A Knock in the Night From the Cops

 January 19 - 20, 2026

We left Laredo early in the day to drive to Bentsen State Park, which is a world-renowned birding destination. Like, over 350 species of birds and 250 species of butterflies world-renowned. In my defense, I did not yet realize that basically the entire Gulf Coast is one big competitive bird flex, so at the time I thought we had arrived at the Disneyland of birds.

Reality check: we saw 12 bird types. Twelve. Some butterflies (no idea how many, they refused to line up for a headcount), a javelina, and a squirrel—because of course there’s always a squirrel. Somewhere in that park were the other 338 bird types, but we couldn't find them being the amateurs that we were. At one point, we were hiking along one of the trails doing the full cartoon sneak: tiptoeing, holding our breath, and trying not to make any noise. We saw nothing. Not a feather. Not a twitch. It was honestly comical. 

At one bird blind, we rolled up to a group of people being incredibly loud. They let us know, loudly, that there were no birds. And then—this will shock no one—they left, and several birds immediately came back. 

Weirdly? Bird hunting (without guns) is fun. Who knew. Not me. I think I could be turning into a bird person. 

The bird park actually allowed and encouraged biking, which of couse we loved. Eight miles of bikeable, car-free roads. After we exhausted the park roads, we biked outside the park to pad our mileage. The surrounding area was a very nice retirement community. Older people were everywhere. On e-bikes. Flying past us like, “Outta the way, kids.” Nothing quite like questionable balance, fading eyesight, and electric-assisted speed to keep life exciting. Interstingly, the majority of people on e-bikes don't wear helmets. 

Also interesting: the border wall here isn’t even on the border. It’s just… between us and us. Naturally, we took photos of ourselves hanging out at the wall because what else do you do? Border Patrol drove by and looked at us like we were nuts, but clearly not a threat.

We didn’t make it as far as planned that day—too much bird skulking—so we figured we’d stay at a rest stop. LOL. Texas rest stops are not rest stops. They’re basically an off-ramp that politely suggests you nap while traffic screams past your face at 80 mph. Hard pass. But shout-out to Bass Pro Shop in Harlingen, TX, for having a massive parking lot and being just far enough from the highway to not feel like sleeping inside a jet engine. 

The next morning, we headed to South Padre Island. In the Walmart parking lot, after we did our grocery shopping, we met a woman whose dad was born in Louisiana and who herself was born and raised in Brownsville, TX. Definately an American citizen. Yet I would’ve sworn she was straight from Mexico. She had a thick accent and struggled to find English equivalents for many words.  Border towns are wild. Apparently, you can go through the U.S. public school system and come out sounding like you were raised in another country. I guess culture does not care about walls or paperwork.

We were only planning to spend a few days on the Gulf of Mexico—or the Gulf of America, depending on who you’re trying to annoy—but winter storm Fern had other plans. Remember: no tank heaters. Our next stop was Austin to visit George's old college buddy, but it was literally freezing there. So we were going to be stuck on South Padre Island for at least a week. Tragic, I know. We were suffering deeply. On the beach.

We camped at the “end of the road” on South Padre Island. A spot we were not entirely sure was legal. The internet said people camp there. The internet also lies a lot. When we arrived, there were zero RVs, which is not usually a good sign if you’re trying to justify legality through what other people are doing.

We worked a bit, then went for a sunset walk on the beach. Beautiful. Peaceful. And then the sun went down, the day trippers vanished, and the vibe became a little creepy.

The only other vehicle parked at "the end of the road" was an old van. It looked like a full-on chimo van. (If you don’t know what that is, read my book Cheaper by the Half Dozen, Plus One.) 

Then two cars showed up, revving their engines like they were about to drag race in the dark, tail lights glowing ominously. They didn’t—because another car showed up and scared them off—but still. Not relaxing.

Then, just as we crawled into bed, there was a loud knock on the chimo van’s door and the announcement: “POLICE.”

This gave George just enough time to put clothes on before they knocked on our door next. The officer was actually super nice—no power trip, no drama. He explained that the county changed the rules last year because the area had turned into a campground.

Of course it had. Who wouldn't want to camp for free at the end of the road next to the beach. 

So at 9:30 at night, we packed up and moved into city limits, where ordinances say you can park in any public parking spot for 24 hours. Note: park does not mean camp, so we did not unhook, deploy stabilizers, or breathe too loudly. No need to draw attention to ourselves.

Morning came. I heard a car pull up beside us and cautiously peeked through the blinds. It was the police again. They didn't knock this time, but they were writing something in a notebook. Nope. Absolutely not. After they left, I woke George up and we fled like bandits before anyone could return with a ticket book or a tow truck.

South Padre Island, it turns out, is not super friendly to free RVing—or paid RVing, unless you reserved months ago or feel like driving your house into sand.

So we regrouped and headed to Brownsville, Texas. Onward. Or in this case, backwards, but as you will see in my future posts it turned out beautifully.