I Only Had to Bike Faster Than Her: A Love Story

 January 17–18, 2026

We broke camp and pointed the rig toward Laredo, Texas, with a stop in Eagle Pass because apparently we can’t just drive somewhere without getting distracted by roadside attractions like the local flea market.

If you’ve never been to a flea market on the border, imagine loud music, the smell of tacos in the air, lots of junk, and zero price tags. It reminded me of the flea market in Pasco. I’m convinced flea markets are the Mexican version of the current thrifting trend, except they’ve been doing it forever and without the Instagram smugness.

George and I stood out immediately as the only white people, glowing like uncooked tortillas. George asked a vendor how much a small Swiss Army knife cost. The vendor told him—but not before complimenting my Cotopaxi coat and La Sportiva shoes, both of which retail north of $100 each. I’m pretty sure this was his polite way of saying, You are not the people who should be haggling with me.

What he doesn’t know is that my La Sportivas were brand new from Goodwill for $12. We did not haggle, and we did not buy the knife. 

Eventually we made it to Casa Blanca Lake State Park in Laredo. Since free camping that isn't 2 feet from a busy highway is only a myth in Texas, state parks are the next cheapest option, so we bought a Texas State Park pass. It waives entry fees and makes us feel fiscally responsible, which is important when you live in a rolling closet.

We set up camp and immediately left—our favorite move—on a bike ride. The park had a mix of smooth, rock-free trails and some absolutely unhinged, homemade mountain bike trails that looked like someone built them with spare lumber, old concrete, and no liability insurance. We rode both. We saw deer, javelina, and even some big pink birds. 

Right after the pink birds, we hit a dead end marked Private Property. We rode just far enough in to turn around, which is when a very large dog spotted us from a porch about 100 yards away and chose violence.

That dog came flying.

I biked faster than I ever have in my life. Olympic-level panic pedaling. George later confessed that the thought crossed his mind—completely unbidden, of course—that he only had to bike faster than me. Chivalry is dead, folks. This tracks, since on a previous ride I stopped to fix something and George biked at least half a mile before realizing I was no longer behind him. 

Back at camp, we debuted our new sewer hose. The old one had cracks in it—don’t think about that too hard. The new one is fancy, with a clear elbow that screws into the sewer hookup. The first time we used it, it was disturbingly satisfying to watch everything flow through. Then we flushed the tank with clean water and watched it come back crystal clear. Reader, this is what brings you joy when you’re full-time road tripping. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

Every site here has sewer hookups, which is a luxury we are not used to. By the time we leave Texas, I suspect we’ll be fully addicted to long showers and washing dishes with reckless abandon.

The next day we went to church. It was a very small ward—about 30 people when the meeting started, closer to 50 by the end. Afterward, we made a quick lunch: Costco chicken noodle soup that was… tangy. Because it was starting to go bad. Meanwhile, all around us, Mexican families were grilling the most incredible-smelling meats imaginable. Life can be cruel and deeply unfair.

We went out for another bike ride, hitting trails we’d missed the day before. It started with a narrow, rustic single track that felt like it had been carved out by someone with a shovel and a dream. There was a section under an overpass where you had to ride on slanted concrete, which gave me flashbacks to riding the white line in Sedona (see prior post for details).

From there we hopped onto a paved bike path that was so decrepit it felt more like an archaeological site. Crumbling concrete, uneven pavement, and grass growing through cracks that felt like riding over rocks. Honestly, it matched the town.

At one point we came across what must have once been a beautiful park: a pedestrian bridge spanning a creek, palm trees lining the banks. Now the bridge has no sides, the stairs are crumbling, and there was a shopping cart in the stream. Very post-apocalyptic and completely abandoned. 

After the ride, we talked to most of our kids—always the best part of the week. Then George replaced my bike handlebars, which have been bent ever since I got hit by a car in Flagstaff. Casual mention. Totally fine.

We ended the day by going through all the junk we’ve accumulated—or brought on this trip thinking we’d use it—and made a Goodwill bag. It’s amazing how even in a trailer, clutter multiplies like it’s on a mission. I do have a daily cleaning routine—bed made, rugs shaken outside, vinyl floors vacuumed, dirty clothes wrangled—but dirt, lint, and mystery debris still collect in drawers and shelves just like at home. So I did a deeper clean too.

All in all, a productive couple of days: cultural immersion, biking a 10-year-old boys dream trail, questionable soup, and the pure joy of a clear sewer hose. I'll say it again—living the dream!

A Museum Stuck in 1954

January 14 - 16, 2026

We pointed the camper toward Laredo, Texas and made a pit stop at Seminole State Park, because at least to us, nothing says “road trip fun” like learning history. 

The exhibit there was… how shall I put this… aggressively old-school in its vocabulary. Like blink twice and check the date old-school. The word negro appeared repeatedly, which is—let’s just say—very taboo in some circles now. To his credit, the ranger gave us a heads-up before we went in, gently explaining that the exhibit was old old, and then quickly pivoted to the good news: a major renovation is scheduled to start in summer 2026. Translation: “Please don’t yell at us, we know, and help is on the way.” 

The short version (and actually important history, once you get past the museum’s outdated signage): enslaved people escaped to Florida, mixed with the Seminole Indians, became known as Negro Seminoles, migrated to Texas, got threatened with re-enslavement thanks to the Indian Removal Act, fled to Mexico, then were later invited back by the U.S. Army to guard the border from Apaches. The Army promised them land. Spoiler alert: we did not deliver. Classic America—“Thanks for your service, please enjoy this complimentary betrayal.”

That night we camped at Amistad National Recreation Area, which is so pretty it feels fake. The water is that unreal turquoise color usually reserved for Photoshop filters. 

In the afternoon, we headed into Del Rio. George worked at the library while I did laundry—our version of a hot date. On the way back to camp, George spotted a sign for Rudy’s Bar-B-Q and immediately suggested we eat there for date night. So we followed the signs and found ourselves at a place that was:

• Packed
• Cafeteria-style
• Picnic tables everywhere
• Live music
• VERY loud live music
• People dancing

And also… a gas station.

Not a gas station with food. A barbecue joint that just happened to sell gasoline on the side, like, “Oh, and while you’re here getting brisket, you may as well top off your tank.” The priorities were clear.

One thing we noticed in Del Rio is that Mexicans and white people seem to coexist just fine. About a third of the cars at Walmart had Mexican plates. Nobody seemed panicked or hiding from ICE and most of the border patrol agents are of Mexican descent. Yes, Del Rio is a major hub for drug trafficking—but shockingly, that does not mean every Mexican you meet is a cartel kingpin. Imagine that: nuance.

The next day we biked around Amistad and rode out to an overlook of the international dam, built jointly with Mexico to prevent flooding and loss of life. Cooperation! Logic! Adults working together! I found this wildly refreshing. Just like the economic relationship between Del Rio and its sister city, Ciudad Acuña. Acuña handles the factories, Del Rio handles shipping and distribution, and both cities cooperated to build the international bridge that keeps the whole operation moving. Functional cross-border collaboration? Who knew that was even allowed.

 

That afternoon, it was back to the library for more work. On the way home, we finally washed the car. It was so filthy from our muddy bentonite adventure that I was deeply ashamed to be seen in public. It was a drive-through wash, so now the car is no longer offensively dirty—just mildly dirty. Progress.

Our final day near Del Rio was spent working all day in the camper because we have a discovery deadline. But! We splurged on battery power and made scalloped potatoes in the Instant Pot. They were phenomenal. Creamy, indulgent, and absolutely worth every watt-hour.

For date night, we went to the movies and saw the only film playing early enough for us ancient people who like to be home and horizontal by 9 or 10. It was the perfect ending: history, barbecue gas stations, international cooperation, clean-ish car, excellent potatoes, and a movie before bedtime.

Living the dream.

Hidden Mexican Contraband

January 10-13, 2026: 

Today came with more High Wind Advisories, specifically calling out RVers and low-flying aircraft, which felt pointed. Regardless, we decided 7 a.m. was the correct time to flee toward New Mexico, with our sights set on Big Bend National Park. Actually—correction—we didn’t decide anything. We were forced to leave because the weather was turning and it was going to freeze that night. And while a toilet pump that won’t work because of dead batteries is annoying-but-manageable, a cracked black tank is a whole different sport. One you don’t want to play. Ever. Two days ago, in this same area, I was biking in a T-shirt. Today, as we pulled out, it was snowing. 

This would be our longest drive yet: six hours south to Presidio. Overnight low? A balmy 34 degrees. Just warm enough to keep our plumbing alive, which is the bar we’re operating under. 

First stop: back to El Paso to return the hydrogen-producing batteries that were actively plotting our demise. I stayed in the car so George could throw me under the bus in peace. He opened with, “You’re married, right? So you know how when your wife…”

Reader, I took the hit. I blog about him constantly and he doesn’t complain. Though I do usually let him preview the particularly inflammatory posts and veto them if he wants. This was apparently payback.

Oh, and we fixed our second windshield chip of the trip. The first time we went with a big company and paid $175. This time, a small local place charged $55. Same windshield, same kind of chip. Lesson learned: when it comes to rock chips, national chains are rip offs.

After errands, we rolled into our $10 campsite outside Presidio. This marks the second weird campground of the trip. You know the type: someone owns land, decides to make a campground, but declines to invest in infrastructure. The vibe is very “figure it out yourself.” 

Presidio bills itself as the oldest continuously cultivated farmland in North America, proudly sporting a sign that reads “Established 1683.” Small towns really have to reach deep into history to feel special. Respect.

We hit Presidio’s one tourist attraction: Fort Leaton. It was the worst docent-led tour we’ve ever had…until it became the sweetest. The guide was a high-school kid with a thick Mexican accent who barely spoke English and was clearly doing his best. The fort itself is basically an old ruin once occupied by terrible white guys. The guy who built it got killed by another white guy, who then kicked out the dead guy’s wife and kids and moved in. Then he got killed. Rinse and repeat. History!

After that, we continued toward Big Bend, but first driving through Big Bend Ranch State Park. Everything out here hugs the Mexican border. Interestingly, there’s no wall—just the Rio Grande, which is neither particularly grand nor particularly intimidating anymore, thanks to agriculture siphoning off most of the water. Anyone could stroll across. 

 

Big Bend Ranch State Park was beautiful in its own way—lots of pink. Pink prickly pear, pink rocks, pink dirt. I like pink. Nature knows this.

We’ve also been seeing a surprising number of very tiny “international airports.” Apparently, if you fly between here and Mexico, congratulations—you’re international.

We ended the day at another paid campground outside Big Bend. Another one that was trying its best. We made meatball subs for dinner and then jumped in the car to do a preview of the scenic drive through Big Bend National Park in the waning twilight before bedtime. 

The next morning we got up before the sun. Our destination: Santa Elena Canyon. The canyon walls rise about 1,500 feet straight up on either side of the Rio Grande. One wall is Mexico. The other is the United States. It’s dramatic and beautiful.

After that we did the scenic drive again, this time in daylight, and stopped at everything. Every exhibit. Every short hike. Every viewpoint. Every ruin. The park has a surprisingly cool history of farming, ranching, mining, and military activity. It’s quiet and remote now, but in the early 1900s it was apparently hopping. One of the ruins had a really cool chimney made of petrified wood. We also spent some time playing amateur sleuths, confidently misidentifying animal tracks and congratulating ourselves anyway.

At one point, we had fun straddling the border between Mexico and the United States and taking silly pictures. 

Big Bend was not what I expected. I always imagined mountains and pine trees. There are mountains, but trees? Not really. It’s another flavor of desert. Still beautiful. Just…less Christmas card.

Then it rained. All night. And all the next day. Which was unfortunate, because we were planning a very unique Mexico crossing. Apparently, on a good day, you can wade across the river or pay a guy to row you over to the tiny town of Boquillas, which exists solely for tourists. From there, you pay for a burro to take you into town, eat tacos, and buy trinkets. The National Park Service runs the crossing, so passports are required, which feels both official and slightly absurd given the boat and burro situation.

We didn’t go. One, rainy days are good work days. Two, the camp host came by to warn us we might not be able to get our camper out of the campground. Remember how the campground was “rustic”? Turns out the roads are dirt mixed with bentonite clay. When it gets wet, it sticks to everything and turns into industrial-grade slime. The exit involves a steep dirt hill leading up to a two-lane highway. Confidence was low. So we stayed an extra night, hoping things would dry out. 

The rain stopped that evening, and the next morning we made our escape. The ground was still muddy and sticky, so to get up the hill we had to absolutely gun it. I stood on the highway scouting traffic while George prepared to launch the camper like a rocket. I yelled when to go. He trusted me. That’s marriage.

Once we hit pavement, the two inches of mud caked onto our tires spun off immediately—right onto the front of the camper. Art.

We’d actually reserved a campsite on the other side of the park but couldn’t use it because we were trapped in Mudtopia. Still, we drove over to use the dump because we’d paid for it and dang if we’re getting our money’s worth. We hosed off as much mud as possible, whether that was allowed or not. The camper still looked like it had lost a fight with the earth.

After that, we drove to the border crossing we’d missed, just to see it. It’s only open Friday through Monday, and of course it was Tuesday. We still got the flavor of it because Mexicans cross the river and set up little “stores” on the U.S. side. No one mans them. It’s all honor system—goods sitting on the ground, prices taped on, cans for money. Shockingly wholesome for something that is technically contraband and explicitly mentioned as such in the park newsletter with the threat of confiscation if you buy anything. I hid our contraband in our clothes buckets. Shhh, don't tell. 

At the overlook above Boquillas, there were several of these "stores." A guy sitting on the Mexican side of the river saw George browsing and hollered over, directing him to his store. George respects hustle, so he bought something from Carlos. Capitalism wins again.

We then walked the Boquillas Canyon trail, which also featured plenty of contraband, plus Mexican guys on horseback selling tamales, empanadas, and tortillas. George bought some which he will have to eat all by himself. Because I, on the other hand, am deeply self-aware and know that I struggle at potlucks—so trailside food with zero quality control was never going to be my moment.

On the way out, we pulled out the binoculars to look at the town and noticed a bunch of burros grazing on the U.S. side. No idea if they were wild or just freelancing.

Next stop: the hot springs. The road was closed due to flooding, so most people hiked in. We biked it. A ranger had told us we couldn’t bike to the hot springs, but the newsletter and website said bikes were allowed on roads. This was technically a road, even though it was being treated like a trail. That's how we justified our decision with confidence.

We soaked in the hot springs—thankfully bathing suits are required, according to the newsletter—and read about the historic ruins. Then we headed out of the park toward our next destination.

Since Texas doesn’t have BLM land, we were prepared to try our first-ever rest stop camping. It was late when we rolled into Langtry, a very small town in the middle of nowhere, and pulled into the Travel Center. There was no parking spots to fit an RV. None. Zero. Plan A died immediately.

As I frantically studied the map to avert a full meltdown—because it was dark, late, and we were tired and hungry—I clicked on the local community center. Reviews popped up: $5 dry camping in the vacant lot.

Reader, I have never loved a community center more.

We drove two blocks and parked for the night in a big dirt field that also served as the center's parking lot and a shortcut for locals. The Langtry Community Center saved our bacon. And possibly our marriage. 

The Second Windiest Place in the United States (hint: it's not the Tri-Cities like I thought it would be)

 January 6 – 9, 2026

We started the day sleeping in until 8 a.m., resting our sick, tissue-dependent bodies. Eventually, we rallied and headed to Carlsbad Caverns National Park, which—credit where credit is due—is absolutely mind-blowing. You can get down into the caverns one of two ways:

1. Take an elevator straight down a terrifyingly long shaft equivalent to the height of the Empire State Building, or

2. Hike a steep 1¾ miles down, dropping about 800 feet into the earth like a cave goblin.

Obviously, we chose the hike. Because if you’re already sick, you might as well add leg destruction to the mix.

Once at the bottom, there’s another 1¼-mile scenic loop that’s mostly flat and full of amazing rock formations that look like bacon and organs you don’t want to Google. The history is fascinating, and George announced he will never look at a hill the same way again, now knowing there could be an entire underground world lurking directly beneath his feet. 

By the end of the loop, however, neither of us had the physical or emotional strength to hike 800 feet back up. So I bravely suppressed my fear, got into the elevator, and spent the entire ride up praying it wouldn’t break down or snap its cable. Good news: it did none of those things. 

On the drive back to camp, the road was mostly downhill, which meant George coasted the entire way like a smug child who just learned what momentum is. At one point he was going about 5 mph, and the person behind us was not thrilled. 

Back in the tiny entry town, we stopped at the only store and bought a criminally overpriced box of Kleenex. We were desperate and had already blown through the two boxes we had. Illness respects no budget.

The next morning, we worked for a bit and then—despite still being sick—decided to go for a bike ride. Maybe we could sweat the sickness out of us. We hadn’t ridden since before Christmas, so clearly a casual re-entry was justified. Yet I was determined to make it to the Slaughter Canyon Cave trailhead, a mere 24 mile round trip ride. The national park has 119 caves, but you can only actually go into two—Carlsbad cavern and Slaugher Canyon Cave. 

Slaughter Canyon requires a ranger escort, and technically the cave was closed due to flood damage, but that didn’t matter. I like destinations, even if they’re closed.

I’m confident this was the hardest ride of my life. The entire way out was a slight uphill straight into an unhinged wind and the last mile and a half was off-road on thick gravel, which felt rude. But we made it. The entire time, I prayed the wind wouldn’t die down, because I was counting on it to blow me all the way back to the camper. The wind delivered. I don't think I would have made it otherwise. We got home in half the time it took to get there. 

That night, we made friends with our neighboring campers. The guy looked strikingly like my Uncle Don. Naturally, I pulled a photo from his wife’s Instagram and made a “Find the Imposter” collage for my family. 

That night the wind cranked itself up even more and it poured rain. The camper shook and rattled all night like we were in a disaster movie. Sleep was challenging. On top of that, I lay there wide awake worrying about how we were even going to get out of there, since there were road warnings for high-profile vehicles—which, in case anyone was unclear, is exactly what we are.

The next morning, despite being tired, we drove into Guadalupe Mountains National Park, just a few miles away. It’s one of the least visited national parks, which is a shame because it’s actually very cool. It has the four highest peaks in Texas and the world’s most extensive Permian fossil reef—aka: this place used to be underwater, got buried, then shoved up into mountains and now all the rocks contain fossils. 

There’s no scenic drive here. You have to hike it. Unfortunately, the day we chose had 60 mph winds, a temperature of 40°F, and a killer wind chill. At the visitor center, we learned this is the second windiest place in the United States. And to think I thought that title belonged to the Tri-Cities.

Dark storm clouds wrapped the mountaintops like a threat. The ranger didn’t seem concerned, though, so after some hemming and hawing, we went for it. Four layers, hats, gloves—all the winter apparel.

Our hike was the Devil's Hall, a five-mile adventure. The first mile was easy peasy. After that, we were in a wash full of giant boulders you had to climb over, around, and through. It ended with a very cool staircase into a slot canyon, and honestly, it was incredible. Totally worth freezing our faces off.

At the end, George had the terrible idea to bushwhack up the mountainside to connect to another trail so we could see the park’s famous arch. There was absolutely no universe where that was a good idea. The fact that I talked him out of it so easily told me he knew that too.

Fortunately, on the hike back, I spotted the arch from afar. Then again from another angle. George was thrilled. Crisis averted. Marriage intact.

All in all, another great stop on our travel adventure.

How We Barely Missed Exploding Like the Hindenburg

January 3 – 5, 2026

We rolled out of Columbus, New Mexico and pointed the camper toward El Paso, Texas following a lonely border road where Trump’s wall slithered alongside us for miles and miles. Eventually, we crossed into Texas.

We set up camp at Franklin Mountains State Park in El Paso where I immediately took a nap because I felt that sick. For the record, I am not a napper. I am a “power through and complain” person. This was a medical-grade nap. The kind where your body overrides your personality.

After my miraculously refeshing nap, I felt decent enough to rejoin society, so we went sightseeing at Chamizal National Memorial, which is wildly fascinating—especially if, like me, you’ve spent your entire life in Washington blissfully unaware of all the border drama we've had with Mexico over the years.

Here’s the quick and dirty version: back in 1848, the U.S. and Mexico agreed that the middle of the Rio Grande would be the border. Solid plan, except rivers are chaos noodles. The Rio Grande kept creeping north, and for the next hundred years nobody could quite agree on what land belonged to whom. Naturally, we just went ahead and claimed it, because that’s kind of our brand. This caused… tension.

In the 1960s, John F. Kennedy finally decided to compromise which resulted in a fixed concrete channel that wouldn’t move and a land compromise—some for us, some for Mexico. Entire U.S. neighborhoods were relocated. Of course, Kennedy's compromise was totally strategically motivated because it was the Cold War and we were trying to make sure Mexico didn’t cozy up to Russia. Altruism, with a geopolitical twist. I LOVE HISTORY.

After that uplifting lesson in international relations, we headed to the sketchy side of town to do laundry, because laundromats are always on the sketchy side of town. This is a universal truth. If you feel completely safe and well-lit, you’re probably at a Starbucks, not a laundromat.

Then it was back to the camper because I needed sleep again. And that’s when our batteries officially died. Not “dim lights” dead. Not “phones won’t charge” dead. But toilet pump won’t work dead.

Friends, it's not pretty when the toilet pump doesn’t work. 

Sunday arrived and—miracle of miracles—I was starting to feel better. Not better-better, but improved. I’d gone from a solid 12 out of 10 sick down to a respectable 8 out of 10, which still puts me squarely in the “visibly contagious” category. So we skipped church. I was not about to sit there coughing, croaking, and silently mouthing hymns like a haunted frog while also infecting everyone within a three-pew radius.

Instead, we broke camp and headed back into New Mexico, ultimately aiming for Carlsbad Caverns National Park later in the week. And no, this was not backtracking. This is just geography being weird. New Mexico is west of Texas and north of Texas.

Before escaping the city, however, we had to get our ox out of the mire—by which I mean: buy new camper batteries. On a Sunday. We needed AGM batteries, which for the non–battery-obsessed among you are sealed and don’t casually burp hydrogen gas into your sleeping area. Hydrogen gas is extremely explosive. Think Hindenburg disaster, but with pajamas.

Regular lead-acid batteries can work, but only if they’re sealed off, vented properly, and kept far away from flames, sparks, pilot lights, etc. Guess what no one in the entire city carried? AGM batteries. You could order them, sure, if you had several days and didn’t mind living without a toilet pump.

So we examined our battery compartment, noticed a big round vent in the floor, and collectively said, “This seems… probably fine” and bought lead-acid batteries. We installed them in the parking lot, which required tearing apart the bed and then putting it back together again. Once everything was back together we drove on to a truly lovely BLM campground just outside Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

That wasn't sarcasm. This place was nice. Developed. Clearly defined sites. Each one had a shelter, a picnic table, and a grill. There was even trash service, which in BLM terms is basically a five-star amenity. A striking difference from our BLM homeless camp in Tucson. 

But the best part? It was still free. We’re trying to enjoy the free aspect of BLM land while we still can—because Texas does not do BLM land.

Something about sovereignty. Which is Texas-speak for: “This land is private, that land is private, that other land is also private, and you may admire it briefly while driving past at 75 mph.” But hey, they do allow you to sleep in your car at rest stops. So that's something. 

Anyway, we are savoring every free, legal, night like it’s a limited-time offer—because once you cross into Texas, camping suddenly comes with a nightly rate.

That night, I did not sleep. Why? Because I started reading about lead-acid batteries and learned that hydrogen gas is lighter than oxygen, meaning it rises. Meaning you need a vent at the top of the battery compartment too. Not just on the bottom. We could only remember there being a floor vent.

Oh, and did I mention the hot water heater with an active pilot light lived right next door to the batteries? And that nothing was sealed all that well? FUN DETAILS.

It was around 11 p.m. when I gently shared these discoveries with George. This did not go well because George gets a little grumpy when he's tired, not to mention there was nothing we could do at that hour. After snipping at me for not speaking up before we bought the batteries and tore the bed apart and installed them, George promptly fell asleep while I lay there hoping we survived until morning. 

Then the wind started. Not “rustling leaves” wind. More like almost a hurricane wind. The kind that will rip a camper hatch clean off the camper and relocate it to another zip code.

Now, our manual says you should always crack the hatch at night for proper ventilation. I took this to mean so we'd have enough oxygen. But with the wind the way it was, we had to keep it closed. Consequently,  I was fairly certain if we didn't blow up from leaking hydrogen, we were surely going to die of oxygen deprivation. 

I was exhausted. And when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep—instead I mentally rehearse every possible way we can die at that moment, in high definition, with footnotes. So naturally, I was also worried about the refrigerator pilot light blowing out and leaking propane, which could cause also cause an explosion. Or asphyxiation. Or both. But hey, at least I don't get grumpy like some people. 

Well, we survived the night. Which is both unfortunate and fortunate. Unfortunate because George can say, "See? I told you we'd be fine." But fortunate because we're alive. 

We went to the library in the town of Carlsbad to get some work done. However, George first tasked me to find the correct AGM batteries since, after all, I was the one convinced we were one spark away from reenacting the Hindenburg.

Against all odds, I actually found them. Only problem? They were an hour’s drive away. So while George worked, I set off on a solo battery pilgrimage, fully prepared to justify the extra expense for the rest of our lives.

At the end of the day, as we drove back to our BLM camp near Carlsbad Caverns National Park, I was deeply stressed that the camper might have blown up while we were gone.

Good news: it had not. Bad news: I got to tear apart the bed again so George could remove the lead-acid batteries and install the AGMs. At this point, I could disassemble that bed in total darkness, during a windstorm, while emotionally compromised.

And here’s the kicker: once the batteries were out, we discovered a second vent at the top of the compartment. One we had somehow completely missed before. So technically? The venting was correct all along.

HOWEVER.

The compartment still wasn’t fully sealed, and the hot water heater’s pilot light was still right next door. And George was officially done listening to my 11 p.m. death scenarios. So yes, it was still the right  move to get the AGM batteries. Even if they cost twice as much.

It was a very long day and we are now both sick, which is especially fun in a tiny camper where there is no couch to banish the worst cougher to. Instead, we’re both propped up in bed, surrounded by every pillow we own, trying to breathe.

But look on the bright side:

We’re miserable.
We’re exhausted.
We’re coughing in stereo.

But at least we aren’t going to explode.

The Long Way Out of Arizona

December 31, 2025 to January 2, 2026: 

I felt better today, which—spoiler alert—turned out to be the eye of the storm. Still, spirits were high as we headed out of Arizona with plans to stop at Kartchner Caverns, plus the towns of Tombstone and Bisbee. What could possibly go wrong?

Kartchner Caverns was genuinely amazing. We went on a guided cave tour that involved four separate air locks, all designed to protect the cave from drying out. Then—because caves are apparently very sensitive—we were lightly misted to keep our lint from falling off our bodies and blanketing the cave like some kind of sweater apocalypse.

Immediately after our lint misting, George began blowing his nose. Repeatedly. With an aggressively linty tissue. Oops.

Despite this, the cave was absolutely pristine, with dramatic formations. Except for one very large pile of 45,000-year-old bat guano sitting right next to the tour path. Apparently that is okay to leave behind. Lint? Unacceptable. Ancient bat poop? Museum-quality artifact. After the tour, we emerged blinking into the sunlight, feeling cultured, slightly damp, and only mildly responsible for the slow destruction of a protected natural wonder. 

After the caverns, we stopped at Fairbanks Ghost Town, which had some interesting history and absolutely zero interest in pretending it was still alive. Then we headed to Tombstone for the night.

Tombstone is an old town that has fully leaned into its Wild West past in a deliberate effort not to become Fairbanks. The result is a carefully curated version of the Old West, right down to the streets—which look dusty and rugged but are, in fact, concrete with dirt sprinkled on top like seasoning. Authentic vibes, modern infrastructure.

We biked and walked around town, taking it all in. If you have ever been to Deadwood, Tombstone will be a letdown. Deadwood is gritty. Tombstone is cosplay, though its history is still very interesting.

We stopped into Big Nose Kate’s Saloon and sat at the bar like real outlaws… and ordered two sarsaparillas. They tasted like rust, which I assume means the bottles had time to age naturally beneath their caps. Apparently not many people wander into a saloon and order sarsaparilla. Lesson learned.

While there, we got our free Old West photo taken and listened to live music before the town officially shut down around 5:15 p.m. Not quite like the “Wild West” of old.

To celebrate New Year’s Eve, we returned to the camper for hot cocoa, microwave popcorn, and the movie Tombstone, all about the O.K. Corral shootout—featuring Doc Holliday and the Earp brothers taking down the infamous Cowboy Gang.

I also lit my new Christmas candle because the camper batteries were officially dying, and once the sun goes down, everything becomes flashlight-based. Candlelight felt festive. Also necessary.

The movie itself was pretty good, but I ruined it immediately afterward by reading Wikipedia. Turns out Wyatt Earp wasn’t exactly a hero. Even though he was techinally a lawman, he also had four common-law wives (at different times) and ran several brothels. Same with Doc Holliday. History is complicated. Hollywood is generous.

We retired long before midnight and listened to it rain all night. Too bad we left our shoes outside.

On New Year’s Day, we continued out of Arizona, stopping in Bisbee. Bisbee is apparently the gayest town in the United States—and I do not mean happy. It has strong San Francisco energy, except miniaturized and dropped into the middle of nowhere. Many of the streets don’t allow car access to individual homes; instead, you climb anywhere from three to eight flights of stairs. Imagine being the pizza delivery driver. Or just… living there. 

We checked out the massive old copper pit mine just outside town and read about its history, then drove on to Chiricahua National Monument. The monument features a steep six-mile scenic drive leading to a wonderland of hoodoos and balanced rocks. There was a short one-mile hike I really wanted to do, but by then my illness had returned with a vengeance and absolutely vetoed that plan.

  

When George said he wanted to bike back down to the bottom, while I drove, I let him go. Normally I’d cry “unfair,” but I was so sick I didn’t even want to bike. On my drive down, I saw a coati for the first time, which felt like a consolation prize.

We drove onward and finally entered New Mexico. We’ve barely scratched the surface of Arizona, so we’ll absolutely be back.

That night we stayed at Pancho Villa State Park, a border town near Mexico. The park is named after Pancho Villa, who once invaded and ransacked the U.S. town of Columbus, killing civilians and soldiers. Apparently, naming the park after him was meant to show goodwill and  our “continuing friendly relations with Mexico." I'm still shaking my head at that one and wondering how it escaped the modern canceling trend. 

I woke up the next morning—or possibly never slept at all—feeling like a ball of misery. You know the feeling: head, ears, neck, and teeth all hurt. Lips painfully chapped because mouth-breathing is now your personality. Chest on fire every time you cough up whatever horror settled in overnight. Add in completely failing camper batteries, forcing us to live by flashlight after dark.

Yeah. That was me.

Despite all this, and because I hate resting, we got up and explored the historical exhibits at the park. Did you know Pancho Villa’s 1916 raid was the last foreign incursion on U.S. soil? Or that Germany encouraged Mexico to distract the U.S. while they prepared to attack our allies by submarine during World War I? Very educational.

After that, we walked across the border into Puerto Palomas. This was especially interesting to us because we have a white neighbor whose family comes from an old LDS colony in Mexico called Colonia Dublán, and this is where they always cross when visiting home.

Honestly, Puerto Palomas was the nicest Mexican border town we’ve seen so far. Small, calm, Christmas decorations still up, and a sign that matched the one in Columbus. It felt peaceful. Which was nice, because I felt like absolute garbage.