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.
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