The Road Just Keeps Calling

My wife Colleen and I just completed another road trip in our 2005 Roadtrek camper van, aka Riggy.

If I look at her white reflection in a rippled body of water, I can almost see the good old ’63 Chev wagon we drove on our first date in 1973. Her antenna was proudly dressed in plastic apples and bananas topped by a flower. She cost $200 and we wondered why people stared at us when they passed. We were headed for a friend’s wedding in Princeton, NJ but forgot to turn left in Boise. Thus we ended up on the beach of Mazatlán, Mexico in a foreshadow…

On the last day of this trip, we visited my sister in assisted living and had the stunning realization that many of the residents were our age or younger. Our trip resided in a different universe from theirs. A couple weeks later we met old friends who were clearly starting to drift. The chilling message — appreciate every moment.

Pre-trip, I set a general intent of learning something from Native Americans in the Southwest. I knew this to be an audacious and likely unrealistic request. Post-trip someone asked me what I learned. I hadn’t taken time to process and said, “Maybe I’ll know when I write about it.”

Well into the trip, we headed north from Prescott, AZ towards the Hopi Indian Reservation. Our style is to not plan far ahead, as a way to invite in spontaneity, but also because we’re not very tech organized or savvy. We had no idea where to stay that night. We’d heard of an RV park in Cameron, Arizona which was only an hour north but might make sense with our late start. A quick search with a terrible internet connection on our phone showed no place to stay in Hopi land. I knew it would be disrespectful to just pull over somewhere to sleep. As a failsafe, I know we can pull over almost anywhere for one night since everyone would think we were guests of someone else. A second night might draw scrutiny. If I suggest trying that, Colleen always ixnays it. But I had no inclination to do that there.

I’ve learned it’s often worth the effort to get opinions. It’s a way to give the universe an opportunity to be kind. I called the Hopi Cultural Center and asked the receptionist if she knew of a place to park Riggy for one night’s sleep.

She said, “You can park in our parking lot, no problem.”

I said, “Great, thank you!”

We stopped at the huge Cameron Trading Post that was swarming with buses and tourists who were largely coming and going to and from the Grand Canyon about an hour away. The heart of Hopi land was also an hour away in the opposite direction.

I walked inside the trading post I vaguely remembered from 1973. Now it was a different world. It was twenty times larger and ninety percent of the art was clearly cheap imported artwork in Native American style. But not all of it. Colleen took one look, turned around and said, “I’ll meet you outside.” I wanted a new bolo and decided to take a deeper look. I found a section that seemed authentic. One bolo caught my eye and a salesperson noticed. He took me behind the counter to look at it. He told me his heritage is Hopi as was the bolo.

Colleen and I were on the fence about staying at the very crowded RV park across from the trading post on busy Highway 89. Should we take the word of one young woman I spoke to for thirty seconds on the phone? What if she has no authority to say what she told us? We were leaning towards playing it safe and staying in Cameron. I told the salesman my dilemma and asked his opinion since he was Hopi. He looked hard in my eyes and said, “Go there, you’ll be fine.” Thus a random interaction opened the door to magic.

The bolo was clearly authentic and I loved it, but it was also expensive in spite of the “veteran discount” the salesman offered me even though I told him I’m not a vet. The trading post was too weird to feel good about a big investment and besides I hadn’t even stepped foot on Hopi land yet. Maybe there would be jewelry with more meaning.

We got to the Hopi Cultural Center (a restaurant, hotel and art center) around sunset and it was far from clear where we could park and even if we could. I went into the restaurant and asked likely the same woman I spoke to, who seemed to be the gateway to everything. She laughed about me being concerned and told me to park amongst the trees in the open field next to the center. No one else was parked there and two res dogs immediately adopted us and hung out like we were old friends.

I was shocked at the lack of tourists on this main road through the Hopi Reservation in such proximity to the hoards going to the Grand Canyon. There are First, Second and Third Mesa towns which are clearly not open to tourists. I didn’t see signs specifically saying that, but it felt obvious. I shudder to think that I once drove into one of them as a clueless twenty something. Maybe my naivety was entertaining to the locals.

I asked the receptionist if she knew of anyone offering tours. She pulled out a list of licensed tour guides on official tribal stationary and suggested one. I called him and we amazingly booked a tour first thing next morning. He had a Caucasian first name he doesn’t like or use. His last name is Hopi and that is his tag. He patiently told me how to pronounce it and kept at it until I got it right, which took a while. His insights were the knowledge I sought.

Our almost seven week trip was accomplished without plugging into electricity once. Our ‘house’ batteries are charged by solar panels and the car engine when we’re moving. We used 439 gallons of gas and 20 gallons of propane that together cost about $2000 plus environmental impact. We covered 5512 miles. I acknowledge we’re consumptive Americans using road trips as a gateway to spontaneity and magic and I own that. ln many campgrounds we paid for electricity but never bothered to use it. There were also lots of nights in friend’s driveways. The feeling of having everything we need contained in our tiny home on wheels and being able to park anywhere is very liberating. Similar to 1973 but with higher standards.

Colleen and I lived 24/7 in approximately a hundred square feet of living space. A friend of hers said she and her husband would kill each other if they were in that small of a space for so long. Maybe it relates to our origin story being a road trip or maybe we’re two wandering souls who have connected, but we seem to get along better whenever we’re on the road. On Riggy trips, Subaru Outback road trips and trips with rented cars in the US or Europe… almost all rough edges come up suddenly with tense traffic situations…and one of us is a gasper.

Once home we had two weeks to unpack, catch up on mail and various other things before rebooting and taking a one week Riggy trip to an idyllic lake in a state park in central WA. But reality doesn’t take breaks. Near the end of our road trip our house sitter told us that a leak in our home’s outside shower was dripping into the bathroom and basement. I called a handyman helper from the road. He and a friend had the wall torn apart and put back together, painted as well as plumbing fixed our second day home.

Within the two week window I also tried to send some “best of” photos from the trip to our two sons and families. The computer froze. After untold hours over many days with Apple Support I was sure that my computer was hopeless and had to be sent to Apple for repairs. But the optimist in me gave it one more try and during this fourth try an employee thought he figured it out (just like the first three) but it turns out he was right.

Intermingled with the messed up computer time, I did the Poetry Half Marathon. I wrote twelve poems that had to be written, edited and sent in by the end of twelve hours after a prompt.  Half my marathon time was spent rebooting the computer – which gave my inner critic no air to breathe. I think this oddly helped me be present in each moment of writing.

In all fairness, Riggy is far from immune to issues. A backdrop of our trip was low level problems. For the first three weeks our usable water system would periodically completely empty itself (luckily outside the camper). Troubleshooting something I’d avoided learning much about was challenging. I figured it related to the hot water heater. I considered just doing without hot water. But I love the luxury of having it, so I periodically tried various solutions that flashed across my brain

In Santa Barbara, we called ahead to an RV repair shop along our route to LA. They told us to just drop by at 1:00. Two mechanics spent half an hour trouble-shooting and found a valve turned wrong. They didn’t even charge us! We hoped they were right (though it seemed far-fetched) and it worked until it didn’t. This led to more head scratching and experimenting. I kept trying new theories. I shocked myself by realizing I hadn’t googled this problem and when I did, read about a temperature pressure regulator, that I’d never heard of.

Ten days later in Prescott we again decided to see professionals. They did a thorough evaluation, just charged us two thirds of their normal rate (for which the receptionist said we were lucky), and came up with another far-fetched solution which worked until it didn’t.  I had asked the mechanic if Riggy had a temperature pressure regulator. He showed it to me and said it wasn’t the problem because it was completely dry. I asked, “Even if we were just in a hundred degrees?” He said yes. A hundred miles up the road we were at a scenic overlook on the way to Jerome, AZ (that prides itself on all the uphill curves to and downhill curves from the town.) Water was pouring out of the temperature pressure regulator.

Our next stop — Camp Verde, AZ — we stayed in the driveway of an acquaintance from many years ago in Idaho and her spouse. He’s a retired mechanic, building a new car from scratch. I thought we needed a specialty part and showed him the problem. He looked at it and said he had several in the garage. With extreme force he got the twenty year old temperature pressure regulator to budge and took it out. He did most of the tightening of a new one until he turned it over to me for fine tuning. The Camp Verde Miracle I might call it. We joked with our hosts about how many others might randomly have that particular part in their garage. We had dinner on their beautiful deck looking out to the lush southwest landscape. The next day our friend took us to nearby ancient cave dwellings.

We wanted to take them out to dinner, but restaurants were either closed or had nothing vegetarian for us. We ended up at a Mexican restaurant that had said there was lard in everything when we called them. Perhaps we’d have quesadillas (we eat cheese). In person the waitress guaranteed they had beans without lard and we had a delicious meal on their deck that was a perfect evening temperature after a sweltering day.

Riggy’s water system had a new lease on life the rest of the trip. The lesson? Well the problem wasn’t solved until I forced myself to address it and then figured out what three experts couldn’t. There’s a fine line between over-functioning and being passive.

Later in the trip I was getting gas in Desert Hot Springs and a faulty gas pump took forever to fill our tank and then gushed out gas in the end. The check engine light came on as soon as we drove away. I pulled over and called our mechanic back home. She immediately knew the problem and that it had an easy solution with a hard to get to part, requiring a lift. She said, other than gas mileage going down, it wouldn’t do any harm. But by the Oregon coast I didn’t feel good about the situation and called a mechanic from a Lucky 7 gas station. The mechanic said, “I can’t get you in today and I’m shooting myself in the foot by telling you this. But take your gas cap off. Drive a hundred miles and the problem will be solved. Go to an auto shop to have them turn off the check engine light and you’ll be good. The gas that’s clogging the filter that regulates the gas/oxygen mixture will have evaporated.” I did what he said and it worked! Lucky!

Another small problem was the knob on our water closet kept jamming and we had to tie the door closed with a bungie cord to a nearby closet. I tried dripping some three-in-one oil on the knob mechanism to no avail. I called a mobile mechanic who wasn’t available but said if it were him, he’d blast it with three-in-one oil. Maybe I hadn’t used enough. I borrowed a spray can and blasted it. We haven’t had a problem since.

There is something deeply satisfying about solving problems I know nothing about. It’s metaphorical for life. There is no blueprint to the future except some vague mix of  experience, genetical yearning and the flutter of butterfly wings.

While traveling, Colleen is in charge of food and I’m the mechanical guy by default. Solving stuff in conjunction with everyday things like “Where do we stay tomorrow?” helps me appreciate our fifty plus years together. Every couple has a different dance between instinct and knowledge and also knowing when to act and when to wait. We’ve had so many times we were confused about an issue, idea, plan…. and clarity was evasive. Some undefined moment often bursts forth in certainty – often during morning tea. Sometimes what seemed like procrastination looks like a creative pause in the rear view mirror. And I’m appreciative we’ve followed that guiding light so often. Life changing decisions sometimes take weeks or months of scrutiny while solutions sometimes come in thunderbolts.

Once we had a meeting with an architect to design a house on some beautiful land we owned. On the ride home Colleen asked me if I truly wanted to continue living in that town. I thought about it for a few seconds and then said no. Our lives pivoted on that soul searching pause.

Canyon de Chelly National Monument Park campground was a highlight from our inaugural ’73 road trip. Fifty-one years later we were back. I have a startling memory of us sitting on the hood of the ol’ Chev, blissing out on the beauty of the pristine canyon below while having our morning Wheat Chex in wooden bowls. Navajo farmers with idyllic looking herds of sheep might have been their ancestors generations ago. A large RV pulled up near us and some kids came out and promptly threw empty pop cans into the canyon. We didn’t translate our shock into action as our opened mouths remained silent.

This canyon was where the final major military engagement between the settlers and Navajos took place. It was followed by The Long Walk where thousands of Navajos died during a forced relocation.

That first trip we barely had any money but experienced a rugged beauty far different than our planned New Jersey destination. This time we didn’t have to worry about funds but were equally entranced in our comfortable camper.

On a previous long trip in Riggy, we stayed in a garage turned Airbnb in South Pasadena and parked Riggy on the street. Colleen was getting supplies from Riggy to bring inside. When she got out, a passerby eyed her like she was a homeless person invading the neighborhood. In Navajo land, we were settlers occupying ancestral lands and they have every right to eye us as the invaders that we are. All we can do is be respectful and realize what our culture has done to theirs and appreciate that we’re allowed to visit.

One canyon trail is normally open to tourists but was closed due to vandalism. We coincidentally were visiting during a special week that offered Navajo led ranger hikes. We caught a ride in a Toyota 4 Runner to the trailhead that would have been inaccessible in Riggy. About fifteen of us began the hike, including a Navajo couple that were approximately forty-year-olds. They impulsively joined the hike that morning. The man grew up hiking these canyons and it was a nostalgia tour for him.

It took a while for my Northwest consciousness to grasp that the rocks were so dry it was like walking on sandpaper. It was a far cry from the slippery wet rocks we are used to. I didn’t look down into the gaping uncomfortably steep chasms below until we stopped. I forced myself not to think about what would happen if I slipped. Colleen felt over her head on this rigorous hike but kept her focus and composure. The Navajo couple became her angels. It seemed automatic for them to give her a hand or an arm for stability when needed. This hike was the heart of our trip and these angels amongst the otherworldly beauty were a gift. These hills probably looked pretty much the same for millennia. When we reached the valley floor we walked a half mile in ankle to knee-deep warm water in a river before reaching some land with panoramic views to the cliffs above that seemed to change constantly as the sun moved in and out of puffy white clouds. Temperatures were in the seventies.

Other tourist drove by in packed jeeps driven by Navajo guides clearly having fun hot-rodding through the water. That would normally be the only way for outsiders to be there (while supporting the local economy) but we had the fortune of a more unadulterated visit.

The Hopi have the longest continually habituated towns in North America. There is nothing even remotely settler that we could see on our initial tour with our Hopi guide. On the edge of some towns were government housing that apparently has caused a bit of a controversy for existing. With my limited experience, the rest of the town reminded me of a small Mexican village. It feels like clocks might tick in slower motion than in the hyped-up western lives we’re used to.

Our Hopi guide poured his heart out. He told us of his uncle who had been a Code Talker as well as a plane gunner in WW II. The Code Talkers had to improvise words that didn’t exist in Hopi. For instance fighter plane became hummingbirds. Mortar base might be gun that squats.

His uncle was never the same when he returned. He couldn’t reconcile the innocent people he killed as a gunner. They spoke to him in dreams. He started drinking and said he deserved to be left to die among the wild animals. His remains were found after he disappeared and it was clear he had walked into the wild to meet the fate he felt he deserved.

Our guide said that we, as guests, were like clouds bringing much needed rain to the Hopi. This statement startled me. He could actually see our presence as a positive thing? I pondered the lack of tourist industry as he said that and wondered if he would keep that opinion if his land was inundated with tourists like the nearby Grand Canyon. But since it hasn’t happened maybe they attract visitors that are somehow the right people for the time being.

There are only about fifteen thousand Hopi’s and all is not ideal. There are different factions within the tribe and at times there are strained relations with Navajo neighbors. Once some outsiders stole our guide’s entire corn crop – not leaving one stalk standing. His wife cried. “I hope they were nourished by it,” he said. “I have no anger toward them.” I felt like a disciple with a guru as he said that in a Gandhi-like way.

As part of our tour he showed us ladders coming out of a small round underground structure that he shocked me by saying is big enough to hold a hundred and fifty people. I would have guessed twenty. But all I could see was the entry. He said he leads a religious ceremony there once a month. He also told us the tribe was hit hard by the Covid Pandemic in spite of being very careful and pushing hard for vaccinations as well as isolating the tribe from outsiders. I didn’t ask but wondered if religious ceremonies continued during Covid.

He took us to a roadside overlook onto the vast open land stretching to the horizon. There were some nearby scrubby and parched plants I would normally see as weeds. He explained that we were at a natural vegetable/herb garden for his tribe (like all of the nearby land). Suddenly the plants came alive. He showed us which roots were eaten and which leaves used for teas and balms. He also explained how they grow plants such as corn with virtually no rain some years. He said the land is sacred to them and that is why there is no development as far as we could see.

He left me with a feeling that can be lost in our cyber/mechanized/speedy world. A feeling of appreciation and oneness with our surroundings.

Our next stop after Canyon de Chelly was Navajo National Monument. There was little traffic on the road and we’d heard through the travel grapevine of a free tribally run campground there. I dawdled during the drive…stopping at various interesting spots. Colleen seemed a little antsy about all the stops and was motivated to keep moving. It turned out to be one of the nicest campgrounds of our trip and we lucked into a nice camping spot since it was surprisingly (to me, not Colleen) almost full. Fifteen minutes later we might have been out of luck.

We took several hikes to overlooks of former cliff dwelling sights. When I looked at the caves, I imagined the civilization that thrived there and considered the barren and rugged landscape above. Someone walking above would see no sign of human life until coming upon the vibrant canyon. The canyon itself was a mini climate that included a very different world including deciduous trees that thrived because of water draining from nearby hillsides. The lush valley floor had supported farming and pasturing.

I pondered a campground north of Santa Barbara earlier in our trip where we made advance reservations. I questioned the $160 per night price for merely a place to park. The woman on the 800 number said, “Location, location, location.” It did have a pool we didn’t use. The campers were crammed in like sardines. I asked a camper how he liked it there. “I love it,” he said. “I bring the family here twice a year.”

Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado represented a turning point in our trip. After a long and steep climb to 8500 feet it was cold enough that we just went outside for a walk in the evening amongst a rain/snow mix. Normally we put out chairs for morning tea and cook dinner outside on our portable propane stove. We cooked and ate inside and for a half hour before bed used a propane portable heater designed for camper vans that we dub “our fireplace.”

Our plans changed on a dime. We were going to head north into the magical parks of southern Utah and up into rugged Idaho and eastern Oregon. Colleen thought it would be too cold. I agreed and realized I felt saturated by all the natural beauty we had experienced. The idea of a second visit with our kids and their families in LA and Santa Barbara was more heartfelt. We could also see other friends we missed heading south.

We had gone to Mesa Verde to see cliff dwellings. The cold almost snowy morning pushed us to not bother driving an hour to the cliff dwellings. It made no sense with our new itinerary heading us south. We made some camping reservations from the Mesa Verde park office for fear of no internet later and turned around. We had a long drive ahead of us. We had friends in Durango that we could now surprise. Our GPS went berserk in Durango, sending us in circles. I tried using the on-foot option. It also routed me in a circle. After a half hour and with a long drive still ahead, we gave up.

Our hasty travel plans from Mesa Verde had us going right past our camping spot for the second night on the first night. I realized that fifty miles out and luckily had enough cell reception to call both places and switch days…saving us a hundred miles of driving. That day felt like the one nothing went right but ended with an amazing soak in Ojo Caliente Hot Springs north of Santa Fe. We only paid for the next day’s soak since it was late, but the friendly receptionist comped us an evening pass. That off kilter day’s stress melted in the hot springs and was a miniature version of the whole trip and maybe our whole lives. When things don’t go right, move on to plan B.

The last day of our trip, now in Washington State, included two heartfelt connections, the second rainbow of the trip and by far the worst traffic jam. We stayed at old school buddy Marshall’s home and had a leisurely morning hike along the nearby ocean. Our rambling conversation covered our fifty years of wildly different experiences.

Sleep was better than usual for me during the trip. Our foam bed is ultra-comfortable. Even when we were on the brink of snow we were never cold except sometimes getting up in the morning. Those few times we used the fireplace. We never used a heat source during the night though we had them if needed.

On the other end of the temperature spectrum were hundred degree days in Anza Borrego State Park in California. Even those evenings were comfortable due to twin opening doors behind the bed and a slight breeze. There are also ‘wing’ windows at the head and foot of the bed that we often open for air as well as an overhead vent.

Leaving the ocean, we drove into busy Seattle to see my sister and thoroughly enjoyed a rambling discussion about the old days and her current situation as we had dinner in her assisted living community near Green Lake. We were also waiting out rush hour. We left  with hopes of an hour and a half cruise north to our home. After being on the road so long it seemed like a dream that we would be back in our home bed that evening. And for a while I wasn’t sure we would be.

We didn’t know that someone had gone crazy on the freeway a half hour north of Seattle and ended up getting shot by a policeman and closing the freeway in both directions for eight hours. This is one of the most congested traffic areas in the country in the best of times.

We were cruising north when traffic suddenly stopped. By now I had gotten in the groove of driving Riggy. I drove her like a sports car, maneuvering through traffic as Colleen tried various apps that gave us different opinions. We hit a road block. The apps were no help. We found ourselves on a hopelessly clogged street heading the wrong direction toward Seattle.

I seriously considered pulling off and trying to sleep until the jam ended but went rogue and headed east. I miraculously found a mostly open lane. Suddenly there was a dramatic rainbow straight ahead just before sunset. The other rainbow of the trip was with our son Devan and his girlfriend Miya in El Capitan State Park, north of Santa Barbara. That one seemed magical just like this one. I made a not exactly legal right turn onto a northbound road from the left lane, but it was safe since everyone was creeping.

Five minutes later we entered I-5 north and were cruising at 65 on the freeway north and we both felt like we should pinch ourselves. We only lost an hour from that horrendous traffic. I later read of a woman who was stuck in that traffic for eight hours.

That odd last day of our trip was a reminder that for every traffic jam there is a rainbow. Every old friend you contact touches a place that existed long before cars.

Between trips, Riggy feels a little forlorn in her new fancy metal carport, complete with electricity. She’s plugged in because the roof blocks her solar panels. It feels like she’s on life support, which contrasts to her being free when we’re on the road.

I never exercise other than long walks during Riggy trips. I exercise daily at home. I feel better physically when traveling in Riggy. Do my exercises at home irritate things? Am I reaping the benefit of all those years doing the exercises, like built up good karma? Maybe it’s having a more focused life with much less on our daily agenda while traveling. Being in Riggy is like the old adage of chop wood, carry water. There’s less to do and it’s a lesson in simple.

Much like at home we have morning and evening routines. They’re the same and different. We fill the tea pot with water before bed. I’m first up and turn on the tea kettle and take my vitamins. Then I get dressed in the front. If it’s cold this can be slightly challenging. If it’s really cold I turn on the ‘fireplace.’ And often at the very moment I’m ready, the tea kettle whistles and I get the large tea mugs out of the pantry and tea bags from our pull-out herb drawer as well as long spoons and honey and stevia. When it’s cold we have tea inside but more often tea is in our comfortable REI collapsible chairs. Some days we move to an area in direct sun and other times it’s already getting hot and we look for shade behind Riggy.

In the evening Colleen is usually reading in bed and I’m checking the sports scores and catching up on emails on my iPhone. I take evening vitamins and change into pajamas up front. I usually feel pretty tired/exhausted by the time I ask Colleen to sit up to let me get into bed around her. I melt into the cushy bed and usually drift off quickly into deep sleep.

At home, in addition to daily stretching and yoga exercises every morning, I do a lot of walking, about 12,000 steps average per day. On this Riggy trip I averaged over 11,000 steps somehow. Other people might sit down and relax with a good book. I had two books along and read zero. I always chose a walk or a hike instead.

On the trip to the lake after our long trip, we spent most of the time just hanging out at the park while hiking and swimming. As we rolled down our driveway to go there I went “oh oh.” The check engine light had come on again! Thus is life. Upon returning and a fairly expensive mechanic’s bill, all is well.

Riggy has a water closet which earns its title with a squeezed in toilet. During the pandemic, this was all we used while traveling. Current era we mostly use campground bathrooms which ranged from extremely funky to very neat and clean. How much we use them relates to where they were on that cleanliness spectrum. Some even had showers – which was a treat when available.

The other day I was at an evening concert in a park and used the bathroom. I was surprised to realize its starkness would have been luxurious during our trip. My standards had quickly reverted to being used to the luxury of home. But that doesn’t mean anything when I feel the call of the road.

This essay has one word for each of the 5512 miles of our trip.