live. work. dream.

The cold desert winds here at Anza Borrego Park in Southern California are making us stir crazy and insane, but we’re sticking around until our mail arrives by general delivery at the post office.

We also want to visit the Borrego Springs Friday Farmer’s Market one more time.

The local farmers have the most luscious selection of produce, including this weird, local Cherimoya fruit that I’ve never seen before (which is odd because I’m a SoCal native!). I think I’ll crack open my wallet and try it. It must be good if it’s that spendy, right? 

I also want to stock up on the local Fuerte avocados. They only appear in wintertime, and you can’t get them anywhere else because they don’t ship well. You’ve never had a great avocado until you’ve had a Fuerte.

If there’s one thing I miss about SoCal besides my family, it’s the buttery, yummy flavor of the Fuerte. My parents have a tree in their L.A. yard that blossoms during wintertime. Growing up, I had enough guacamole to bathe in.

Jim, meanwhile, is having fantasies about the locally grown tri-tip he saw last week. Maybe he can share it with Wyatt. Anyone else care to indulge in carnivore ecstasy, feel free to stop by.

We’ve been in Southern California longer than we anticipated, but even I, a recovering Angeleno, will admit that the  south end of the state has great winter weather and the best produce in America.

Borrego Springs is a funky, neat little town. I told Jim that maybe we should consider buying a cheap piece of land here to winter in. But then he reminded me; this is California. Nothing’s cheap. And with Moonbeam running for governor, the State’s really in trouble now! We’d better get out soon before we get taxed for breathing.

Slab City: love it or hate it.

Lovers are tolerant individuals who respect the many different lifestyle choices here. Haters just can’t seem to turn away from the trash heaps and shiftless drifters, and usually depart within 24 hours.

One might assume that Slab City Lovers are younger folks on the fringes of society, but as our neighbor Bernie demonstrates, that just ain’t so.

Bernie and his wife are snowbirds, spending summers in Washington and winters here at the Slabs.

He built this RV himself, handles all of his own rig maintenance, and is building a new cottage by hand back in Washington. A former HVAC repair man, he spends his afternoons lounging and riding his ATV around the desert. He and his wife have been vegan for the last 40 years.

Bernie is 80 years old. His wife is 75. They’re just one example of the many reasons why we love staying at kooky places like Slab City.

Because you just never know who’s going to rock your world here, like Don the musician.

Angelenos are getting all worked up over the rain that’s been falling on Southern California. Yesterday, a tornado warning was announced, and minutes later a small “tornadic-like” formation touched down and blew over a car. The hills are sliding and freeways are a mess. Parents are keeping their kids home from school.

Even though this kind of weather action is mild in comparison to our old stomping grounds of rainy, wet Humboldt County, we’re still glad to be staying in a stick house while riding this episode out.

The Los Angeles area hasn’t seen rain since Christmas. I was hoping we wouldn’t see any bad weather this winter, but it is January after all. When the rain started falling, I had to dig our rain jackets out of storage in the RV. Even funnel clouds and heavy rain won’t stop us from going outside every day. That’s because Wyatt Ray just won’t cut us any slack. If our one year-old puppy doesn’t get three walks a day, he will eat the furniture. Morning, noon and night, he begs to go outside for a walk, and we comply. Dogs are great at getting you to break away from work and into the great outdoors.

One morning, as Wyatt led me on a walk during a heavy downpour, my soaking wet clothes were an unpleasant reminder that the Gore-tex water-resistance on my gear is fading away.

Gear lust started whispering in my ear again; I want . . . I want . . . I want. . .

Time to start looking for something else, like maybe a new Berghaus jacket?

Jim and I have soft spots in our hearts for rescued animals. At one time we thought that our next business endeavor would be starting up a home for old dogs. We said we would call it “Jerry’s Kids.”

But in November 2007, we got a good dose of reality during our volunteer stint at Safe Harbor Animal Rescue in Maysville, North Carolina. Working there opened our eyes to the grueling work involved in running an animal sanctuary, and we quickly came to the conclusion that we just aren’t cut from the same cloth as those who give up their lives for animal rescue advocacy.

Last fall while we were still in Fort Collins, we stopped at Petco and met up with Karen Straight, executive director of Kindness Ranch, a rescue home for former lab research animals. I learned about them through my friend Lilla, who volunteered at their ranch in Hartville, Wyoming last year.

Kindness Ranch takes in animals who are released from research labs where they were subjected to product testing. Karen finds loving homes for those who are adoptable and ready for their first real homes. And for animals who are too challenging to adopt out because of issues resulting from their cruel imprisonment, Kindness Ranch is a sanctuary, and their last chance for happiness.

Karen was at Petco with a few dogs who are ready for homes, including Jack, pictured above.

Please help Kindness Ranch any way you can. This is a great organization with a heart of gold, and they need all of the assistance they can get for the animals.

I’ve come to realize my birthdays will never be the same. After forty years of big hallowed birthday blow out bashes, the last three on the road have been, for lack of a better word, calm. But that is not to say I didn’t enjoy my, ahem, 43rd birthday. René has a knack for brightening every day of my life. And Halloween this year was no exception. At least we weren’t hiding out from trick or treaters.

Any time I get to go out for a good piece of meat is a good time if you ask me. And I got just that at the Silverado casino. Note the key word here being good. My prime rib was not excellent, nothing to write home about really – then what am I doing here, you ask – but it was prime rib! It came complete with all the fixins (albeit no Yorkshire pudding), a decent soup and salad bar, and best of all, it was cheap! Though one would think the cocktails you pay for in a casino might actually include some liquor.

Considering there is really not much to choose from here in Fernley, NV when it comes to a night on the town, the Silverado was obviously the place to be. And we finished our meal in time to meet fellow full-timers Jenn and Johnny in Jake’s Lounge. So we didn’t spend my birthday alone either.

Watching the locals served as ample entertainment too. I just don’t believe we’ll be living here for the next few weeks, in a place where a man in black face – from head to toe – and fake dreads can win a costume contest, when a large Mexican chicken clearly deserved first prize. I swore years ago I would never step foot in Reno again, but I digress, yet again.

Celebrating on Halloween, the big question is always, “What did I do on my birthday?” Jenn told us about all the apple trees at the RV park where they are staying. So on my actual birthday we went apple-picking and I made my fresh apple sauce, to go with my most excellent pork chop birthday dinner.

If you missed my applesauce recipe video from last year, here is a rerun for you …

So, another birthday down. No big deal really, considering I celebrate every day as just another great day (Jerry taught me that). You see, if you ask me, we are all aging at the same speed. So one’s age in respect to others is irrelevant. Therefore, birthdays are no big deal. You are only as old as you think you are. Believe this, and you will never feel “old” – either that, or you will be miserable.

Aside from our episode with the drunkards, the Missile Site park felt like the safest place to be during our stay in Greeley. The same cannot be said for the sole tornado fatality from the one that touched down there last year. We were parked in the same spot as that poor soul.

But while we could see the wild storms coming and going all around Weld County, and we had our NOAA weather radio tuned in and handy, it was Pete who gave us the most confidence come time for the daily tornado warning. With his house blown away by the twister last year, Mr. Ambrose wasn’t about to let anyone else be taken by another storm on his watch.

We knew one warning was particularly dangerous when we saw Pete rounding up campers. And we can’t thank him enough for letting us all drive into the old decommissioned Atlas-E Missile Silo he knows so well.

What better place to sit out a tornado warning?

See for yourself in this personal tour Park Manager Pete Ambrose gave us of the Weld County Atlas-E Missile Site:

You meet all kinds on the road, especially if you like to camp on the cheap in free (or almost free) places, like the Greeley Missile Silo Campground where we stayed for a few weeks, in Greeley Colorado.

I found this $5 a night campground in FreeCampgrounds.com. It’s located far enough off the freeway that there’s not a lot of noise, and what made it especially appealing, other than the price, is it is literally located in farmland, and sits right atop a decommissioned missile silo. You can even go on a free tour given by the caretaker, and go deep into the bowels of this creepy military space.

As one of the only cheap boondocking spots between Loveland and Fort Collins, it’s a central place to stay for a night or two. But we pushed the limits of our tolerance for cheap RV camping spots, and stayed here for almost 3 weeks while we started our real estate search.

It was mostly quiet, but one afternoon, we crossed paths with another camper, a sketchy character who had been staying at the park in a tent. She stumbled out of the bathroom and short of breath, asked me to call 911. I screamed at Jim to get the cell phone. As he went to get it, her likewise sketchy boyfriend showed up, and told Jim “Oh don’t bother, she’s just been drinking. She does this all the time.”

Meanwhile, the woman collapsed on the grass, writhing and clutching her chest as if she’s having a heart attack. In short quick breaths she tells me “I . . . can’t . . breathe! Get him away from me!”

Jim is stunned. I grabbed the phone and dialed. We didn’t know if this was going to turn into a domestic violence episode or what, but I made the call, not wanting to take the chance that this woman was really going to croak.

While we waited for the paramedics, we realized that both she and her boyfriend were loaded, and both reeked so bad, like they had just hijacked a truck full of MadDog 20/20.

When the EMTs showed up, Jim and I ran inside the trailer. From the window, we watched them go through the motions of attempting to treat the woman. After a while we realized that they were weren’t moving too quickly, and were actually smirking at each other while the drunken woman was still on the ground. It was obvious there was nothing wrong with her, other than alcoholism.

She demanded that they take her to the hospital, and the EMTs complied. They took her away in the ambulance, while her boyfriend was questioned by the cops.

Suddenly, the lure of cheap camping had worn on my nerves. The next day after learning we didn’t get that dream property, I had a meltdown. Five dollars a night or not, I was done with that park, and wanted out.

Once we left the Missile Silo campground, I was actually relieved to be paying $500 a month rent at a KOA campground in Wellington, just north of Fort Collins. As much as I hate KOAs for all of the franchised predictability they represent, my paranoia slowly disappeared as summer kicked off and hoards of happy RVers started rolling in.

We’ll be hanging out in this trailer park with slightly more conventional people for the duration of summer, or until we find our ideal piece of land in the nearby mountains. This park is way more expensive and it reeks of the feedlot down the road, but at least it has a pool, and no bum fights either.

Last Fall as we left Colorado and headed to the Tetons and Yellowstone for Jerry’s final road trip adventure, we stopped in Fort Collins for lunch. A friend from Portland told us it was a cool place to live, and I thought that if a Portlander paid a compliment to the city, it must be something special.

And it is. Located north of Denver in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, this city’s vibrant downtown, thriving business community, bikeability, excellent university and great breweries immediately pulled us in, and has been calling us back ever since.

Nine months later, we have returned to scout the nearby mountains for Jerry’s land.

When we fell under the spell of this “Best Places” city, I didn’t know it at the time, but my long lost cousin, Robert (aka “Son”) Chavez lives here. He found me on FaceBook and we started communicating again for the first time since we were kids.

Our families have such a long history that even though we aren’t blood relatives, we still call each other “cousins.” Our Dads have known each other since the 1950s, and our families shared a lot of good times and camping trips while growing up. As life went on and we got older, our Dads still remained close, but the rest of us eight kids scattered about to live our lives.

When I found out that Son and his partner Steven, are Fort Collins locals, I was thrilled. When I learned that Steven’s sister and brother in law, Mike and Marie, are well-established real estate agents here, I was ecstatic. Then, I learned that one of my dearest friends, Renee, is moving here from California, and I’ve been giddy ever since! We are determined to find our mountain property somewhere within 1 hour of the city.

What a find. We have family and friends here, and we love the fact that we can get lost in the Rockies yet still so close to such an aweseome town. It’s everything we’ve been looking for.

After two years of searching, it really feels like our destiny is written here. Now, if we could only find that property . . .

When we passed through Louisiana last year, we got a taste of the New Orleans night life. But even though we spent time with a crawfish farmer in Creole country, we never got to experience the true flavor of the deep south.

We had to wait until we got all the way back up to Colorado for some authentic crawfish étouffée and fried catfish. Huh?

Yup. Our friends Lilla and Neal hail from Colorado Springs but have deep roots in Lousiana. And when we discovered they just purchased their own little piece of paradise near Westcliffe, CO, we decided to meet these fun folks and find out what developing some raw land is really like. Being treated to some serious southern fare for dinner was an added bonus.

Lilla and Neal have connections back home who send them provisions unavailable in the Rockies, like blue crab claws, fresh gulf shrimp, and crawfish. And while I refuse to call crawfish “seafood” – They live in the mud! – I will admit they are quite tasty. Especially how Neal prepared them in a rich étouffée which must have contained about six sticks of butter.

Apparently, the secret to good étouffée is a good roux. And Neal’s secret is that he found a good roux in a jar. Oops! Sorry, secret no more. But seriously, preparing roux is difficult, and it’s not the type of intensive food preparation one undertakes in a pop-up tent trailer. And neither is fried catfish, but they did. And I’m glad they did.

It is now obvious that the trick to good fried catfish is coating the fillets with mustard before dredging them in seasoned flour. Then frying them fast, in lots of hot oil, which Neal did outside on a camping grill.

We tried frying fish in our trailer once and the smell lingered for about a week. Kinda like how this rich meal lingered with us long after Lilla and Neal left us to hang out on their property while we continued our search for a little paradise of our own. We didn’t need to eat again for days. But we did, because they left us with the leftovers.

Almost a year to the date we were in Luckenbach last year with Jerry, we returned to boondock in the same field in April. Remembering the fun Jerry had romping in their field and hanging out at the bar was bittersweet, but the kind folks, cold beer and incredible music of Luckenbach helped to soothe our aching hearts just a little.

How comforting it was to see that some things stay the same. Musican/bartender Danny Terry was still there, and Tuesday night, master fiddler and guitar player Levi Darr and friends jammed at the pickin’ circle.

Poor Levi wasn’t so lucky that night. During a break he got served by the local sheriff for something, but without hesitation he returned to the pickin’ circle, looked at the audience with a cute smirk on his face, and lit the place on fire! Nothing like suffering to make creativity blossom.

We had only planned to stay there four nights (despite the latest increase from $10 to $15 a night to camp in their field…ouch!), but Friday night after the big dance, those big Texas skies opened up. By Saturday morning, there were lightning shows, golfball sized hail, and three inches of water on the field surrounding our trailer.

Later that day, I got the truck stuck in wet, soggy mud while leaving to go shopping, and that’s when we realized we weren’t going anywhere for at least another day.

While there are far worse places to be stuck in, we were running out of waste water tank space, and after five days at the bar, the accumulation of smoke in our hair and our increasingly swollen beer bellies was getting old.

Thankfully, on Saturday afternoon, the sun came out and dried the field. On Sunday, Jim was able to carefully navigate the trailer back onto the road.

Another lesson learned in Texas: If the skies open up and you’re parked off pavement, move!

Here’s a five-song playlist of the great bands we saw.