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!
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