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!
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