Two Skeptics and One Believer in a Purple Boa

November 5-7, 2025

We got up bright and early to head down the dirt road to the Schnebly Hill vista. Technically, the road goes all the way from our campsite outside Flagstaff down into Sedona—but only if your vehicle is something like a RZR or a tank. A normal car can only get as far as the viewpoint. Still, I’m convinced that if we did have a RZR, George could conquer that road. After all, he once drove to Crown King, which was officially rated “difficult,” something he's very proud of (see post titled How to Overstay Your Welcome (and Borrow Your Son's In-law's Truck Anyway)). 

But the view? Totally worth the drive. We saw an elk with a full rack and several hot air balloons floating above the red rock formations. 

After that, it was time to relocate again. We moved to a new campsite on Beaverhead Flats Road, slightly closer to Sedona and with better sunlight for our solar panels. Once we got settled in, we headed yet again to Phoenix to finally pick up our BMW for good. Then we worked in the Sedona Library until it kicked us out at 8 p.m.

The next morning, we decided to bike from camp into Sedona on a “trail” that went straight over a hill. Or a mountain. I'm not sure what to call it. Naturally, the trail was rocky (because everything in Arizona is), and we ended up walking our bikes half the time.

At the bottom of the trail, we came across a fence locking us onto the trail. Turns out the trail was officially closed. They posted this sign on the Sedona end, but apparently felt no need to tell people starting from the other end. Maybe no one ever starts where we did? In hindsight… probably for good reason.

Since we couldn’t go back, we had to bike home on a two-lane highway with cars whipping by at 60 mph. There was a bike lane most of the way, but the last mile without a bike lane was decorated with mesquite bushes and cacti that had decided to colonize the pavement. We frequently had to swerve into the middle of the lane to avoid being gouged by the thorns and spikes.

Our friend Dana, the one we begrudgingly free-loaded off of, once said, “Everything in Arizona has thorns.”
To which I’d now add: “Every Trail in Arizona has rocks.”

But I still love Arizona. I just need to bring a full-suspension mountain bike. And maybe a suit of armor to deflect the thorns.

That same afternoon, we boarded a four-hour scenic train ride with a narrator who shared every fun fact known to mankind. We had food, drinks, fresh air, and the best scenery ever. The train turned around at the Perkinsville Ghost Town. I highly recommend.

On the way back to camp, we swung by the Cottonwood Library for a bonus hour of productivity. Libraries are our natural habitat now. After this trip, maybe we'll write a whole guidebook reviewing every library in the southern states—‘Quiet Desks & Good Wi-Fi: A Working Nomad’s Survival Handbook.’ Though sometimes, the picture below is what working from the road looks like. That's George on a work call in the middle of a hike in Sedona. 

We kicked off our final day in Sedona with an estate sale—partly because we wanted to see inside a fancy Sedona home. We walked out with practical stuff, like neon biking socks and Clorox wipes, each for a dollar. A win.

Then we headed to the Broken Arrow trail to visit Chicken Point and see the legendary White Line—a thin streak of sandstone where mountain bikers ride along a slope that could easily double as a cliffside death slide.

We hiked up to the start of it to see if the videos do it justice. I walked out about fifteen feet before my brain wouldn't let me continue. Now we know why the viewpoint across the way is call Chicken Point: that’s where the sensible people who are too chicken to ride the White Line hang out to watch the thrill-seekers do their stupid tricks. Below is a video of someone else, not us, riding the White Line.

Next up was Slide Rock State Park. It was November, but we were in Arizona, so how cold could the water be? Ha. Cold. Painfully cold. After one slide, I decided I was sufficiently adventurous for the day.

After getting cleaned up we wandered the kitschy shops in Sedona selling crystals and the like before grabbing a date-night dinner—where the restaurant added a 3% “employee health care fee" on to the bill. That's a new one that I haven't seen. 

George and I have a tradition of buying matching wedding bands every few years while on vacation. Our Koa wood rings from Hawaii have had a good run, so we decided to swap them out. What better choice in Sedona than mood rings, a piece of jewelry that turns green when you’re cold.

We returned to camp after dark, and when George opened the car door, he screamed. Standing inches away was an elderly woman with purple hair, a purple jacket, and a purple boa.

Thankfully, she was not a ghost. Or a murderer. She was simply a dedicated vortex pilgrim who had come to Sedona to hike during the full moon. She was extremely enthusiastic about spiritual energies. George and I nodded politely, trying not to give away that we run on a very different spiritual operating system, one that is much less purple in flavor. 

Her car battery had died that morning, and she’d waited all day for someone—anyone—to return to camp and rescue her. We jumped her car, and felt very good about performing our good deed of the week.

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's looking at you, Sedona! 

Ghosted by the Sedona Vortex

 November 3-4, 2025

We woke up at our new campsite to a beautiful sunrise and a brisk 37 degrees—basically a full 50-degree drop from the “toasty desert lizard” temperatures we’d gotten used to.

Since the repair bill on our car was going to be $8,000 (if you don't know what I'm talking about, you obviously haven't read my previous posts), George decided it couldn’t hurt to take it to the dealer and see if the warranty fairy might swoop in and cover something. Anything. Even a sympathy bolt.

Turned out the true perk of bringing it to the dealer? Free loaner car. Which meant we could return Dana and Glade’s truck so we could stop feeling like freeloaders. Of course, when we returned the truck, we didn’t leave empty-handed. Dana and Glade sent us off with home-grown key limes and pomegranates—so yes, we were still freeloaders. But dang, those key limes were refreshing in my water. 

On the way back to camp we stopped to hike Bell Rock in Sedona, one of the four major Sedona “vortexes” known for its swirling spiritual energy. People come from all over to meditate, heal, and feel the universe hug them. I felt… nothing. Not a tingle. Not a cosmic whisper. Well, that's not entirely true. I did feel some irritation that my white Hoka's were slowly turning a light shade of red. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’m the kind of person who can’t be hypnotized either. My brain is like, “Nope. We don’t do magic.”  

Although—full confession—when George’s water bottle started vibrating and making this bizarre buzzing noise, for one tiny dramatic second I thought, Maybe the vortex is real. Then I remembered that’s just what happens when air pressure changes. So much for enlightenment.

But maybe there is something to the vortex theory after all, because while we were perched up on Bell Rock enjoying the view, the dealer called and told us that nothing was actually wrong with our car. It just needed its computer cleared and recalibrated, which they did as a courtesy. A FREE fix. I just might concede the vortex works in mysterious ways.

Relieved, but spiritually unchanged, we took the scenic route back to camp—which is redundant, because everything in Arizona is scenic. I think I like Arizona. In the fall. Plus they know about zipper merges! 

The Shutdown Was Waiting for Us at Tuzigoot National Monument

November 1-2, 2025

We had several national monuments on our must do list, so we headed down the other side of the mountain to Tuzigoot National Monument. The road was narrow and curvy, and just when we rounded a tight bend, an entire town suddenly appeared, clinging to the mountainside like a lizard on a wall. Jerome, Arizona.

Jerome started as a booming mining town of 15,000 people, then became a ghost town, then was resurrected as a tourist destination. Some of the houses had approximately one gazillion stairs to reach them. Naturally, we had to stop and wander through the tourist shops, mixed in with historic buildings and some town history.

Eventually, we continued on to Tuzigoot… only to discover that the government shutdown had finally caught up with us. Not only was it closed, it was barricaded with an occupied police car stationed out front, sitting in silent judgment of those of us who dared drive past the original closure sign a mile back. We thought maybe Montezuma’s Castle or Montezuma’s Well would save the day. Nope. Same outcome. Same barricades.

I guess it's reasonable—these are ancient ruins. The last thing they need is unsupervised tourists poking around. But still. Our big cultural day turned into “looking at pictures online.” At least we weren’t relying on SNAP benefits or something actually life-altering. 

So we cut our losses and drove to Sedona to scout future boondocking spots for after our stay at Mingus Mountain. While we were there, we visited the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a Catholic chapel built into the red rocks. 

Sunday arrived, and with it: chores. I gave George a haircut, we packed up camp, and we made the scenic rollercoaster drive down the mountain, through adorable Jerome (again), and into Cottonwood for church.

I now have a tiny bit more empathy for people who drive an hour to church every week. Our commute felt like a pilgrimage. Also, I went with hairy legs because I ran out of time. That’s my spiritual sacrifice for the day.

Conveniently, there was a free dump station near the church. When you're on the road, you take a free dump when it comes. While there, we met a young woman in a truck camper who told us she was officially traveling solo because she “couldn’t stand living with her boyfriend in such a small space for the last five months.”

George and I exchanged the longest slow blink. We’re only a little over one month into our tiny-living adventure. I’m hoping 5 months is not the RV version of the seven-year itch. We’re aiming to make it past five months without wanting to drop-kick each other into a canyon.

We eventually reached our new campsite between Sedona and Flagstaff, Arizona, where someone had left us a heart-shaped arrangement made of pinecones, dried flowers, rock cairns, and a little message of love. It was honestly one of my favorite surprises of the day…

…until I texted it to our family chat and one of my children immediately preyed on my known anxiety and said, “That’s how they lure you into a false sense of safety before murdering you in the night.”

Parenthood: where your heartfelt wilderness moment is instantly turned into a true-crime special.

Every story has a soundtrack. Enjoy this song about not getting what we wanted (our failed attempts to visit three national monuments), but eventually getting what we needed (a free dump):

When Your Car Repair Bill is the Real Halloween Horror!

October 29-31, 2025

We spent most of the day in Cave Creek doing errands and trying to work at the library. (A+ Wi-Fi, C– self-discipline.) One of our goals on this trip is to audition future hometowns—somewhere closer to at least one of our kids, or maybe perfectly equidistant so no one can accuse us of playing favorites. I loved Cave Creek… but 88 degrees in late October? Absolutely not. Summer must feel like being microwaved on high.

After our work stint, we rolled through Prescott Valley and climbed up Mingus Mountain to boondock. The saguaros and prickly pears tapped out somewhere around the 4,000-foot mark, replaced with real-life fall colors. As a person who needs seasons, this was deeply therapeutic.

At our boondocking spot, we met some fellow travelers who have been full-timing for 15 months. Same camper brand as ours! They gave us a tour, we exchanged numbers, stalked each other on Facebook, and boom: new road friends. And not just casual. Within hours the wife was texting me like we’d been neighbors for years.

She’d text me when they were heading down the mountain to town: “Need anything from Walmart?" She’d text me when they were heading to church and send me the link to their Facebook group for Christian travelers, just in case I needed spiritual support. She’d text me helpful apps for full-time rv-ing. It was like having a very friendly, very helpful camp concierge… who also lived in a camper.

The next morning we biked around to explore. The first hill nearly killed me. I blamed all the pancake-flat bike paths we’ve been cruising… until we reached a hang gliding launch pad and discovered we were at 7,800 feet. I guess oxygen is not just a suggestion.

Back in Phoenix we accidentally adopted some micro ants who decided our kitchen counter was their new playground. When an ant is roughly the size of a grain of sand, it somehow doesn’t feel nearly as morally complicated to squish them with your finger...or as gross. It’s like they don’t even count as a bug. We eventually put out some ant bait, and poof—problem solved. Our tiny uninvited tenants packed their microscopic bags and moved out. Or at least that's the happy story I like to tell myself. 

And then, because this trip has a theme, the car alarm saga continued—this time with our borrowed truck. The clicker died, so we had to unlock the door with the key. Which caused the alarm to scream. Forever. We eventually learned that touching the fob to the ignition stops the madness. Ask me why. I dare you. I have no idea. 

Unfortunatley, we forced ourselves to work that afternoon, which felt like sending ourselves to our rooms without dinner while an entire mountain range begged us to come out and play.

The next day was Halloween! We headed into Prescott, one of George’s top picks for potential relocation. After a few hours, we looked at each other and said, “Meh.” Not even a strong meh. More like a shrug with a side of disappointment.

It didn’t help that George was depressed—our repair shop called with an $8,000 estimate for our car. No, that was not a typo. Eight. Thousand. Dollars. The first $2,500 was for brake pads and rebuilding the caliper (because, you may recall, there were zero replacement calipers available in the entire United States). The other $5,500? A new brake booster. At that point, George immediately started browsing for a Honda Pilot Sport, because our BMW is too much of a high-maintenance diva.

To lift his spirits, I dragged him to Prescott’s hidden gem: Watson Lake. It was so gorgeous, one could not be depressed while there—giant granite boulders, a stunning reservoir, and a trail to the dam where we turned around right before reaching it because daylight was vanishing. Classic us.

For dinner we treated ourselves to Raising Cane’s for the first time. Great chicken, sure, but the highlight was the free Halloween candy. Since this was my first Halloween ever (that I can remember) without trick-or-treating or handing out candy, the candy felt like a tiny emotional bandage. George ate multiple pieces while ordering and informed the cashier that he was “very depressed” and the chocolate was making him feel better. 

We ended the night watching the trick-or-treaters come to our house back in the Tri-Cities via the doorbell camera, like two weird ghost parents haunting our own front porch. 

How to Overstay Your Welcome (and Borrow Your Son's In-Laws’ Truck Anyway)

October 23–28, 2025 

Before arriving at Glade and Dana's house, we had a plan. We’d ordered a replacement window for the one that fell out and shattered way back on Day 3 of the trip, plus new brake pads for the car. The idea was simple: stay just long enough for the parts to arrive (supposedly on day 3), install them, and move on. Easy. Clean. Efficient.

Ha.

Day 1:

On our first day, we decided to get some exercise at Thunderbird Conservation Park, conveniently located practically in Glade and Dana's backyard.  

Trail #1 started out promising… for about 100 feet. Then came the rocks. Everywhere. After bouncing over boulders like a couple of crash-test dummies, we ditched the bikes and hiked for a bit instead. We were starting to realize that Arizona doesn’t believe in “dirt trails”—only rock obstacle courses.

Feeling optimistic after our hike—or maybe just delusional—we tried another trail. Same story. It turned into an interval workout: bike a little, walk a little, repeat. Still, the desert views were gorgeous, and we got a great leg workout pushing our bikes uphill. (We'll call it “Arizona spin class.”)

Later that day, we went to check out a new trailer—same model as ours, but with all the important upgrades: tank heaters, higher-capacity lithium batteries, and all the other gadgets that will allow us to survive below freezing temperatures or weeks of rain in the Canadian Maritime Provinces.

Somehow, our little five-year-old trailer actually seemed nicer. Maybe they don’t make ’em like they used to—or maybe we’re just biased because ours already has all our blood, sweat, and plumbing repairs in it.

Bottom line, we decided we could add the upgrades ourselves for a fraction of the cost. The trick, of course, is finding the time (and willpower) to haul it all the way to the only service center in Ohio. Or… we could just do it ourselves. (Cue dramatic foreshadowing music.)

We squeezed in a little “office work,” then had dinner with Glade and Dana, who were still happy to see us.

Day 2:

Dana took us on a RZR ride up to Crown King, an old mining town in the mountains. I drove the first half—until I had to go over a set of very large rocks near the edge of a cliff while Dana pointed out the newest vehicle addition in the ravine below. I decided I liked living too much to continue, so Dana took over. She’s a great driver, but there were still moments I was convinced we’d plunge into oblivion. People pay good money for this kind of adrenaline rush.

 

By the time we reached town for lunch, the “Oh ****” handle I’d been gripping had half its rubber missing. Literally. George drove the entire way back, grinning when he later read that the road to Crown King is officially rated “Difficult.” He was so proud.

Now that I understand what RZR roads actually look like, I realize the road to our infamous Three Forks Hot Springs was also a RZR road—not, as we had mistakenly assumed, a BMW road. Lesson learned.

That night, we had dinner with my cousin Amy Jo and her family, and then even more cousins and my aunt came by. It was basically a mini-family reunion. 

Day 3:

We joined Dana at the park to throw a ball for Aviendo, the grand-dog she was dog-sitting. Then we biked 31 miles all around Phoenix on a nice bike path that went under every major road (cue dramatic forshadowing music again). The only problem? Those underpasses were full of sleeping homeless people that we couldn’t see until our eyes adjusted to the dim light. We learned to go very slow. (“Good afternoon, sorry, excuse the tire near your sleeping bag.”)

When we got back, Glade made us his famous hydration drink using key limes from his own tree. He also grows bananas, pomegranates, and grapefruit. Basically, if it’s a tropical fruit, it’s thriving in his yard.

That night, we joined them for their ward trunk-or-treat. Dana even gave us costumes to wear. Because Glade’s dad has a potato farm in Idaho, they brought home literal boxes of potatoes from harvest. So while everyone else handed out boring candy, Glade and Dana handed out—yep—potatoes. One little girl actually said, “I don’t want a potato!” (Her loss. Those were nice potatoes.) Okay, fine—they also handed out candy and glow bracelets, but that part is way less funny.

 

We also got to enjoy Dana and Glade’s neighbor’s nationally recognized Nightmare Before Christmas light show. It was spectacular—music, lights, even the movie projected on their garage. The only catch? It was like trying to nap in the middle of Disneyland’s parking lot as cars came and went, doors slammed, and small children loudly narrated their every thought to their parents. That's what we get for being the wierdos camping in a neighborhood. 

Our packages did not arrive as promised. 

Day 4:

Sunday was calm. We went to church with Glade and Dana, called all our kids, and had dinner with Glade and Dana and their son’s family. We were now fully embedded in their household routine. 

Day 5:

The long-awaited parts finally arrived. George was going to wait to tackle the brake pads until he could grab his special caliper compressing tool from home during our Thanksgiving visit, but when Glade generously offered his garage and tools, George decided to go for it. He had a workaround for the missing caliper compression tool—which, as it turned out, didn’t work around much of anything.

Soon, the caliper wouldn’t go back on, the suspension was off, and the car looked like a wounded animal propped up on one leg. I stood nearby as the emotional punching bag, which I’ve come to realize is an important part of any DIY repair.

By the end, George was covered in oil and brake fluid and convinced we'd need a tow. Miraculously, he managed to limp the car to a nearby shop that works on European cars. Glade and Dana, being saints, took us out to dinner that night—Mexican food and moral support. They even paid. I think they felt sorry for us. 

 

Day 6:

We were supposed to be long gone by now. But as we waited for word on the car, George decided it was a good time to install the replacement trailer window. I strongly suggested we just shove the window into the trailer and wait until we were gone, in case it went as badly as the brakes. But I gave in and helped.

Shockingly, it went perfectly. If I were a betting woman, I’d have lost big.

Then came the bad news: the BMW shop called. There wasn’t a single brake caliper in the entire United States. Not one. It would take at least two weeks to get one shipped.

When we told Glade and Dana, they did what only the most generous (and desperate to get their lives back) in-laws would do—they handed us Glade’s truck keys. “Take it!” they insisted. “We’ve got plenty of extra vehicles!” Translation: Please leave before this turns into a sitcom.

We hesitated—it felt wrong to take Glade's daily driver—but staying felt worse. So, off we went in their truck, humbled and deeply aware of how absurd our situation had become.

After the usual RV chores—dumping, grocery shopping, propane refill—we only made it about 30 minutes north before calling it a night at Cave Creek Regional Park. We needed time to regroup and recover.

The Mystery of the Rotten Smell in the Car

October 20-22, 2025

We decided to spend a couple extra days in Yuma. The first of those days was a “play day” mixed with a few chores. We biked 18 miles along the Yuma Canal Path, then made a short side detour to the Arizona Territorial Prison. Fascinating place! Fun fact: several Mormon polygamists served time there in the late 1800s. Apparently, they were model prisoners among the murderers and thieves—so good, in fact, that they held leadership positions. (Even in prison, Mormons run the meeting.) 

After our history fix, we changed the oil in our car. Well, George did. He didn’t have a lift or jacks, so he MacGyvered the front wheels up onto a berm at our campsite so he could get underneath to do the job. Then we tackled a plumbing leak. The water pump kept turning on when we weren’t using water—never a good sign. Sure enough, water was dripping out of the underside of the trailer. I tore apart the bed, found the leak, consulted the manual, identified the part, and then—like any smart woman—let George fix it. Teamwork!

And speaking of detective work, I also solved The Mystery of the Rotten Smell in the Car. Ever since we left Ventura, something reeked. Turns out George had put his sea urchin souvenir from the Channel Islands in a paper barf bag the boat crew had given us. Then he left it to ferment in 90-degree heat, which translates to 150 degrees in a car. I found it. I opened it. I regretted it immediately.

We temporarily placed the poor creature near a bush a ways away from camp, but it still stank up the area. Goerge's hope was that ants would clean it out and I'd allow it back in the car. Thankfully, he forgot about it and drove off, leaving the urchin behind. Someday, an RVer will stumble across it and wonder, How on earth did a sea urchin end up in the middle of the Arizona desert?

The next day was a "work day." Not office work—but rather the glamorous RV chores: dump station, fresh water, laundry. Apparently Yuma water is no good, so the locals have little vending machines everywhere that sell “salt-free” water by the gallon. Unfortunately, their hoses didn’t fit our RV, so we hit the road in search of a fill-up.

We made a pit stop in Dateland (yes, that’s a real place) for their famous date shakes. I couldn’t really taste the dates—it just tasted like a regular shake. Aapparently there are a variety of dates. Who knew? I thought “Medjool” was the only kind. We bought Honey and Halawi dates. They tasted exactly the same to me. A date’s a date.

That night we camped outside Phoenix at Painted Rock Petroglyph Campground, a huge, empty campground that once had a lake for campers to play on back when the reservoir still existed. We biked to see the petroglyphs as the sun set. George was ahead of me (as usual), and on the way back, I got stopped by a group of friendly motorcyclists who wanted to hear about our travels. We chatted for quite a while. Meanwhile, the desert got darker. And darker.

When I finally biked back, George was out searching for me. Turns out he’d panicked—circling the campground twice in the car, asking the bikers if they’d seen me, and imagining every Dateline scenario possible. By the time he returned to find me safely at camp, he was furious and relieved in equal measure—the classic “parent whose kid just wandered off in Costco” combo. I didn’t help the situation by asking, “Were you worried we’d be one of those Facebook stories about a wife disappearing without a trace?” He didn’t laugh.

That night, lightning lit up the sky without a drop of rain. The bugs came out like it was their Super Bowl. We’d left the flagpole up, and I was convinced it was a lightning rod. George insisted we’d be fine. At 3:30 a.m., after enough of my “gentle persuasion,” he finally got up and took it down—mostly to shut me up. I would have done it myself, but I don't have the height to reach it. 

The next morning, we took a short bike ride to the “ghost reservoir,” which now consists of a dry lakebed and a dam that does nothing. The road was closed at the dam. We tried to persuade the Army Corps of Engineers guy to let us ride over the dam. We asked nicely, but he didn’t bite. Still, it never hurts to try!

After that, we packed up and drove toward Phoenix to meet up with our favorite Arizona in-laws-for-life (Alan's in-laws) for dinner. They graciously let us camp beside their house and plug in to their electricity since it was 90 degrees. Little did they know… this was just the beginning of a very long stay. But more on that later. 

Mexican Drug Run

October 18-19, 2025

We bought our plane tickets home for Thanksgiving! We are looking forward to two glorious weeks of long, hot showers, free laundry, and—best of all—using as much toilet paper as I want. IYKYK (I've always wanted to use that acronym).

This morning we pointed the car toward Yuma, Arizona to visit our friends, Gordon and Angela Jacobson. Angela was our kids’ piano teacher for years—bless her patient, saintly soul for enduring Alan's endless creative renditions of The Wild Horseman. 

Also, sidenote: I can talk about my kids as much as I want here because none of them actually read this blog. Not one. I even wrote an entire book about them—Cheaper by the Half Dozen, Plus One—and only two of them read it. Two! So yes, this is my safe space. I can spill all the tea, tell all the stories, and they’ll be none the wiser.

The drive to Yuma was stunning. The Colorado River carved through towering canyons, and we passed endless saguaro cactus landscapes straight out of a western movie. We met the Jacobsons for dinner at a local Yuma favorite, where we talked nonstop like no time had passed at all (even though it had been six years).

The next morning, we went to church with them. Here’s something I didn’t know: their stake has two “winter branches” that pop up every year at the end of October. Each has about 350 members, all seasoned church veterans—former bishops, mission presidents, stake presidents, Relief Society presidents, probably a few translated prophets thrown in for good measure. The stake leadership basically gets to kick back and let the retirees run the show.

I’ve always known about snowbirds, but I was still unprepared for the sheer volume of RVs. They were everywhere. And apparently, this was just the beginning of snowbird season. Once they all arrive, the population and traffic doubles and the town transforms into a geriatric mecca. 

Since Mexico is conveniently west of Yuma (yep, west, not south—my brain short-circuited a little there), we decided to walk over the border into Los Algodones. After checking with our friends to make sure it was totally safe, of course.

It was fascinating. Imagine a maze of interconnected decrepit buildings crammed with pharmacies, dentists, opticians, and Botox clinics—all competing for your attention with salesmen offering you deals from the street. In between were little stalls selling sunglasses, belts, hats, and questionable jewelry.

Snowbirds love the place because you can buy medication without a prescription, and it’s generally cheaper. George bought his blood pressure meds there—mostly just to say we did it. It wasn’t dramatically cheaper, but at least he didn’t have to see his doctor again for a refill, which saved us several hundred dollars since we don't have traditional insurance. 

Walking through the border crossing was slightly intimidating with rolls of barbed wire and the infamous Trump wall looming overhead. I did not want to get stuck on the wrong side of that wall. We made a quick lap through town and then high-tailed it back to the U.S., with my heart racing and George's pockets full of legal blood pressure pills.

It was 91 degrees that day in Yuma, the kind of heat that makes you question every fabric choice you’ve ever made. That evening, we cooled off at the Jacobsons’ house, enjoyed another great dinner, and soaked up their company before heading back to our RV—where the showers are short and the toilet paper rationed.

Every story has a soundtrack. This song is in honor of our trip to Mexico: 

Goodbye California, Hello Arizona!

October 16-17, 2025

We woke up to see snow dusting the nearby mountaintops — which was weird because it was still hot enough in Joshua Tree to fry an egg on a rock. Eight nights total in the desert, with a little Channel Island adventure in the middle, and it was finally time to say goodbye. Not just to Joshua Tree, but to California itself. We’ve spent weeks zig-zagging this giant state, and yet we’ve barely scratched the surface. We’ll be back.

Our destination for the day: Lake Havasu City, Arizona. But on our way we saw a sign for Amboy Crater, and of course we stopped — because we can. What’s the point of being semi-retired road nomads if you can’t spontaneously hike a volcano in the middle of the Mojave?

The “trail” was really more of a bike-hike hybrid—ride a few feet, push through sand or lava rocks, ride again, curse, repeat. When we finally got to the crater itself, we ditched the bikes and hiked to the rim. Up there, with the wind whipping through our sweaty hair, I coined a new term: “Usie.” You know, like a selfie, but with both of us. I was pretty proud of myself until I remembered I have children who will 100% inform me that “usie” is already a thing—used exclusively by weird old people.   

   

After our volcano detour, we rolled into our next home sweet home: Craggy Wash, a BLM campsite just outside Lake Havasu City. There were some really nice RV resorts overlooking Havasu lake—palm trees, manicured gravel, electricity. But that's not us, we're Craggy Wash people—which, coincidentally, is both the name of the place and a perfect description of it. But it’s free! 

Once we dropped the trailer, we went into town to check out the London Bridge—yes, that London Bridge. Apparently, a guy bought all the land around a man-made lake, realized no one wanted to live there, and thought, “You know what’ll bring people in? A bridge from England!”

So he literally bought the real London Bridge, had it disassembled (and marked) brick by brick, shipped across the ocean, and rebuilt in Arizona. Bold move. Then he had to build a canal to make a penninsula into an island so he'd have somewhere to put his newly acquired bridge. That's vision! 

After exploring miniature London and checking out the fancy RV resorts, we found the old downtown and walked it's length, which was buzzing with a vintage car show.

When we opened our camper door the next morning, the first thing we saw after the gorgeous sunrise was a scorpian crawling away from our shoes. We both had an instant flashback to Costa Rica, where George once left his shoes outside and got a “special surprise” in one of them. You’d think we'd learn.

                    

we were up early to beat the heat and ride Havasu’s 17-mile paved bike path, which rather pathetically does not cradle the lake, but parallels the main road through town. Regardless of the lack of scenery, we had a great ride — except for one unfortunate development: George is officially faster than me again. We’re back to our old normal. I can attest that bike rides are slightly less fun when you're the slow one.

Later, we explored the end of Craggy Wash's dusty road to see a miniature labyrinth made out of rocks, took a nature walk by the water, and drove across the London Bridge — just to say we did.

Snow in the morning, scorpions by sunrise, and a British bridge in the desert. Just another totally normal day on the road.

Every story has a soundtrack. But I keep forgetting to add ours. Here's the soundtrack for our adventures in Lake Havasu City: