René recently cut out another quote and taped it inside our bathroom cabinet door:

“At its core, adventure is the willingness to commit to an uncertain outcome with and open heart and an open mind.”

I don’t know where she got that one or who said it, but her timing is impeccable as it certainly applies to our latest adventure.

Had we known of the uncertain outcome that awaited us at By The River RV Park in Ingram, Texas, alongside the lazy Guadalupe River, we might have left after our first night. But who would have thought this pretty park could be covered in water within the next 24 hours? And after nearly three years on the road, we’ve come to expect the unexpected. Without such an outlook, panic may have set in even earlier than it did the other night.

No, that first photo is not a picture of the park. It’s just where we ended up spending the night, along with all the other rigs from the park, which is a very good thing considering how events of the evening unfolded …

Earlier in the day, we had walked across a spillway path over to an island on the river across from the park. It’s where they allow tent campers – of which there were none, fortunately – and the path was clear of water. We later took the short drive to nearby Hunt, TX to see Stonehenge II – noticing along the way various river crossings that would clearly become impassable with the slightest rise of the river. A sign of things to come. Later that night, three people would be washed downstream after trying to cross the river there. One has yet to be found, another spent most of the evening up a tree crying for help.

Upon returning to the park, I noticed only an inch or so of water covering the path we had walked. That would soon change.

At about 10:00 p.m., the park manager showed up only suggesting that we “may want to hitch up and be prepared to leave” – a high water advisory was in effect until midnight. I figured we had plenty of time and decided to dump our sewer, not knowing where we might be in the morning. While doing so, I walked over to the river bank and noticed it was much closer.

The water was about 8′ higher than it was, and only about 5′ lower than our site. I poked my head in the trailer and told Rene, “Uhh… we might just want to leave now and beat the rush. Come check this out!”

Our pace hastened, we disconnected our power and water, and proceeded to get going. That’s when we heard the sirens, saw the fire truck and noticed emergency personnel suggesting we hurry up because, “This end of the park floods first.”

Gee, thanks for letting us know now, I thought.

A look over their shoulder showed the water about another two feet higher. Everything was fine, it was pretty exciting, but that was it. Then we couldn’t hitch up.

This is when it started to get scary. Multiple attempts to connect the trailer resulted only in a frightening clunk. Apparently I had bent something while trying to hook up in such a hurry. Fearing the damage was permanent and we would be forced to leave the trailer, Renee scrambled to determine which belongings we absolutely needed to grab and I remembered something I learned when getting SCUBA certified: Panic = Death.

Each time I jumped out to adjust the legs of the trailer up or down, there were more volunteers trying to help. One wearing a safety vest and helmet, diligently tried to calm down René. Another tried to assist me by holding our hitch plate level. Clunk. I panicked and tried to force the hook up.

That’s how I pushed the trailer legs off their blocks, causing the fifth wheel kingpin box to slam down on top of our truck bed rails. Doing my best to remain calm, it was clearly time to poop my pants. But no time for that. I wasn’t leaving without our home. The water was another foot higher. I raised the trailer, pulled out from under it and started dismantling our hitch. I think that’s when René really started freaking out.

I quickly confirmed the hitch was still functional and put it back together. One last attempt after adjusting the trailer height again – with the park manager holding the hitch, and me holding my breath – we connected, but it didn’t feel like it. I knew something was wrong. The manager insisted he heard it click, and he must have. I was clearly out of my mind and the water was another foot hgher.

Side Note: Old time RVers throughout our travels have more than once made the same comment one fireman did as we waited for our trailer’s legs to retract: “Are those things moving?” he said. The Arctic Fox may indeed have the slowest retracting legs in the RV industry. But this time it seemed to take an eternity. With water lapping at our site, we were on our way, just in time.

We joined dozens of other RVs up the hill in a church parking lot for the night, hoping the trailer wouldn’t fall off, wondering if we would be able to unhitch. As more continued to show up, one frantic woman asked if I had a fifth wheel. She said someone needed help getting their trailer out because they had no way to pull it. My heart shrank as I had to say no. Our Pullrite Superglide requires a kingpin adapter to function without damaging the hitch and/or trailer.

Walking down to survey the damage the next morning, I noticed our site had clearly been under at least a couple feet of water. All the RVs and trailers did get out, some with their sewer hoses draped over their bike racks. Others who left theirs behind. With only our end of the park truly getting flooded, we feel very fortunate to have our home with us. We moved on to a park down the road a in Bourne called Top Of The Hill RV Resort, thinking we might need to be there a while waiting for hitch parks. But upon further  investigation, the damage done was nothing a few whacks from a hammer couldn’t fix.

Epilogue: As we were leaving the morning after, I noticed a trailer tire was low. Pulling away in hopes that we would find a service station soon, we immediately pulled into a tire shop right across the road. We had not one, but two punctured tires.

I guess when it rains, it really does pour. Especially in Texas. After all the excitement, I did little math and calculated that the river was rising a foot every five minutes. That may not sound all that fast, but consider the gentle slope of the terrain and it’s easy to imagine that flood approaching like an incoming tide – we don’t need to, we were there!

We proved to ourselves that RVing hasn’t turned us into outdoorsy wussies.

Our California friends Kim and Ari Shapiro, and their son Caz, paid us a visit recently, during their six week road trip sabbatical. Jim and Ari have been friends since college, and the five of us always had lots of great times backpacking and car camping.

We haven’t tent camped for almost a year, so when Kim and Ari wanted to check out the nearby Rahwah Wilderness, we went along for a few days, and took the backpacking gear instead of the rig.

We hauled our gear a whole 20 feet, from the truck to the tent pad at a great campsite along a river. The river lulled us to sleep both nights, making it a little easier to snooze on the rock hard ground.

Getting back to our roots and sleeping in our tiny tent wasn’t too bad, and we’ll definitely do it again sometime. But I’ve gotta say, RVing with refrigeration and a mattress is a lot kinder to your body.

While we waited to become Texans, we made a quick trip to Jemez Springs, New Mexico to hook up with an old friend from Eureka. Dave gets the prize for traveling the farthest (by car) to meet us on our journey so far. And after putting 35,000+ miles on our truck a few hundred miles is never out of the way for friends.

We spent a few quiet nights all alone, along a stream at Fenton Lake State Park. Then the weekend brought a slew of serious partyers who enjoyed speeding around the campground kicking up dust. C’mon, they really couldn’t walk the 1/4 mile to the lake? Oh, there I go digressing again.

Before Dave showed up René and I found a popular natural hot spring nearby. Way to popular. Then we discovered the private hot springs in town were way too private – bathtubs we could rent for $15 per hour, per person.

After connecting with the park ranger who grew up near her old hometown, René found out where to go once Dave arrived. We could tell you exactly where these awesome hot springs are, but then we’d have to kill you. We promised the ranger we wouldn’t tell. But perhaps you can figure it out…

A short drive from Fenton Lake, the three of us hiked four miles down a closed forest service road. Across the river and up the hill are a series of crystal clear pools fed from a natural hot spring. The water was hot and refreshing, the views spectacular. We were all alone. The only thing wrong was the four mile hike back to the truck.

Texas is being good to us, and we love it here. Never in a million years did we think we would say this. As native West Coasters, we fell for the popular snotty stereotype about the Lone Star State: that it’s flat, boring, full of rednecks and the only redeeming thing about it is Austin.

Now that we’ve been to the Great State two times in the last year, we just want to say; We were wrong. Sorry Texas!

The most peaceful, relaxing drives we’ve had in the last two years have been along the back roads of West Texas. The land here is as varied and beautiful as anything we’ve seen in our travels. Nowhere else in the United States can you drive through such wide open spaces and see vistas that go on for miles, without a single inhabitant except for a herd of cows. Tall rock formations line the horizon against a deep blue sky, and even if you’ve seen “No Country for Old Men,” Hollywood still can’t come close to replicating this kind of beauty. One visit to Big Bend National Park, and you’ll see for yourself how stunning this country is:

We haven’t been to a national park since saying goodbye to Jerry in Yellowstone. Coming here felt somewhat like a betrayal to our baby, since the last time we set out to do the tourist thing was with him.

But I knew if we didn’t go to Big Bend now, years might go by before we had the opportunity to go again. Since it was “only” 240 miles out of the way from our next destination, the Texas Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Alpine, and diesel is hella cheap in Texas, we went for it.

Arriving at the park and hitting the trails without him didn’t seem right at first. But after a day of sweating in the blazing sun, and getting stabbed by cacti on the trail, I realized that Jerry probably would’ve hated this kind of terrain, which helped my pangs of guilt to subside.

I’ve been thinking we would catch up on writing about our adventures over the past couple months for a couple months now.

We were in Los Angeles a while, but had plenty of family and holidays to distract us. Then we were boondocking on the Slabs, and well, that’s Slab City for you. We’ve also been meeting up with lots of cool people. Then there was the whole Nature thing, and off to Big Bend, but plenty of distraction time there. Not to mention the Cowboy Poetry Festival! Next we had the NüRVers get-together for a few too many hangover days. Stay tuned for details, we promise.

But now we’re settled in for our first pre-paid full month in one spot. Hopefully the lure of New Braunfels and the Comal River won’t keep us too preoccupied to tell y’all what we’ve really been up to. With that said, there’s something that’s been bugging me …

I’ll never understand how certain outdoorsy types choose to enjoy our natural resources by destroying them. All across America I’ve always noticed the detritus of litter bugs, and done my best to pick up after them. But when we were dry camping in the Mojave we picked up more of other people’s trash on just two hikes than I would have ever dreamed possible.

I hate to stereotype folks, but the vast majority of visitors to Jawbone Canyon are the OHV type. They tear up the hills and dunes on trail bikes and quads, which sound like it could be quite fun in it’s own right. But why must they leave such a mess behind?

Please give a hoot. Don’t pollute. We’ve only got room for so much trash in our rig.

While we’re on the subject, here’s an ironic thing we noticed while dry camping out in the Mojave near a huge wind farm under construction.

We watched in awe as immense turbine blades passed by in convoys of three … followed by dozens of workers, each in their individual cars.

You’d think renewable energy developers might implement some sort of transit for workers who travel 100 miles to the job site.

Before we left Northern California, we wanted to take another gander at the rural Siskyou County town of Etna, in the beautiful Scott Valley, just west of Yreka.

Etna has always been one of our favorite spots. With the stunning Marble Mountains as a backdrop, this old ranching community is the gateway to some of the most spectacular, rugged scenery in the state. We’ve had many backpacking adventures in those mountains, and were never disappointed (well, except once when cows trampled our campsite, but that’s another story . . . ).

Since we hit the road, Etna has always stayed on my short list of possible places in which to buy land. And now, with a good basis on which to compare it to, we set out to take a closer look.

As we drove from Eureka to Etna, and still hadn’t arrived after reaching the four hour mark, we started thinking, “Wow, this is farther than we remembered.”

It took us a total of six hours to get there, and “there” wasn’t really anywhere. The biggest metropolis, Redding, (population 90k) is two hours away. Getting to paradise was an exhausting, grueling drive. Hmmm, guess I blocked that out.

Nothing had changed since we’d last visited. The old familar landmarks were still there. Bob’s. The ice cream shop. The brewery. But after taking a hard look around, we realized that the place seriously lacked any kind of ethnic or age diversity, and even a real economy. Not even the summer adventurers like us could infuse enough cash into that area to breathe life into it the rest of the year. What I once thought was quaint, now looked like a tired town going down the path of extinction.

After consulting with a local United Country agent (UC is the best resource for rural property sales) , we hit the backroads to check out some land parcels. But to our disappointment, anything we could afford was either so far off the beaten path that four wheel drive was needed year-round, or it was in one of a couple of tidy rural subdivisions with cookie cutter “rustic” homes. Once we measured our criteria against reality, we knew this wasn’t the place for us.

After just two days, we crossed Etna off our list. And because the rest of California isn’t anywhere I’d want to live, we crossed the entire Golden State off our list as well.

Just a few years ago, we could’ve moved to this little piece of paradise in a flash. We were so tired of Eureka. But our world was smaller then, and we were too stupid to know any better.

Funny how 18 months on the road can change your perspective on things.

In the past, I was a planner. Our vacations always had an itinerary and our route was always mapped. But I changed my tune after our adventurer friend Ted Simon offered some great advice to me, just prior to hitting the road. “Don’t plan” he said. Forget the itinerary; don’t get a GPS; make wrong turns; and remember, it’s the journey, not the destination, he advised. So far, I think I’ve done a good job heeding his advice.

Take for example, my spontaneous decision to jump into the cold waters of the Oregon Hatchery Research Center, in Alsea.

We had stopped by to visit our friends Jim and Mary, who are workamping there for a while. The morning we were going to leave, Jim and Mary were working with the scientists, taking scale samples and tagging gigantic salmon with a hole punch. They asked us if we wanted to give it a go.

Jim wasn’t feeling good, so he didn’t want to do it. But I was torn; we needed to get on the road to make it to Eureka in time for our party. But, there was my chance to play ichthyologist for the morning. What to do?

I hesitated for a minute, but then told my inner trip planner voice to shut up , and went for it!

If we published a blog post for every interesting photo we took, we’d never have time to drive anywhere else and take new photos. That’s what are fulltime RVing roadtrip galleries are for.

But some things you just have to share, like this perfectly hat-shaped formation growing about 10 feet up a mossy tree in the Hoh Rainforest. Or, is it some unsuspecting traveller who stood still just a bit too long in this ever damp Northwest region we used to call home.

Why not comment with a link to one of your strangest photos …

Way back in 1995, I was planning a solo motorcycle trip from San Francisco to Yellowstone. But two months before leaving, Spoonie introduced me to this long haired geek named Jim. He was cool, but he didn’t have his own motorcycle, which was a problem. After falling head over heels in love with this guy, I really wanted him to go with me on the trip, but what was he going to do? Ride bitch on the back of my Virago?

Ultimately, I knew I just had to take that trip alone. I sensed that my life was about to change forever, and it could be my last chance to prove to myself that I could survive a solo trip on my own. Kinda like my friend Eva is doing now.

My bike and I made it to Yellowstone. But as beautiful as the scenery was, I was lonely and missed Jim terribly. I swore that one day we would go there together.

Thirteen years later, we made it.

If only we had arrived under better circumstances. As we saw the way the events around Jerry’s health were unfolding, it was clear that this visit wasn’t going to be the happy adventure I had always hoped it would be. On the road or not, life continued to happen around us, and we were forced to deal with the sad events at hand.

After we said goodbye to our boy, grief moved into our lives. We found some consolation in the fact that at least the surreal landscape of Yellowstone helped to ease the pain just a little.

The days were long and sad, but looking out into the wilds of Yellowstone was soothing. Glimpses of the awesome power of nature continued to reassure us of our small place in the world, and Jerry’s larger place in the universe, as a powerful life force that has gone on to greater things.

Oh I’m picking out a Thermos for you,
 
Not an ordinary Thermos for you,
 
But the extra best Thermos you can buy …

Now my Thermos doesn’t have vinyl and stripes, but it does have a cup built right in. And it is way better than any barometer. (To any “non” Steve Martin fans, I apologize.)

But one thing my travels have confirmed, is that I really do have the extra best Thermos you can buy. I’ve enjoyed hot coffee from my manly Stanley on many a brisk morning since we left, thanks to el Jefe.

Then while at the ranch, I noticed a lot of old-timers and hardcore outdoorsmen also own a Stanley Classic Bottle Thermos.

It really does keep beverages hot – not just warm – even after a couple hours of cold mountain fishing. What I like most, however, is that you don’t have to take the screw top off to pour. You do have to take off the cap, duh. That’s the cup! But by unscrewing just a bit, and lifting on the top, out comes your steamy beverage of choice. Pretty handy when your hands are already full with a rod, camera, leash or all of the above.

Just had to share this with you. Another one of those classic 20th century icons of design.