car club). He was volunteering at Yosemite for the entire month of September and invited us to dinner with his group. We got all sorts of insider scoop—and, more importantly, the sacred Aramark Wi-Fi password. Supposedly it works anywhere Aramark does. I can't wait to test it at the next stadium or airport we encounter.

Back at camp that evening, our luck took a soggy turn. George decided to “adjust” the hot water settings in the trailer, which quickly escalated into a small indoor geyser. After mopping up and hanging every towel and rug out to dry, our car alarm started screaming into the peaceful Yosemite night. We scrambled to find the keys. Silence. Fifteen minutes later—HONK HONK HONK. Fifteen minutes later another round. And then another. We eventually consulted the manual, which basically said, “Good luck, sucker.” We had to deactivate the entire alarm system, but by then, we were Yosemite’s least popular campers. We have three competing theories for what’s triggering the midnight cacophony:

1️⃣ A mischievous camper with a twisted sense of humor.
2️⃣ A bear with a taste for German engineering.
3️⃣ A rogue fly trapped inside, repeatedly triggering the motion sensors while living its best life.

As if to seal our fate, the sky opened up that night in a torrential downpour with thunder and lightning. By morning, everything we’d hung to dry was wetter than when we started. Between the water explosion, the car alarm rebellion, and the biblical rain, my anxiety started to creep in again that these were omens telling us to go home.

However, everything looked better in the morning when we cozied up with our newly acquired Aramark Wi-Fi code like it was the secret treasure of Yosemite and got some real work done. It hands down beat our Starlink’s “Now You See Me, Now You Don’t” routine from the day before.

Once our productive morning wrapped up, we packed up camp and started heading out of Yosemite, determined to hit every scenic overlook on the way. Naturally, Glacier Point was a must. When I realized I had service at the top, I FaceTimed Celeste and Alan, showing off the jaw-dropping view. 

   

That night, we boondocked just outside the park—free, quiet, and once again surrounded by pines. Unfortunately, George had a work deadline. To escape the trees that were sabotaging our Starlink connection, George set up his “office” (a stepstool in front of our car's tailgate) smack dab in the middle of the giant parking lot. For once, his work was hazardous—it was dark and all the boondockers were rolling into the parking lot for the night. They certainly weren't expecting to have to go around George and his makeshift office. 

Once we crawled into bed, the night was peaceful… until our car alarm decided to reprise its role as Yosemite's loudest animal. Thankfully, this time we knew how to silence the beast. 

Every story has a soundtrack: I hope you never hear this one when you are peacefully slumbering in Yosemite. 

Storming Through Hot Springs and Bear Country

 September 27–28, 2025

After two nights beside Antelope Reservoir (or what’s left of it), we packed up and aimed our hillbilly trailer toward Yosemite National Park.

But first—McDermitt Hot Springs. They’re on private land, but the owner allows visitors so long as you close the cow gate when coming and going. Some enterprising soul once dug a two-mile-long trench to capture the steaming spring water. At the start, it’s practically lava. By a quarter-mile down, it becomes “pleasantly scalding.” Along the way are relics from its glory days: the crumbling foundation of a pool and a rusted-out bathtub for those who bring their own hose.

No one else was there, which gave George the opportunity to live out one of his dreams: going full naturalist in a hot spring. I, on the other hand, have no desire to expose my delicate parts to the wierd minerals in a hot springs (see picture above). Of course I had to sneak a picture.

Because we lollygagged in geothermal bliss, we didn’t make it to Yosemite that night. Instead, we stopped at Walker Lake, Nevada, just shy of the California border. We arrived after dark again, so we went to sleep wondering if there would actually be water in Walker Lake. 

We awoke the next morning to water in the lake and a beautiful pink-and-gold sunrise over the surrounding mountains.  

For all the Scout leaders among you, we also awoke to the realization that due to our new traveling circumstances we are going through the stages of team development all over again—forming, storming, norming, performing, and adjourning. And we are in the thick of storming! Storming is when small irritations can become epic. After thirty years of marriage, several of which I can proudly say have been spent in the performing phase, neither of us guessed we'd be storming again. Just recognizing this helped us laugh instead of bite, so...maybe we’re norming-adjacent?

On our way to Yosemite, we saw a sign for Bodie Ghost Town—ironically another 10-mile detour up a self-proclaimed “rough road.” Having unfinished business after the Great Ghost Town ride debacle in Montana, we decided to even the score. But this time we wanted the win (and we are mature adults who learn from experience) so we drove. Turns out California’s idea of “rough” is Montana's idea of “slightly bumpy.” We totally could’ve biked it and achieved redemption.

Bodie itself was amazing—preserved in that “everyone left in a hurry and no one dusted for 100 years” way. After wandering the eerie streets and cemetery for a few hours and taking a picture of a preserved can of spam for Jake and a picture of us at church, we finally entered Yosemite National Park. 

Cue torrential downpour. We hiked anyway, because nothing says “vacation memories” like soggy socks due to the marital sharing of one inadequate umbrella. By the end, my shoes and entire right side were soaked, but hey—romance!

We camped that night at Hodgdon Meadow Campground, where the ranger cheerfully informed us that food was forbidden in the car but fine in the camper. Because, apparently, bears respect RV property rights. After reading that a bear can open the side of your trailer as if they had can openers for claws, I went to bed clutching my bear spray and picturing Yogi prying open our camper like a can of tuna.

Sleep was…light.

But hey—we survived. And next time we're at Walmart I’m buying George his own umbrella.