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.
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