Crashing a Funeral in Mexico

December 13–16, 2025

Leaving Arivaca requires passing through a border checkpoint, where the officer asked me exactly one question: “With the AC on the floor in the back, does it get hot back there?” Given that temperatures here sometimes hit 120 degrees, this was not small talk. Unfortunately, I have never once sat in the back of our car and even if I did, it's not that hot in Kennewick. He still let us through, even though I failed to answer his question satisfactorily. 

We rolled into Tubac, an artsy little town, and hopped on the historic Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail headed for Tumacácori National Historical Park. A few miles in, I mentioned to George that it felt like we were going the wrong way. He assured me that if we were, the trail would eventually loop back. I asked why Juan would intentionally go miles out of his way just to double back. Just like I thought, he wouldn’t. We were going the wrong direction.

 

On the ride we spotted two javelinas, which finally explained why Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge felt so empty earlier: all the animals have relocated to tourist towns.

Tumacácori itself was fascinating—the remains of an old mission dedicated to the O’Odham people. We learned things. We appreciated history. Then, once sufficiently educated, we biked back to Tubac and wandered through shops and galleries.

Next stop: Nogales, where we camped just outside town in the Coronado National Forest. Only it did not look like a forest. No tall trees, no canopy—just some determined bushes doing their absolute best. 

Our evening grocery run at Walmart felt like crossing an invisible border—everyone spoke Spanish and half the cars had Sonora, Mexico plates. Normally we toss trash at Walmart, but every bin was full, so we drove to the local church we would be attending the next day and used the dumpster. We pay tithing; this felt fair. When we pulled up and our lights hit the dumpster, at least nine cats exploded out and scattered. Hopefully our trash offerings were appreciated.

Sunday we attended a tiny English ward that had just been upgraded from a branch; comparatively, the Spanish ward the next hour was massive. After church, we walked across the border into Nogales—which, helpfully, has the exact same name as the Nogales we’d just left. This makes conversations very clear and not at all confusing. We tried a traditional dish called mochomos—dried, deep-fried beef on a tortilla with guacamole. It was… not great. We gave the leftovers to a homeless couple, who were genuinely grateful, which immediately made the food feel more successful than it deserved.

We wandered the city and ducked into a Catholic church we thought was having Mass. The priest kept talking about death. That’s when we noticed the casket. We had crashed a funeral. We slunk out quietly, wondering how we’d missed seeing the hearse on the way in.

George then got an $11 Mexican haircut—the best he’s had in years. Sadly for me, I am usually the one who cuts his hair.

The line back into the U.S. was long, packed with Mexican people on their way to Christmas shop. We watched folks heading back into Mexico loaded with bikes, toys, and chocolate stocking stuffers from Walmart. Capitalism in motion.

After Mexico, we slowly headed back to Pheonix where we intend to fly to St. Louis for Christmas. But first a Boondockers Welcome stay in Green Valley. Our hosts were lovely and invited us to sit around a patio fire and chat for a few hours. The fire felt a little unnecessary at 70 degrees, but apparently this is what passes for chilly in Arizona. We enjoyed learning all about Green Valley from them.  

Green Valley is an upscale retirement community with more activity clubs than a college campus and community centers stocked with hobby equipment—woodworking tools, quilting machines, and basically anything you could ever want to try. All free.

The catch? You generally only leave Green Valley if you get so old you have to move in with family…or you die. It has the vibe of one of those slightly unsettling movie utopias where everything seems perfect but no one ever talks about where people go when they suddently vanish and their house is for sale fully furnished.

As a result, the town boasts an incredible nonprofit thrift store, The White Elephant. It’s funded entirely by estate donations and gives all its profits to charity. Our hosts cheerfully pointed out furniture they’d scored cheaply thanks to someone else’s misfortune—ahem, death.

Still… I could absolutely see myself living there.

The next day was spent at the library, where the most notable event was being loudly hit on by an older gentleman who couldn’t hear. Our entire conversation was shouted. George sat across the room, thoroughly entertained, taking pictures and texting the family group chat.

That afternoon we continued our crawl toward Phoenix with a stop in Tucson. George used OnX to find what he thought was a great free spot to camp on the nice side of town. However, the road narrowed. Then worsened. Then became impossible. I always dread bedtime for this exact reason.

Thankfully, we got stuck just past a “wide” spot. Nevertheless, we attempted a 21-point turn and failed spectacularly, so we decided to sleep right there and revisit our predicament in the morning with fresh eyes.

The spot was sloped and the trailer refused to level. Our bed is in the back—well past the axle—so George spent the night convinced we were going to tip the trailer, roll down the hill, or somehow accomplish both at once. Translation: he was fully glued to me all night while I slept with one cheek hanging off the bed.

The trailer did not budge all night.

At the crack of dawn, George executed a brilliant maneuver involving backing up as far as possible without hitting a saguaro, uncoupling without rolling down the hill, and re-coupling from the opposite side. We escaped. Despite the idea of free camping surrounded by million-dollar homes, the experience made us deeply appreciate our prior trash-filled, free, homeless camp with easy access.

Because we were up early, we drove through Saguaro National Park East at sunrise. It was stunning—quiet, golden, and finally convincing. I now recommend the park. Just not the west side.

There were tons of cyclists on the scenic drive, and we wished we were among them, but George had an appointment for a free blood test. Gotta do that preventative care.

We consoled ourselves after the appointment by riding the Tucson loop one last time. Construction forced creative detours, including biking through a tent city and several deeply sketchy areas. For reasons unknown, this ride exhausted me far more than the last time. I was tired at mile 2, but I made it. 

Rather than tempt fate with another nighttime fiasco, George found us a Harvest Host to stay at. This one was called Invision Wellness, which sounds very serene until you learn it was essentially the back parking lot of a business, just off a busy road, where cars roared past late into the night.

Now, I genuinely like the idea behind Harvest Hosts: you stay “for free,” and in exchange you buy something to support the business. It’s wholesome. It’s community-minded. It’s also a problem when the business sells things you absolutely do not want.

The steak place? A win! This place? Chinese medicine.

Two issues:

1. Given the choice between taking time for a massage or riding my bike, I will choose the bike every time.

2. These massages were… not your normal massages. Wierd is the word I would use.  

Luckily, the owner also ran a nonprofit that provides Chinese medicine services to people with disabilities. That I could get behind. So instead of buying a massage I didn’t want, we donated a modest amount to her charity and slept peacefully in the parking lot, spiritually balanced and financially absolved.

Our final day in Tucson was spent doing laundry and working before heading to the temple. After all, happy 31st anniversary to us! While there, we ran into a couple we knew from way back when we lived in Maryland. Like… 23 years ago. The husband immediately recognized George. That is an impressive memory.

I, on the other hand, have a very troubled relationship with faces. Even familiar ones. For example, one time during the chaos of Alan’s wedding, Jake (George’s boyfriend) went out for a run wearing a ball cap. When he returned to the house, I asked him to remind me of his name. He thought I was joking. I was not. I’m fairly certain there is a real medical condition for not recognizing faces, and I probably have the mild, socially awkward version of it.

The next morning, we slowly pointed ourselves toward Phoenix, ready to trade eternal summer, border crossings, and surprise livestock encounters for Christmas in St. Louis, where it is currently a frigid 8 degrees.

Seasonal whiplash: activated.

Horror Movie Energy Amongst a Roaming Petting Zoo

 December 11–12, 2025

We worked in the morning, did a round of garbage detail (our unofficial but increasingly prestigious role), then broke camp and headed for Arivaca and a Harvest Hosts stay at the Homestead Butcher.

Staying at a butcher should make me more nervous than staying at our lovely Flagstaff camp with LOVE spelled out in pinecones (see pevious post)—but here we are, fear recalibrated. It feels like the kind of place where the horror movie tagline is “They thought it was a Harvest Host.” Also, we’ve officially seen more animals at the butcher’s than we did at Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, where—if you recall—we spotted exactly one raven.

At the butcher’s, however, it’s basically a roaming petting zoo: four cats, three dogs, three cows, three horses, and one donkey, all wandering freely. Within minutes of arrival, one dog peed on our trailer tongue to establish dominance. A cat climbed onto our roof, realized gravity is real, then slid down the sloped side, claws-out. And the papa cow—the one with the horns—kept scratching his head on our camper, which felt less like affection and more like a structural assessment.

One of the perks of Harvest Hosts is that you buy something to support your host. When your host is a butcher, that means eggs, milk, and steak—excellent steak. We bought two ribeyes. I typically don’t love meat, but George cooked those steaks to absolute perfection. Unfortunately, perfection came at a cost: the scent lingers and the camper now smells like the ghost of steak night. 

The next morning we woke to the animals fully assembled around our camper, peering in the windows like they were waiting to discuss our checkout time. After working for a bit, we headed out for an afternoon bike ride: 29 miles of semi-fun, semi-torture. Think rocky washes (many unrideable), narrow hilly highway riding, a sprinkle of good dirt road, and an aggressively cheerful 82-degree day. In mid-December. It has been one glorious eternal summer for us. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I miss a cold, cozy day with softly falling snow and the radical concept of wearing a sweater and drinking hot chocolate. 

 

Later, we rolled into “town” to check out the local bar, La Gatina Cantina, proudly touted as Arizona’s oldest. After a quick Wikipedia dive, I determined this claim was… aspirational. But honestly, when your town consists of two buildings and a butcher, you’ve got to drive business somehow. And if nothing else, it pairs nicely with a lingering steak-scented camper and the memory of a cat who briefly became a roof ornament.

Level 3: Reconsider Travel

December 9-10, 2025

We packed up and pulled out of our BLM campsite in Tucson this morning, still riding high on the fact that it was garbage-free when we left. Sparkling. Pristine. Practically begging for a “please take your shoes off before entering” sign. We'll be back again on our anniversary, squeezing in a little romance on our way to our Phoenix flight for Christmas. 

After we left, BLM finally responded to my email saying they'd send someone out the next day to clean up the garbage. When I let them know we had already done the job, they called me personally to shower us with praise and offer a certificate and free BLM swag, which apparently includes stickers and other mystery treasures that they are sure are stuffed somewhere in the back corners of their cabinets. It was all very nice. I hadn’t meant to toot my own horn—it just sort of happened. I'll let you all know what the swag is when we come back on the 17th. 

Sadly, on our final drive-by on the way out of town after running errands? Two full grocery bags of trash right in front of our "No Dumping" sign. Basically a giant middle finger in plastic-bag form. Good thing BLM said they’d still swing by tomorrow “just to check on things.” Nothing like a scheduled government inspection to scare the rebel litterers. 

Our next stop: a wildlife refuge called Buenos Aires, down near the Mexican border. It was created specifically for the Bobwhite (hint: that's a quail). And for all you Wood Badge alums who got stuck in that undesirable patrol, the Bobwhite is, in fact, a real thing deserving of its very own preserve. You may now retroactively feel less disappointed and more honored.

The place feels remote, wide-open, and vaguely African savanna-ish—possibly because a sign casually mentioned we were in jaguar territory. Jaguars are not African, but they are exotic, and my brain filled in the rest.

As we got closer to camp, it became clear we were entering Serious Border Country. About 90% of the vehicles on the road were Border Patrol. There was also a giant surveillance blimp floating overhead, watching everything with an array of “smart” cameras. Helicopters swooped across the sky. 

Naturally, being only five miles from Sasabe, Mexico, we Googled whether we should pop over to explore. Google responded with the equivalent of a horrified gasp. Hard no. It's a key corridor for human and drug smuggling. The town was literally abandoned in 2023 after two cartels started fighting over it. Homes burned, civilians fled, and the U.S. briefly granted refuge to many of the residents. The travel advisory still says “Level 3: Reconsider Travel,” which is government speak for: Absolutely not, what is wrong with you?

The constant flyovers do break up the peaceful, remote vibe a bit, but on the plus side, if we need help, it will arrive in about 14 seconds.

Oh—and a Jake update. George’s copycat mustache and earrings apparently triggered some kind of instant style-self-destruct button, because when we FaceTimed the boys today, Jake had buzzed his head and shaved his mustache. The fastest way to get a young person to abandon a style? Have an old person adopt it. Works every time.

We spent the next morning working with our trusty Starlink, then went for a bike ride. The dirt roads here go on for 300 miles, and we tackled about 20 of them. It was beautiful, challenging, and a harsh reminder that eating too much at Thanksgiving is not a training plan. Our Florida ride is looming, and I’m worried. Very worried. Fortunately, we have a few months to get into “not-dying” shape.

As for wildlife? This “wildlife preserve” has so far produced...one raven. That’s it. But we have seen lots of cat tracks and javelina prints, so the creatures are out there—you just have to imagine them.

All in all, it feels good to leave the city behind and once again point our tiny home-on-wheels toward unknown places. Adventures await! 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's one that illustrates the profound moral complexities of the border. 

How I Became the Newly Appointed BLM Trash Sherrif

 December 6 - 8, 2025

Today we visited the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, which should honestly be called “Everything the Desert Could Possibly Be, Plus a Gift Shop.” It’s a zoo, botanical garden, aquarium, art gallery, and history museum all mashed into one sprawling complex. Basically, if it exists in the Sonoran Desert, they’ve slapped it into this museum.

Fun fact: there’s an aquarium because the Sonoran Desert includes the Gulf of California, a.k.a. the Sea of Cortez. Yep. The desert has ocean. This region is basically the overachiever of ecosystems.

We spent five hours there, and one of the highlights was the Raptor Free-Flight show, where they release giant birds of prey into the sky and let them swoop dramatically over the audience. One hawk flew so close to my head that its wing actually brushed my forehead. For a moment I genuinely thought I was about to be carried off like a desert mouse.

After the museum, we swung by Saguaro National Park West and… look, I don’t want to offend any saguaros, but we were seriously underwhelmed. The museum was better. Tucson Mountain Park was better. My prickly pear cactus chocolate bar from the visitor center was not better (but hey, it was chocolate), but everything else? Better. I’ve heard the East side of the park (the park is separated by Tucson) is way superior, so we’ll give the park another chance before we start slandering it too loudly. 

Since it was Saturday night, we treated ourselves to a real date night: dinner at El Charro, the oldest Mexican restaurant in the United States and the inventor of the chimichanga. We had the 6 taco sampler and it did not disappoint.

The next day was church, followed by fulfilling our moral obligation to contribute at least one good deed before returning to selfishly biking. Earlier in the week we bought black garbage bags with the heroic intention of cleaning up the trash at our BLM camp. Today was the day. We double-gloved—latex underneath, leather on top—like sanitation ninjas, and collected 25 bags of garbage.   -

Why so much trash? Because someone stole two garbage bins, relocated them to the entrance of the camp, and then everyone collectively decided, “Ah yes, this is now the camp dump.” Whether the trash fit inside the bins or not, whether trash was loose or bagged, all was irrelevant. 

We stopped by the fire station to see if we could use their commercial dumpster. to dispose of the trash. The answer was a polite but firm no, which I understand because technically we were asking them to start a trend for all the feral garbage dumpers down the road.

The next day I called the City of Tucson and then the local BLM office. Tucson said I’d need an account and an address (neither of which a semi-homeless desert camper can casually produce), and BLM… didn’t answer the phone, return messages, or respond to email. Strong participation all around.

Meanwhile, new trash was already being piled on top of our neatly bagged trash mountain. Time was running out. So I hired a third-party junk removal guy for $150 (after my finest negotiations), and he hauled away all 25 bags plus the renegade garbage bins. 

We put up polite-but-firm signs telling people this was not a dump, there was no garbage service, and to please stop treating the desert like their personal landfill.

With that civic duty done, we rewarded ourselves the best way we know how: by heading back to Tucson Mountain Park.

We rode new intermediate trails, and I rode all the washes like a pro—except for the three that George walked. If George is walking, that is my universal sign to also walk, because I know exactly how that would end if I tried: face-first in a rocky ravine. No thank you.

How I Got Away With Stealing Water Because of My Beige Aura

 

December 3–5, 2025

We flew back into Tucson, feeling refreshed, revived, and ready to reunite with our faithful little camper—only to discover its battery was dangerously close to dying in our absence. So we hunted down a Harvest Host that, for the low-low price of $15, would let us plug in and bring our trailer back to life. 

Since we were already out in civilization, we restocked on groceries. That’s when I got racially profiled… in the most ironically unhelpful way imaginable. The store was filled with Mexican customers, and the Mexican security guard was checking everyone’s receipt like he was auditioning for TSA. Everyone—except me.

He took one look at my middle-aged, nerdy white-lady energy and waved me through like I was a visiting foreign dignitary. Which is hilarious, because I had just unknowingly stolen an entire pack of waters. I even told the checker they were under the cart. We both acknowledged it. Then we both forgot. So yes, store security, this is why you check everybody. My aura is not crime-proof; it’s just beige. Not dangerous. Not edgy. Just… beige.

The next day we spent at the library, enjoying the free Wi-Fi and air conditioning, before heading back to our trusty BLM camp—the semi-homeless one. We had been gone for two full weeks. And all the people we assumed were just passing through…were still there. Apparently the 14-day limit is more of a polite suggestion. Honestly, we could have saved $85 in storage fees and just left our trailer there. Not that I want to leave my home on wheels there, but still.

The following morning we hopped back on our bikes. It felt so good—like our bodies suddenly remembered what they were built for. We discovered Tucson Mountain Park, a mountain biker’s paradise where the trails are a delightful cocktail of gravel, sand, rocks, and washes designed for beginnners like me who want to live.  Nonetheless, I was convinced I’d catapult over my handlebars for the first several washes, so I walked them like the cautious creature I am. But by the end, I was riding most of them like the fearless biker I pretend to be.

 

This is what we had dreamed every Arizona trail would be like.

Although, in the Sonoran Desert, falling off your bike isn’t just a bruise-and-move-on situation. You’re basically guaranteed to land on something spiky or thorny. Nature’s little reminder to stay upright.

Fun fact: Saguaro National Park West, which borders Tucson Mountain Park, used to be part of Tucson Mountain Park. 

Vacation...From Our Vacation

November 18 – December 3, 2025

Today was the day: time to briefly abandon our life of wandering and fly home for our Thanksgiving vacation from our vacation. Yes, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds. But after three months in an 18-foot camper, our bodies desperately needed real showers, and we needed to talk to people besides each other before we forgot how to interact with society altogether.

We tucked the camper safely into long-term storage (like dropping off a beloved pet at a nice kennel) and spent the night in a hotel so we could catch an early flight. The moment we opened the hotel room door, we did synchronized slow-motion spins with our arms outstretched. It felt like we’d just stepped into the ballroom of the Titanic. In reality, it was a normal-sized hotel room, but compared to our rolling shoebox, it was basically Versailles.

At the hotel, we worked from actual comfortable chairs, ate unlimited hotel cookies like we had no self-respect, and then ventured out on a mission: find George magnetic earrings to complete his transformation into Jake—our future son-in-law. This was all supposed to be a gag, but the mustache-and-fake-earrings combo? Surprisingly handsome. Disturbingly handsome. Handsome enough that I briefly wondered if we should add a Harley to the budget. Then I remembered George already has a BMW Z4 convertable. So we're set! 

The next morning, I woke up to George on my side of the king bed. Apparently his internal GPS couldn’t comprehend a bed bigger than an RV queen, which is basically a large crib. I took a shower so long and luxurious it counted as a month’s worth of RV showers.Then I actually did my hair, because unlike the camper, the hotel plugs can handle more than 1,000 watts without threatening to black out the entire building.

On the plane, we got the very last row by the bathrooms. It smelled exactly like our RV, so honestly? Comforting. Nostalgic. Homey, even. Should we be embarrassed? Probably.

And then—home. Glorious home. Not because we don’t love the road (we really, really do), but because sometimes you just need the pros of a house: endless hot water, an onsite washer and dryer that other people haven’t… seasoned, actual kitchen appliances, and food options beyond “What’s in the tiny fridge?” or “Can this be cooked in one pan?” Also: alone time. Sort of. We had seven people in the house, which is a very different flavor of togetherness than two people in an RV. Less cozy… more chaotic. But that was also the very best part—being with family! 

We packed two weeks like we were competing on a timed game show: dentist appointments, eye exams, two movie nights, a bike ride up and around Badger Mountain, a hike up Badger Mountain, Costco runs, a 5k, pickleball (which activated muscles I apparently haven't used since we left on our trip), family games, Blatter family games, puzzles, pupusas—TWICE (once with the kids, once with Lara Blatter because pupusas deserve an encore), Black Friday shopping (more like browsing), crafts, a walk in the rain, yardwork, visiting extended family, and a heroic amount of cooking and eating.

 

The only real downside of our holiday homecoming? We ate way too much and exercised way too little. Our pants staged a protest. A loud one. They are not subtle garments.

We did not cut a Christmas tree this year since no one will be home for Christmas. I guess some traditions must quietly wander into the woods and perish. But it’s fine. We’ll make new traditions. Like, “Visit home once a year and panic-clean the kitchen before flying out again.”

And now? Back to our tiny house on wheels, smelling faintly of airplane bathrooms and adventure.

Every story has a soundtrack. This one expresses my gratitude for my family:

Camping Among the Homeless

November 14 - 17, 2025

We made the drive to Phoenix. Again. Well—basically Phoenix. A suburb called Queen Creek, where we met George’s law school friend for lunch. We had a great time catching up and marveling at how much has changed since the days when life was lighter, freer, and didn’t involve adult children.

After lunch we headed to Tucson, where we’ll stay until we fly home for Thanksgiving. My parents served an 18-month senior mission here, so it’s fun to run around their old stomping grounds. We found some BLM land southwest of town to camp on. It has a very “semi-homeless” vibe—huge expensive rigs parked next to ancient campers and cars surrounded by piles of belongings that look like they’ve been there for years. The 14-day minimum is apparently not being enforced. We’re slightly concerned about leaving our trailer unattended during the day, but adventure requires risk, right?

The next morning we looked up a bike ride and discovered a paved path that loops the entire city. Fifty-seven miles. Naturally, we picked that one. It wore me out completely—my legs launched a formal complaint that evening. But we have to start building mileage because a college friend talked us into a semi-supported bike ride in central Florida this March: 310 miles over six days. I refuse to end up in the SAG wagon. Pride is a powerful motivator.

That night we used our $5 T-Mobile Tuesday movie tickets to see Now You See Me. Since the tickets were only $5, we splurged on popcorn and a drink. 

Sometime in the middle of the night a lunatic tore around the camping area on a motorcycle without a muffler. There are definitely drawbacks to free camping, and one of them is that apparently some people prefer to recreate “Mad Max” at 3 a.m.

On Sunday, we surprised my nephew by showing up at the church where he’s serving his mission. It was a Spanish ward, so we used live Google Translate to follow along. My poor nephew had just been transferred from an English-speaking mission two weeks earlier, and I’m pretty sure he understood maybe two and a half words the entire meeting. He didn't have the luxury of Google Translate, but two weeks is simply not enough time to learn a language—but he was a good sport about it.

On our last day in Tucson before going home for Thanksgiving, we attempted to work at a library. The first “library” wasn’t really a library at all—it was inside a very cool retirement community where everyone drove golf carts, took dance classes, played pickleball, swam, and even had their own radio station. A great place to live, not a great place to work. Their “library” was one large room of books on the honor system—no desks, no Wi-Fi, no librarian. So we relocated.

On the way to Library Attempt #2, we stopped at the historic San Xavier del Bac Mission. Another delightful distraction. At this point, staying focused is very challenging.

We did eventually make it to a real library and managed to accomplish something. And we made it official: we’re spending Christmas in St. Louis with Maddy, and Lucy will meet us there.

Every story has a soundtrack. Since George and I have been together almost every second of every day for several months now, this song seemed appropriate (minus the part about getting drunk together): 

Back in the Saddle

November 10 - 13, 2025 

Although we temporarily avoided the freeze, we had to stay ahead of it like fugitives. So today we headed to Payson, a town halfway between Sedona and Pheonix. We intended to get there early and spend the day working… but then we saw signs for the Tonto Natural Bridge. And obviously we had to go. Work can always happen later.

The natural bridge instantly became a new favorite. You can hike down from each side, which of course meant we had to do both hikes. Naturally, by the time we dragged ourselves out, we were too tired to work later that day. We’re old and start powering down around 7 p.m.

So the next day we made ourselves be responsible adults and worked at the Payson Library until 3:30 in the afternoon. It took real willpower—not only was the weather perfect, but there was a pickleball court right next to the library taunting us to play one quick game. If it wasn't for my stubborn plantar fasciitis that I can't shake, I probably would have surrendered to the siren call of the paddle.

We ended our workday early because George found a new wheel for my bike in Phoenix. It was an hour and 45 minutes away, but the drive was gorgeous. The landscape shifted from ponderosa pines to scrub brush to the first of many saguaros. We also watched the temperature climb like a coal-activated furnace. By the time we reached Phoenix, it was 87 degrees. In mid-November!

We bought the new wheel and trued up my back wheel, but I decided to keep my bent handlebars as a reminder to be more cautious. It drives George absolutely crazy to look at them. Before the accident, he insisted I was the most cautious rider on earth. But now? I’m destined to be the most cautious biker in the universe!

The next day we forced ourselves to work all day again. All of our kids had already decorated their Christmas trees and sent pictures in the family group chat, and we were feeling left out. So our reward for being productive was a trip to Goodwill to find a tiny Christmas tree and some miniature ornaments for $5.00. Not a bad haul. We spent the evening decorating it and listening to Christmas music, fully embracing the holiday spirit.

Oh, and we also stopped at Harbor Freight to buy some ultra-long rubber gloves so I could reach into the toilet and fix a loose wire. A much less festive reward, but I’m the only one with hands small enough to do the job. Motherhood prepares you for many things.

We spent our final day in Payson back in the saddle, riding the Mogollon Rim—part off-road, part on-road. The on-road portion made me nervous (see: bent handlebars above), but it was still beautiful. Then we actually did more work at the library and rewarded ourselves again, this time with little battery-operated lights for our tree from Walmart.

All in all, our time in Payson was a perfect balance of productivity, exercise, Christmas cheer, and light toilet repair.

Every story has a soundtrack. This song exudes the Christmas spirit we were feeling as we decorated our humble tree: 

Fleeing the Freeze in Flagstaff

 November 9, 2025

Today we talked to all of our children and went to church. Yes, we are believers—just not in Sedona’s swirling woo-woo vortex energy. If my chakras are ever aligned, it’ll be completely by accident.

It turned out to be the perfect day to take it easy because, as it turns out, the day after getting hit by a car is way worse than the day of. By morning I was stiff and sore, as if I'd just completed a training session with my brother Jake, who is a powerlifter and lifts things roughly the size of a baby elephant. 

After church, we headed to the Lowell Observatory to ponder the mysteries of the universe. It felt like a respectable Sabbath activity—quiet reflection, glorious views of the stars, contemplating cosmic existentialism. Also, it’s where they discovered Pluto, which may or may not be a planet depending on who you ask. The scientists at the Lowell Observatory insist it is, while certain other scientists do not. It's all based on a definition that requires a planet to clear its orbit. Basically, Pluto is in the middle of a decades-long identity crisis.

We’d been watching the weather like hawks all week and were absolutely confident we had until Friday before the freezing temperatures arrived. We were wrong. When we got back to camp at 9 p.m., the temperature had plummeted as if Mother Nature had suddenly remembered a dentist appointment. Our trailer has heat, but our tanks do not. I don't want to ever see a frozen black tank. It might ruin what little appreciation I have for popsicles. 

So we packed up immediately and fled back to our former campsite on Schnebly Road—the same one where that murderer had left those unsettlingly tender “love notes” to lure victims into feeling cozy and safe. At least according to our daughter Maddy.

At this point, we’ve camped at this site with Glade’s truck, a BMW loaner, and now our very beloved and deeply appreciated BMW. It’s practically tradition.

Next time, we’ll visit Flagstaff earlier in the season—before the ice goblins awaken. And I won't get hit by a car and wreck my bike, so we can actually ride all those amazing trails that I could only look at longingly. 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's a shoutout to Flagstaff: 

Flagstaff Tried to Kill Me and I Still Love It

November 8, 2025

It was moving day again, which means we pack up, drive an hour or so, and settle down again somewhere new. This time: Flagstaff, Arizona—a town I can actually imagine relocating to. 

Flagstaff has seasons, which is rare in Arizona.  There are pine trees everywhere, the air smells like Christmas, and the bike trails are amazing. The weather is perfectly engineered: when it gets too cold and snowy, you simply drive a few hours south to Sedona or Phoenix and thaw yourself like a frozen Trader Joe’s burrito. And the best part? No baking yourself alive in the Arizona heat because Flagstaff has temperate summers.

Of course, we hopped on a paved trail and cruised along, then veered onto a dirt path through a pine forest, then somehow wound up biking across Northern Arizona University's campus like two middle-aged impostors trying to blend in with undergrads. Then we rolled right into town, where I very abruptly ended my ride several miles early by getting hit by a Suburban.

Yes. Hit by a Suburban.

Before you worry: I’m fine! No broken bones, no head injury, just some spectacular bruises and a wounded ego that may never fully recover. The bike, however, did not survive the emotional or physical trauma and is currently retired from active duty.

Naturally, George and I got into a fight afterward. Not because I got hit by a car—that part we handled fine. We fought because we couldn’t agree whose fault it was, which was really just the stress of the moment exhibiting itself. I blamed myself. George blamed the driver. So, for your entertainment, here’s the breakdown so you can play “Judge Judy: Cycling Edition.”

• Two lanes each way.

• Big median in the middle.

• Crosswalk with a pedestrian signal I definitely did not use.

• A Suburban stopped at a red light.

• I thought I had time (a poor decision in retrospect).

• I made eye contact with the first car.

• I thought I made eye contact with the Suburban. Spoiler: I did not.

• Light turned green while I was in front of said Suburban.

• Screeching brakes.

• Me and my bike arranged on the pavement like a modern art piece titled Gravity Wins.

George’s take: You were in the crosswalk. Driver has to look. Period.
My take: I was a rogue pedestrian ignoring the signal and vibing in the middle of the road when the light turned green.

Honestly, it feels like a group project where everyone deserves at least a C–. 

To add to the drama, the driver turned out to be an off-duty police officer. He strongly recommended I file a police report—probably the first time anyone’s ever been encouraged to call the cops by the person who hit them. Then he gave me and my sad, bent bike a ride back to my car. George had to bike back solo, and honestly, I was a little jealous—he still got to pedal while I was stuck riding shotgun with my accidental bumper buddy.

But all’s well that ends well. I walked away. The driver walked away. The bike… well, the bike limped away. And Flagstaff? Still my favorite Arizona town—though next time I’d prefer my tour of the city not include being launched off a bumper. 

Every story has a soundtrack. This one highlights my accident: