Scampin

We left Big Sur and drove towards Samuel P Taylor State Park, north of San Francisco. The redwoods slowly receded back to the flat, rolling hills dotted with cows, and we watched them graze in the breeze, the Pacific Ocean as their backdrop.

We stopped to walk the beach with Emmy, wading in the river. Off in the distance we could see Point Sur Lighthouse, which stands on a volcanic rock and is still used to guide ships on the Central California Coast.

We were at a stoplight, deep in traffic, with endless rows of Full House-looking houses on either side when I saw it. Two orange bars sticking up above the trees, far in the distance. My stomach fluttered. I looked around at the bored looking drivers next to us, checking their phones and alternately looking miserable, and I thought don’t you see it? Are you not excited? Look, look around you!

It was yet another example of how living is still living, no matter where you are. This was just a commute for everyone else, just another day. No matter where you live on this earth, your daily surroundings become background noise unless you make a conscious effort to really see, to appreciate what is in front of you.

We were about to cross The Golden Gate Bridge.

Samuel P Taylor state park is about forty five minutes from downtown San Fransisco, and at four pm when we rolled in, it was already dark. Any light hoping to reach the mossy earth was absorbed by the giant redwoods, which were much more imposing than the ones at Big Sur.

I layed on our picnic table, taking in the sounds, the smells. A raven flew by, and the beat of his wings was too loud; the lack of noise seemed to heighten my awareness. Moss grew everywhere, crawling over our firepit, the fence posts and the top of the bathrooms. Ominous is the right word. It didn’t help that we were all alone.

Normally I would be happy to have a fire, sit and chat, maybe play a little music, but the night came on so suddenly that I suggested we take a ride, maybe grab a beer somewhere. As we left the park the cloud around my head lifted—the day broke through and it was sunny, cheerful.

We drove to the little town of Fairfax, and were instantly charmed by its small town feel, quaint shops mixed with modern restaurants. We stopped at a funky wine bar. A fireplace hovered above the ground behind us, and birch tree branches served as art, hanging on the walls. We felt pretty cool.

Later, we found ourselves driving aimlessly around downtown San Francisco, looking for a bathroom. We were trying to get to North Beach, a place recommended by our server, but we could not find parking anywhere. We had. To. Pee. We drove through Chinatown, then to Fisherman’s Wharf, the two places our server told us not to go, because they were dirty and touristy. I wanted to get out and walk, to peek in the windows of the bars. Its hard to enjoy a city from the dog-nose-streaked window of a truck.

We finally found a spot next to some homeless people a few blocks from the Wharf. We ran tight-legged, through a closed open-air mall, looking for the bathroom sign. It was locked. We needed the code. Mikey asked the one guy sitting on a table behind us “how does anyone go to the bathroom around here?” and he responded, barely looking up, “they just go on the ground”. 

Just then, a man sprinted through the mall, wearing nothing but jeans two sizes too big, covered head-to-toe in green paint, hollering obscenities. We stood with our mouths open. The man in the chair did not look up.

The Subway guy gave us the code, so we survived. We walked for a short while next to the vendors selling fresh crabs and lobsters, pouring buckets of slush into the gutters, aprons covered in grime. Tourist shops glowed like supermarkets along the road, selling the typical shot glasses, I heart San Fran shirts, and trucker hats. We left, driving back away from society, to our little white bean of a camper in the woods. We climbed into bed, exhausted, happy to be back where we belong.

This tree, like the one in Big Sur, also has a root system over a thousand years old. The early loggers stood on springboards twenty feet up that acted like scaffolding, helping the trees fall in the right direction. They would cut a notch with axes and use an enormous crosscut saw to bring down the 300 foot beasts. It all seems so dangerous and unimaginable.

That night, as I was plucking around on my mandolin around the fire, we saw a flashlight emerging from the woods. Without seeing him, we heard our neighbor say, “hey, you mind if I join you? I play a little bit of the clawhammer banjo.”

The first night we were virtually the only ones in the entire camp, save for the campground hosts. On the second night, people came in groves, including our pediatrician-neighbor and his wife. He pulled out his vintage 1905 banjo and we started right in, playing all the old bluegrass standards. We poured him some of our Johnny Walker Black as he tried patiently to teach me some new songs, then switched to guitar and backed me up on a few more. I broke out in a full-body sweat—it had been so long since I’d played that fast and that long. Playing mandolin is a bit like having a seizure, one has to crouch around this little tight-stringed instrument, pushing so hard that the fingertips turn blue. Regardless, it was a fun night. We even had an audience of raccoons directly behind our fire, noisily scoping the place out.

Later, after the fire, Mikey walked out to the truck to get something. There was a big commotion, and when he came to bed he said, nonchalantly, that our raccoon friend was sitting in the cab, munching on some peanuts. He must have squeezed in the open window. Little shit.

The next day we drove through Point Rayes National Seashore, where the San Andreas Fault lies. We walked along Drakes Bay, and little tremors in the earth caused a dusty avalanche on the cliff, the pebbles nearly hitting our heads. We lingered a while, and then we were ready.

It was time to say goodbye to California, to enter the rugged Oregon coast.

We drove for hours, winding and cliff hugging the 123 mile Pacific Coast Highway, all the way up to Big Sur. This kind of rugged beauty makes our normal lives seem inconsequential—with redwood groves on one side, and the Santa Lucia range plunging into the sea on the other.  Ragged, angry rocks jut out at the shore, churning the ocean into froth.

The smell—oh god the smell was unbelievable. It had rained the previous day, and when we stopped at a viewpoint, we were enamored with the thick bushes and mint-smelling plants, all mixed with the brine of the sea. I stopped for a pee, the most beautiful pee, overlooking the ocean, surrounded by fresh, floral bushes. Mikey took a picture. You can’t see anything but my head sticking up, thankfully.

The drive was exhilarating, except for the fact that Emmylou suddenly felt overwhelmed and would not shut up. She whined and shook and yawned when we yelled at her. We tried everything, even holding her tight like a baby, stroking and shushing her. Nothing worked. We turned up the radio and tried to enjoy the view, eventually tuning out her never ending cries, like a balloon slowly being deflated.

We drove next to the endless sea with little to no civilization for miles until we reached Nepenthe, a restaurant/bar that sits 800 feet above the water. On the first level there is a natural, hippy inspired shop full of books, candles and flowing, colorful clothing. We climbed to the top, where the patio hung over the trees, offering the most amazing view. A giant fire pit is carved out of the center, and bench style seating surrounds it with India-style pillows and rugs.

Big Sur sits inland a bit, where the giant redwoods loom, and the Big Sur River runs her clear, icy fingers through the earth, exposing the bed of rocks below.

We camped at the Big Sur State Park. Once settled, we walked around the redwoods, flashlight in hand. We were reminded of our walk at Arches; the trees were more ominous and powerful at night, like giant bodyguards standing in the shadows. We’d shine our light on the base, following it up, up up, until the light disappeared.

–

The next day we hiked up to Pfeiffer Falls and then kept on until the trail opened up into wide views of the valley. As soon as we got back to the camper for lunch, it rained. We felt giddy to be inside, safe and warm with hot coffee and a bowl of rice.

Later that afternoon we hiked to the Colonial Tree, the oldest in the park. The tree was burdened with branches, thick and heavy, reaching toward the ground. It was over a thousand years old. I try to imagine what life was like when it was just sprouting in the ground; the world unspoiled from civilization.

In the morning, as we were packing up, I was shocked to see how many California Blue Birds were surrounding Emmy and her food bowl. There must have been half a dozen, so pretty, with their tufted, black head fading to blue, hopping closer and closer to her as her gaze snapped from one to the other, rigid. Apparently Blue Birds love dog food.

We drove on, stopping at Carmel-by-the-sea, a village of colorful cottages and small shops next to the mile-long Carmel River State Beach, and spent an hour walking slowly along, picking up rocks and wading in the water.

We were driving along, thinking about where we would stay for the night, when we saw a sign for New Brighton beach campground. We put our blinker on. The campground was pretty but nothing to write home about—overgrown grass and smallish sites, but if you walk to the clearing next to the wooden fence you’ll be standing next to a sandstone cliff overlooking the ocean. A hundred steps lead down to the beach, and we set up shop on a blanket with a bottle of our fancy wine.

To our left, a weathered old man played the ukulele at the base of the cliff, while his two chihuahuas explore the sand, digging for crabs in their matching sweaters. To our right we heard someone playing the the didgeridoo, and the sound was the perfect background music to watch the sunset.

—

Up Next, San Francisco!

Here is how our trip has been planned(ish) thus far: We get a general idea of where we want to go. We figure how long we want to drive each day, check Passport America, and pick a place to rest and wash up before we hit the road again to our destination. This time, our destination was Big Sur. The dot on the map was Paso Robles. We had no idea. Now, I know there has been a trend with us never knowing whats going on, getting lost and not finding camping spots, but I firmly believe in being purposefully ignorant as we travel, not researching photos or reviews so that the mystery stays alive. It’s been pretty neat so far.

We drove through something very similar to what heaven must look like. Hills made of green velvet, mixed with acres upon acres of grape vines. We made our way through little back roads—what I imagine the French backcountry must look like—where we were the only souls for miles around, save for the bees humming along the perfectly symmetrical rows of grapes.

Paso Robles is a pocket of the country capable of creating exceptional wines. The combination of soils and elevation create the richness, depth, and character of the wines. That and they tremble delicately along the cool breeze of the Pacific Ocean. I know very little about wine, but I have a respect for it.

 An old French proverb reads, “In water ones sees one’s own face. But in wine one beholds the heart of another.”

The very next day we made our way through a handful of wineries, stopping to get a free tasting of five different wines at each. The wine attendant would ask us which ones we’d like to try, and we’d look at the menu like we knew what we were doing and randomly picked a few whites and reds.

Let me tell you. Each one was to die for. The attendant would tell us the story behind each wine, pointing behind him as to where on the property it was grown. We felt like Kennedys.

I know there is a lot of psychology at play with wine tasting, but I don’t mind falling for the whole façade.  What I would describe as bold and delicious, the real definition would be “exploding with rhubarb, raspberry, cigar box, cinnamon and thyme, all well balanced with hints of earthiness and caramel. It is a big shouldered wine (what?), paired well with roasted lamb.” Like a person in a different country, we played along with the new language, nodding and swirling, sniffing and sipping. We bought a couple of bottles, as is customary with wine tasting.

This guy offered us chocolate in between sips, to bring out the “bouquet” of flavor. Yes, please.

We ended up at Eberle Winery, where they offer free cave tours of their cellar. We were too late for that, but we were stopped out front by Gary, the owner and creator of all the wines. He was a charmer, sitting out on his patio, drinking away his profits with a few friends. After our tasting, I, a bit tipsy at that point, complimented him on his Cabernet as we came out, doing the “we’re not worthy!” bit from Wayne’s World. He laughed, politely.

This is why we don’t belong.

We stayed at the Vines RV resort (with our P.A card). I don’t mean to be over-zealous, but I can honestly say that this place was so extravagant that we felt like celebrities. The front desk attendants acted like our friends, coming out on separate trips to visit with Emmylou, giving her treats. There bathrooms sinks were made of marble, lit with chandeliers—there were two pools, a hot tub, a gym, laundry, a library and a very Don Drapper-esk bar with complimentary pool table. All for twenty five bucks a night. This would be, by far, the fanciest place we would stay on our trip.

In front of our camp was the library connected to the Magnolia Lounge.

I swam like a fish every day, sometimes twice a day.

The next day we drove a little ways up Hwy 1 to Cayucos in Estero Bay to spend the afternoon at the beach. Emmylou may as well be a grayhound the way she ran on the surf after flocks of birds. We look away for a second and there she was, a hardly recognizable dot off in the distance.

 

We stopped in that night to the Magnolia lounge for a glass of wine, and it was then that we met Michelle and her brother, Eddie and his friend, Meg. We were playing pool when Eddie approached, saying that we have a beautiful spirit, and he just wanted to let us know. Eddie, an ex-Hells Angels-rider-turned-spiritual-teacher, was in from Hawaii for a while to care of his mother.

Eddie wears his long hair in loose bun, and has a thick, almost fu manchu mustache. We liked him right away.  We sat and chatted with him and Michelle, his sister, the Cordon Bleu Chef-bartender, for hours. There was no one else in the bar so we challenged them to a game of pool, and throughout the night Eddie took care of all our drinks, no questions asked.

If we said something he liked, he would fist-bump us saying “that’s right my brother”, or “ah, man I love that, hell yah, hell yah.” He shared his philosophy of living his life with no regrets, about the struggle of taking care of older parents, about his crazy past and living in South America. They were both excited to hear our plans to drive all the way up the coast, past Big Sur and up through Oregon, and they were full of ideas of where we should go. Hurst Castle, for one, and also to have a glass of wine at the top of Nepenthe, a bar overlooking the ocean at Big Sur.

They let Emmylou come hang out, but once she realized we spent our time playing with sticks and balls, she was inconsolable. She had to have the pool balls. We escorted her out.

Later that night Eddie invited us for dinner at Denny’s, paying for everything. He really put his heart on his sleeve, telling us how great it was to meet us, and we said the same. He handed us a CD of his band (he plays the saxophone), and signed it for us. We drove home a little past midnight, and when we got there I heard my phone buzz. It was from Eddie. “Peace N blessings to you both, B true 2 your school…kiss the bub ster”

Michelle, Meg and Eddie are such refreshing, charasmatic people. We are lucky to have met them.

 

 

Up next — Big Sur

 

 

We agreed to avert our eyes until we reached the railing so that we would see it together. Watching our feet, we dodged tourists until we could hardly stand it, and then, grabbing the rail, we looked up.

Language falters and then dies at the sight of the Grand Canyon. I would fail at trying to describe it anyhow; even the photos don’t do it justice. This is definitely a place one has to experience personally.

The previous day we drove up from Sedona to Williams again, knowing we could stay at our freebie campsite in the woods.  From there we hemmed and hawed as to where we would go next, considering the fact that snow was due in the near future. At an internet coffee shop, we decided our best bet would be to leave immediately, just for the day, trying our best to duck out before the oncoming storm.

We drove back to camp to find our grill and chairs were missing. They left Emmy’s bed, thankfully. It probably smelled of wet dog. It was sad, not just because of the stuff, which we just shrugged off, but because most of our experiences on the road so far have invigorated our faith in humanity. People have been so giving, with their information and their time, with wine, extra food and even socks.

We packed up, climbed in the truck and made our way sixty miles north to the South Rim.

That night we found another free National Forest campsite a few miles from the entrance of the park. It was cold, but we scrounged up some wood and ended up with a roaring fire. We leaned back and watched the stars through the smoke from our breath. “Man, we’re lucky.” Mikey said, as he often does. He does this little nod thing, pouting a bit, looking around in amazement before he says it. I love that.

–

The next morning the world was different. Whipping, cold winds shook the camper, and the promise of snow was in the dark clouds overhead.  An armada of helicopters flew over our site on their way to pick up tourists—the sound was deafening. We craned our necks to watch, and then ducked into the shelter of the cab.

We drove for hours, eventually reaching Lake Havasu City, where it was sunny and 70 degrees. It’s always strange to travel to a dramatically different climate by car.  It’s as if we’d been transported through a wormhole, or a glitch in the Matrix.  We stepped out and peeled our outer layers off and walked on the sand.

That night we sat for a while with our neighbor, Tom, a nice guy from Wisconsin who pulls a tiny plane behind his motorhome. He opened the hatch so we could see it. Two chairs, some bars and an engine. Tom called it his lawn chair in the sky. He had flown all over the states, and on the hatch was a painting of him, in his little plane, flying over the Grand Canyon.

We were camped in the overflow parking near the beach at Lake Havasu State Park. The evening weather predicted rain, but even so, we put on our raincoats and hiked the sandy trails around the lake. The wind was warm, and the water was a sparkling blue-green.

 

 

Up Next – Paso Robles California.

Oak Creek Canyon is dark. It reminds me of a fairy tale, where shadows take over and black, rumbling clouds roll in as soon as the character enters the woods.  Much like Zion, the canyons are so steep on either side that only a few hours of sunlight meet the pine needle floor. Small cabins belly up to Oak Creek, and brightly lit cafes look both welcoming and strange in such a deep forest. Steep switchbacks guide us up, up and out, back in the sunlight, where it all seemed like a dream.

We are looking for a campsite. My heart thrums in my chest with want—I want to go out, I want to explore, I want to sit out at night in the pine needle air. We are approaching Flagstaff. Our first choice was booked for the night, and, trusting our resilience, we figured we could find a forest road to accommodate us. The free campground we had researched was, to our dismay, up a 45 degree road with ruts as big as our wheels. So here we were, making our way past Sedona and Oak Creek, thirty minutes south of Flagstaff. The elevation change was a shock. With a twenty degree difference in temperature, we pulled out our warm blankets and, with flashlights and books in hand, we crawled into bed at Walmart.

The next morning, with sleep still in our eyes, we made our way back down to Sedona and pulled into the Ranch Sedona campground (you can kind of see the campers in the picture below).

Rancho Sedona campground is in the heart of Sedona in a basin of sycamore trees next to Oak Creek. We could hear the river while we slept, and squirrels bounced around the trees above us, causing Emmylou to shake with excitement.

From our campsite we could walk to Tlaquepaque Arts & Crafts Village, which had vine covered stucco walls, cobble-stoned walkways and high arched entryways, making one feel as if they’ve stepped back in time a thousand years.  We walked through Main Street, where one could buy overpriced Sedona apparel, local art, and a $6 cup of coffee. We looked longingly at couples eating at the extravagant restaurants, sipping their salty margaritas. We’ve learned to use my uncle Andy’s horizontal method [of spending]: to lay down until the desire passed. Once we came to our senses, we hiked back to camp and made some eggs.

Let me tell you about the beauty of Sedona. It’s beautiful. So, so damn beautiful. The cliffs swirl with cream and butterscotch and bright orange, reaching for the sky in all directions.  The trails are shaded with twisted juniper trees and our feet are muted by the soft, red sand.  The first day we hiked Cathedral Rock, and then continued on a bike path for miles; Emmylou zig-zagging and losing us every chance she could, only to dart back when called, panting and happy.

The next day we hiked up to Devil’s Bridge. Wide open views surrounded us with little to no view of any civilization. A cool breeze cut through the sun’s heat, but it was still warm, and we foolishly used a good portion of our water to cool Emmy off.

We made our way up an off-road vehicle trail to the base of the hike, waving at the pink tourist jeeps hauling white haired patrons with sparkly visors. We would wave, they would wave, and I would see a glimpse of Mike and I in our golden years, still at it, happily exploring through sunglasses that look like goggles.

The last leg of the hike was steep, but it was worth it.

Devil’s Bridge

On the way home we went a different way and got terribly, terribly lost. Out of water, walking miles on the main road, we finally flagged down a truck who knew the area and pointed us in the right direction, handing us a gallon jug of water. Burnt and tired, we collapsed in our camper and slept like newborns.

That night I heard a bump under the camper. Emmylou growled. I dismissed it, trying to fall back to sleep. We’d seen our fair share of wildlife on the trip—Mikey forgot to mention the wild burros screaming through the night at Martinez lake—the sound was so unnatural and spooky to hear from a deep slumber, but this creature made no sound. Next I heard very audible crunching. I sat up, alert, and Mikey and I opened both the window and the screen to poke our heads out. I squinted and saw something slow moving and small—I thought it was a racoon. I tiptoed down to get a flashlight. One click and my stomach flipped. A family of about seven giant javelina were rooting through Emmy’s food bowl. Wild boar are not something I understand. Living in minnesota I understand raccoons and coyotes, little brown rabbits and foxes. Dark, hairy tusked pigs remind me of something tropical, of aborigines rotating one on a spit, of The Lord of the Flies. The momma was bigger than Emmylou. We shooed them away, and, very carefully, I ran outside and grabbed the rest of her food. They can be surly, I’ve heard.

The next day we went to the Amitabha Stupa and Peace park, where we meditated under the buddha.

Oh Sedona, we love you.

 

Next stop, Grand Canyon!

 

Written by Mikey:

After leaving California, we headed back into Arizona to visit Mike and Darla in Yuma. They have winter getaway tucked away near a beautiful mountain range in the outskirts of Yuma.  We were greeted with open arms and a full RV hook-up in their front yard.

It was so nice to be around family again. When would we ever get the chance again to spend a leisurely week with our aunt and uncle? To play cards and sip wine on their porch each night?  Darla cooked feasts for us every chance she got: salmon with purple potatoes, roasts with intricate salads, pickled artichokes and olives; sorbet and raspberries for dessert.

We spent our days hiking and stopping at the little fresh farm stands next to the road. Unbeknown to us, Yuma is the lettuce capital of the country.  They grow ninety-five percent of the nation’s head lettuce.  Alongside the I-8, there were dozens of huge fields either being flooded for a new crop or being picked by diligent field workers braving the 80 to 90 degree heat. Yuma also grows copious quantities of dates – Darla took us to a nearby farm where we could watch how they were cultivated. They served the best date shakes in the country. The next few weeks we lived like kings on avocados (5 for $1), lettuce bigger than your head ($1) and green peppers (10 for $1) that were grown a few miles away.

There were also several “Farm to Table” establishments set up right on roads next to the fields where people can pick their own produce to take home. We stopped at one that had a little short order grill set up with tacos on cabbage instead of tortilla shells. Good eatin’.

We took a day trip up to Quartzite AZ and walked around where hundreds of thousands of snowbirders flock to for the sunshine and the dirt cheap living.  You can get a BLM pass to camp for seven months for around $100.  It was a quirky little area filled with little flea market style shops and vendors.  Here’s a pic from google:

The next day Darla and Mike took us to one of the flea markets in Yuma.  There were rows and rows of vendors selling everything imaginable.  We were especially intrigued by the amount of people pushing their little dogs around in carts.  Jayme was able to sneak a picture when the owner wasn’t looking. Why they are unable to walk, no one knows.

We spent a few days in a campground in Lake Martinez. We had big blazing fires each night and met some interesting folks when we watched the superbowl at the hole-in-the-wall bar near camp.

Toward the end of our stay, I ripped out the carpet in our Scamp and put down some laminate flooring.  If I had a nickel for every time Jayme said, “I hate this carpet!” when she was trying to sweep it out, I would have had several dollars.  It was a fun little project and is a breeze clean up now.  Thanks for the sawhorses Mike!

Our trip to Yuma was more than we could have asked for.  We couldn’t have done anything without Mike and Darla’s guidance and for that we are forever thankful.  We might not have ever been over to this area without them. It’s an experience we’ll never forget. 

In my wildest dreams I never thought Emmylou would get to go to Dog Beach in San Diego.

When we lived in Ocean Beach, we’d walk the sand, trying to pet passing dogs as they slid under our hands. We would then sit patiently until the tired old breeds would climb into our laps, fat and covered in sand, ready for a scratch. This was how we’d get our dog fix. It’s the happiest place in the world—a wide expanse of sand and beach at the mouth of the San Diego river, with a plethora of dog breeds zig-zagging and wrestling in the sand. I used to walk down to the marsh under the Sunset Cliffs bridge and then swim in the river, floating on my back with the current, drifting back to the ocean. Once a german shepherd saw me doing this and dove in to my rescue. It was sweet to see his snout drifting towards me; his little triangle eyes full of concern. He left me with scratches on my belly that lasted for days.

This was Emmylou’s first visit to the ocean. She was wild with abandon; when we took the leash off she was a bullet, taking off like a bunny rabbit, legs straight out behind her. Without a beat, she dove into the waves after a ball, unfazed by the ocean’s current and strong, salty taste. She was pure joy.

Earlier that day we arrived at the Mission Bay RV resort, which is basically a huge peninsula made of asphalt. Western sycamores shade just about every site, and bougainvillea vines appear in flashes of hot pink along the fence. We had Passport America cards that allowed us to get half off our stay for four days, which amounted to about $25 bucks. We couldn’t believe our luck.

We happened to park directly across from another 5^th wheel scamp from Alaska. 5^th wheel scamps are so rare; people often mention that they’ve never seen one before. Randolf, the owner, worked seasonally in Alaska and camped down south for the rest of the year. Mikey chatted with him while I scrubbed out our mold-ridden fridge, everything melting into the bars and emitting a sharp, almost sweet odor. It was horrible. We ran out of power in LA and for a few nights we only had candles, so the fridge suffered. We learned our lesson.

The next day we biked for hours through the bay, past Seaworld and Mission Beach and through Pacific Beach to our old stomping grounds. It was a clear, perfect 70 degree San Diego day. Filled with bliss, we decided to splurge on some Sushi, knowing a place that offers half off certain rolls for lunch. We ate slowly, rolling our eyes back, making sounds that one only makes when one hasn’t had that kind of fresh goodness in a long, long time.

We went out with friends that night, ending up at the OB Noodle House two blocks from where we used to live, in an outdoor patio surrounded by potted plants and vines. It was great. We picked up right where we left off.

Later that night we sat around Brian’s record player, drinking drinks made with his homemade bitters, trying to stay quiet long enough to hear an entire song in silence. Ah, back to the good old days.

The next morning we drove to La Jolla. It’s always difficult for me to fully take in this area, with its cliffside mansions and green glittering water, with its coves carved into the rock and its salty, sea lion smell. We met a friend down on the beach—a straggler who left the protected cove and sat proudly on a public beach, daring anyone to come close. He made a deep, guttural sound and wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead staring directly to the left of our gaze. We decided to leave him be.

At night we walked Bubba around the point of the bay, in a quiet residential area next to a row of thick palm trees. There was about a foot of beach, and then calm, black ocean. Across the way we could see a lone bonfire. Its light illuminated the water, lipping its way all the way back to our shore. I found it calming to hear the roar of the interstate, wondering where everyone was rushing off to, while I walked in silence, Emmylou padding alongside me in the dark.

We left San Diego not because we wanted to, but because the street rules have changed (since we lived there) for anyone pulling a trailer. One cannot spend the night on the street, in a parking lot or even right outside a friends’ house. The city wanted us to show two months’ worth of our friends’ water and electric bills and jump through all kinds of hoops in order to get a permit to stay on the street. Once this was achieved we were then only allowed to stay for three days. We couldn’t afford the hefty $50/night to stay where we were, as our discount had expired.

Disappointed but not disheartened, we decided to head inland, to a place called Diamond Jack’s RV park in the heart of horse country, about thirty miles from the beach.

In the next few days we would make it to Yuma, Arizona, where we were pleasantly surprised at its beauty and culture, and especially excited to see my aunt and uncle, Darla & Mike.

We are walking in the sand. Its dark, and we watch Emmylou spitting up sand in her wake, running in crazed circles. Off in the distance Manhattan Beach Pier stretches out into the black waves, and beyond that, a constellation of lights spread across the Hollywood Hills.

We drove the seven lane stop-and-go the traffic into LA for the last three hours. Mikey, hacked, agreed that we need to at least make it to the ocean before we figure out where we’d sleep. We rolled the windows down and the brined, earthy wind seeped into our veins, intoxicating us. Happiness doesn’t even begin to cover how we felt. Euphoric.

That night we would make it to Walmart, sleeping under some yellow trees, listening to traffic as we sleep.

We spent the next day walking. Wading in the water, I tried to imagine what my feet looked like to the fish below, the bottom of my feet appearing, disappearing. Black dolphins jumped in the waves. They seemed to only appear when a colossal wave crashed down—perhaps it stunned the fish, causing the frenzy of dolphins to swoop in.

We met up with my old buddy James (my roommate from my first stint in San Diego when I was eighteen) and his lovely girlfriend Jazmine. We drank beer at a bar in Laguna Beach with barnwood walls, high ceilings and large windows opened to the night.  It was weird to see him again, as if old friends don’t exist anymore after you move away. We talked about our lives in the last ten years, Earthships, Tiny Houses, family.  As we were getting up to leave, he casually mentioned,

“Hey, you guys doing anything Sunday? Want to go to The Price is Right?”

We arrived at 7am on Sunday, on the only day it rains in Los Angeles. The night before, we parked outside of James’ mom’s house near Hollywood. She lives right next to Aziz Ansari, and, naturally, we walked over to snoop around his house. The entire neighborhood was patrolled by video surveillance, and not two minutes after we parked we saw flashing lights in our camper. A security officer was taking our information. He didn’t bother further, but you knew they were watching.

Waiting in line, they interviewed us, took individual and group photos. The photographer said to act the way you would if you won a new car. I think my reaction was appropriate:

They took our phones prior to entering, so we couldn’t take any photos. The set was unreal. And so. . .small. The entire ceiling was covered in lights, and bored-looking cameramen in tshirts and grubby beards were setting up cameras, practicing the swoop-down shots that go over the crowd. My stomach was flipping. I could win! I could go on TV in a few minutes! I secretly wished I wouldn’t get picked, the old shy me coming forward and telling myself you’ll freeze up, you’ll look stupid, you won’t hear what Drew is saying and only hear the ringing in your ears. 

This was probably true, because the day before I was interviewed by Harvey Levin in an episode of People’s Court. For real. We were walking around Santa Monica Place (a mall), when we noticed that guy from TMZ talking to a camera. We stood by for a second, and just as we stopped a young woman asked if we wanted to be interviewed for People’s Court. We shrugged, and a few minutes later found ourselves standing behind a huge camera, Harvey prepping us for some Q&A. I was front and center. He didn’t mention a thing about the actual case, instead he asked insanely simple questions like,

“Is it better to give your notice to leave your apartment at the beginning of the month, or the middle?”

Once we were primed, they rolled the camera and asked us that simple question again. It was so incredibly fake, but that’s to be expected. I found it curious that Mr. Levin did not wear shoes, instead donning flip flops with his suit.

Anyway, my point was, I blanked out when he asked me to explain my answer—something he had not primed us for prior. I have no idea what I said. When the show airs Feb 24th, I’ll be just as surprised as anyone to see my response.

Back to The Price is Right. Drew was incredible—so sweet with the audience. Mike and I had to occasionally share long glances at each other, trying to ground us in the moment. Holyshitholyshitholyshit. 

Waiting in line, we met an exuberant black lady who was in it to WIN it, she never sat and rested, instead making her rounds and chatting with everyone. Once she got to Mike, she said,

“What do you want to win, a car?”

“Hell yeah!”

“Me, I don’t need a car. I just bought a new car. What I need is a new WASHER and DRYER”

Without a beat, Mikey said,”Alright, if you win a car, and I win a washer and dryer, then we’ll trade.”

They shook on it. Once we were in the audience, she pointed at him again saying “I want my washer and dryer!”

She got on the show, and she won a brand new car. You’ll see her if you watch April 8th. That is Mikey’s car. We’d have to drive her to Sears and pick her up a new washer and dryer, but we wouldn’t mind.

In the end, my left ear was ringing and my throat hurt from screaming, but it was a hellva good time. Next time we’ll have to wear matching t shirts, that always seems to get ’em.

Next up, San Diego!

 

We arrived at Joshua Tree National Park as the sun was setting. As we drove, the palm trees slowly shrank into the awkward, almost comical joshua trees. Mormon pioneers are said to have named this species “Joshua” tree because it mimicked the Old Testament prophet Joshua waving them, with upraised arms, on toward the promised land. I think it looked more like something from Dr Seuss.

We camped next to a cliff-like rock, surrounded by a playground of nooks and egg-shaped boulders.

We spent the next four days resting, maybe doing a short hike to Scull Rock or poking around the desert next to our campsite, but mostly reading, sitting by the fire, blinking at each other.

We happened upon a full moon, and, just like we remembered, it rose like the sunrise—illuminating the desert and the white rocky sand. 

The coyotes were relentless. At night, two would leave the pack and savagely bark outside our camper. We were pretty sure they were after Emmy—being that we let her roam the desert and play ball during the day. It was unnerving, and that night I opted to skip the fire, holding on to Emmy in the camper as they scratched at her pee spots and paced outside.

In the morning Mikey would find hundreds of prints circling our campsite.

Joshua Tree brought a lump of desolation in my belly—unless one fills one’s days with hiking and climbing, the park and its endless rocky hills can feel somber, detached. Perhaps it was because it was our first time alone since we’d had three weeks of family visiting, but we were ready to move on.

We contacted a friend in LA, found a Walmart to park at near the beach, and set off yet again. Here we go!

 

We had the sweetest, most humble Christmas. Next to our campsite we had a trail leading to a clearing with wide, open views of the desert. We sat close, watching the sunset around a little fire. It was such a safe, warm feeling to have the entire family together. We sipped rum and chatted deep into the night.

The next day we took a scenic drive back up to Phoenix, stopping at Catalina State Park. The park itself has very few roads—one has to hike to get just about anywhere. We did the Birder’s Loop, crossing over a rocky river-wash with smooth, oval stones.

We stayed back at Lost Dutchman state park campground. Each night we had fires, telling stories we somehow never told each other, playing cards and trying to read the stars. Camping is the only way in society’s large-house, modern lifestyle where we can get really close—without the riff-raff and technology. Its a place where we are able to exhale, to look at eachother, to just talk. It was nice to get back to our roots and be a family for a while.

The next day, we decided to take the same drive we took with Gram on the Apache Trail (the crazy rutted switchbacks). We’d continue on through to the Theodore Roosevelt dam, eighty-six miles from camp. I sat in my roomy leather chair (we rented a big SUV) and watched the scenery rise and fall—the mountains dotted with saguaros, canyons and caves, with the Salt river curving alongside us on the road.

We were nearing the dam when three of us spotted something. It was a tail, long, black and curved, trotting near the side of the road.  Suddenly the car was filled with electricity. Jo pulled over. We climbed down the side of the road and inspected the sand around a culvert where we spotted him, hopping on rocks and craning our necks to see if we he was still around. I found a live trap under some bushes, and eventually Jo spotted some cat-like footprints. But they were small.

The next hour or so proved to be a study in witness recollection. We all thought we saw something completely different. Mom was sure it was a 120 pound jaguar, and I was inclined to believe her. Jo thought it was some strange raccoon. Eventually we agreed that it was most likely a black coati—which is about the size of a large housecat—and we figured Phoenix must be the furthest north it can be found.  The moral of the story is that the justice system can’t be trusted. Oh and coatis are pretty neat.

We spent the next day hiking, preparing ourselves for the Flat Iron. It was a perfect day. Cool breeze and 63 degrees. We took one trail to the left of the mountains, and once again we found ourselves lost. With the goal of getting to the base of the mountains, we climbed up what we thought were trails but were most likely just rocky outlets for water coming down from the mountain. Jo climbed a separate section that jutted out, overlooking the valley. You can see us in the bushes. This was the furthest we could go without having to climb directly up the mountain. It was a little hairy, and coming down I twisted my leg doing a little half-splits, but it was fun.

 

That night we went out to the Mammoth Saloon at Goldfield Ghost Town.

A few days before Jo and dad arrived we spent a slow night at the Saloon, drinking agave margaritas. Next to us were four cowboys, indistinguishable from the western gunshow played out daily in the main drag. These were real people. The man on the end talked precisely like Boomhower with a southern drawl, going on and on about some New Year’s church party the reverend was going to have and how much he was going to drink. When we arrived, they were hammering a pair of boots to the ceiling, next to a hundred or so others hanging down from the eaves. After making small talk for a bit, he mentioned they had thrown their friends’ ashes up on Superstition Mountains the day before. Those must have been his boots.

We came to find out that the dusty, Anthony Hopkins-looking cowboy sitting by Mike was the owner himself. He had a genuine smile, and seemed truly interested in what we had to say. They talked about taking a few bars of gold from Phoenix to Tombstone (about 184 miles) by horseback a few years back. By horseback.  

“I told ‘em if anyone dared to bring the gold back up north by horseback and return it to me there would be a reward. But nobody took me up on it. I guess there ain’t no cowboys in Tombstone these days.”

These guys were the real deal—real whiskey drinkin’ southern boys who wore cowboy hats out of necessity. The owner once brought a bucket of rattlesnakes into the bar to sell to someone. Mom asked the Boomhower character if he was a rancher.

“Naw, I’m just an ‘ol desert rat. They foun’ me by the side of the road and picked me up and I been here ever since.”

The other cowboy was a Civil War re-enactor and he definitely looked the part. He could lose a whole sandwich in his mustache.

Anyway, they offered us a second round, told us the history behind some of the photos on the wall, and then we were off.

We told the story to Dad and Jo while we drank dark beer and listened to the live country music. The Boomhower guy was belly-up to the bar, true to his word.

The next day (after Flat Iron) we decided to give the legs a rest and take the Dolly Steamboat ride. It started in Canyon lake and chugged along through the river, slowing for landmarks, bald eagles and petrified wood, embedded into the cliffs. We sat on the deck with the sun at our backs. It was great to be on the water again—such a different perspective to look up at the cliffs from below, wondering what was swimming underneath. Dad saw the first big horned sheep. He sat up on a high ledge, horns slicked back like a politician, staring idly ahead. We’d pull in close to view a family, and were amazed at their ability to find their way in the chaotic, jagged rock.

It was a fabulous day.

The next night was New Years eve, and we spent it at the Embassy Suites in Phoenix. We sat in the hot tub, and had happy hour at the bar on the top floor overlooking the city. The combination of the two sent us into a heavenly haze, and we were all in bed by nine. We will miss you Jojo, momma, Soph and dad.

XOXO

 

Up next – LA, and randomly getting to be on two tv shows!