Vermont to Maine

The woods near our moochdock in Massachusetts carried contradictory signs. Could we or could we not hunt the wabbit? 

Just the start of Fall:

Lake Chocorua New Hampshire. The story goes a family of settlers called Campbell got in a fight with Chocorua’s family and it ended with Campbell killing the Indian chief on top of the mountain. 

The nature conservancy says this view of Mount Chocorua is the most photographed landscape in the northeastern United States. So there you have it. 

Saxton’s Distillery, Brattleboro on a 75 degree sunny afternoon:

Concord New Hampshire. We had left behind the Hobbit Town feel of contrarian Vermont and the live free or die state seemed rather boringly normal by comparison. I did wear my seatbelt the whole day driving through even though it’s not required. Live free and die I figured. 

I expected no internet connection in grizzly Maine but we have plans to wander the Far North so who knows how it will be the deeper we get? Our first night in the Pine Tree State was a wild camp in the White Mountain National Forest.  

Heavy rain pounded the van and I barely got Rusty walked before the heavens opened up. 

Clearing For Customs

We’re sitting in the pool at Rancho Acosta, on the outskirts of Álamos, Sonora.On a 99 degree day it feels a lot cooler than 112 degrees. 

“We need to figure out what day we’re going back to the States” Layne says out of the blue. 

“Why?” is the only thing I can say. Most of this five month trip we’ve been operating by-guess-and-by-God, making it up as we go along. Now suddenly it’s time to make a hard core plan. We’ll never stick to it, is all I can think. 

“We need to get the van ready to cross back to the US.”  Let’s face it: Layne the former lawyer is usually right on matters of financing, socializing, planning, cooking and stocking the Promaster with food. Indeed our whole retirement madness to drive around at random as houseless nomads is based on the plan she hatched in 2016. 

That comment in the pool was why we suddenly found ourselves emptying lockers, throwing out crap we hadn’t used since we left Key West October 25th last year. 

“A flour sifter?” I protested. 

“We’ll I might need it. You said it was a good idea,” the master planner  riposted. 

“I said it was a good idea on the boat when we were miles from a bakery and carried fifty pounds of flour,” I replied. I used to pride myself at being a pretty decent baker under way back in the era of paper recipes and metric conversions worked out in a long private mumble multiplying cups by ounces and converted by dividing the result by 28 to get grams. Or something like that. I let my phone do the work now. But we don’t bake in the van. There’s no room and Mexicans have become demon bread bakers in the last twenty years. They even make great pizzas. 

I put the flour sifter reverently next to the trash can. The following day a campground employee snagged it with great joy when I told him we didn’t want it. Next I got on my knees at the back of the van and put the official Florida tag on the door. We had been using a homemade tag ordered on Etsy to look identical to our official tag. Except it has no registration sticker. The idea was if it gets stolen we carry a few unofficial spares in the safe onboard. Saves dealing with the Florida DMV if we find ourselves in a distant land with a stolen tag. 

I’m not excited about going home. There’s the good stuff, friends and elaborate meals and a nostalgic go around checking places off my list of not yet seen wonders. But I like Mexico. I like being on the road. I get a thrill in the morning when we settle in for a few hours driving to places unknown to me. I love being a nomad. I love buying food at roadside stands, of learning to figure out currencies and customs. I love being treated like an adult in countries where your health and safety are protected by your common sense not by lawsuits and warning stickers. I love driving in Mexico where the most important rule is use your four way flashers if you’re going to do something idiotic. I’m dreading going back to the land of aggressive passing and instant road rage. Layne says I’m much happier than ever I was when we sailed from San Francisco to Key West nearly a quarter century ago. She says even when we end up doing unplanned stupid stuff like getting stuck in the sand or being  forced to back up a track because of a dead end, that’s when  I’m having the most fun. I guess I’m more a van lifer than a sailor. 

One thing both have in common is getting ready for customs inspections. We used to anchor out of sight before approaching the port of entry. We’d do just as we’re doing with GANNET2 getting the van ready for inspection by removing things that annoy customs inspectors like fresh food and alcohol and stuff. 

The date of said border crossing? Well, we are pretty certain it will be at Naco a tiny border post no one knows about. 

But the day? Gosh, that’s a tough one. We’re shooting for the fifteenth but anything could happen to delay us so we have some breathing room as our papers require us to leave by the 27th. “We don’t have time to go back and hit Morelia one more time do we?” The planner in chief looked at me in that way she has when I want to buy some extra coconut cakes from the vendor at the speed bump on the highway.  

No of course we can’t revisit Michoacán or Oaxaca or Veracruz or Chiapas. But I am assured we’ll get lunch at the Bisbee Breakfast Club with Bruce and Celia  when we finally do take the plunge. I’m easily bribed. Arizona here we come.Eventually. 

Panama 1999. Miki G and crew. 

 

Lake Amistad Campers

Lake Amistad lies about twenty minutes by Promaster camper van east of Del Rio, bisected by Highway 90 which heads west into the wilds north of the Rio Grande. It is a national recreational area and campsites are offered by private operators as well as public campsites like ours.

The fleshpots of Del Rio lie twenty minutes away down Highway 90 so despite the apparent wilderness and lack of amenity the place is quite easy to stay in the full 14 days even for people who like to eat out and shop.

Of amenity at the Governor's Campground where we stayed there was not much but entirely adequate for our modest needs. Strategically spaced pit toilets of superior cleanliness, trash cans diligently emptied by National parks Staff and a couple of water faucets. We could have attached our own hose and filled our 35 gallon tank had we not done so already at Walmart. These considerations make or break life for people on the road.

The lake was a joint venture by Mexico and the US nd planned during World War Two, not as a military project but simply as a way to provide electricity in the post war world. In talking about it with some thoughtful neighbors we met, we marveled at how the other side of life, the normal boring day to day planning continues even as the rest of the world blows up. The Battle of Britain half a word away didn't stop engineers thinking about hydro electricity in Southwest Texas.

Those same neighbors mentioned they were here during the Great Freeze of 2020 so while the rest of the state froze, power-free, the customers supplied by the Amistad ("friendship") dam on both sides of the border carried on as usual. This was our spot overlooking the lake and quite private it was too.

There are tent sites and parking spaces and some pull through spaces for longer larger rigs but we were satisfied with the view here (!). The camp sites were incidentally quite private. These aren't campgrounds for loud partiers or intrusive neighbors as people off the grid are usually looking for a natural environment and peace and quiet.

The fees are absurd. For young vital people with incomes and youth on their side the charge is ten dollars a day and you can stay up to 14 days. For rickety seniors and assorted impecunious old folk the charge is a mere $5 if you have the Senior Pass for National Parks. We have reserved a space at Cottonwood Campground in Big Bend with the same lack of amenity for a mere $8 a day. We are so lucky to have these places available to all of us. 

Layne looked around and said "I could stay here three days," but there again she has a cousin in Tucson who is expecting us...There is traffic noise I might add and the picturesque bridge on the left is a railroad track so there is that too. Our van is well enough insulated we don't hear much noise and rumbling traffic never bothers us for some reason. We also have an unnatural tolerance for not being perfectly level in the van. No idea why we are so blessed.

Peering through the sage and thorn bushes one might discern a neighbor!

So the day starts with me rolling our of our very comfortable bed and dressing myself and Rusty to face the world. It always starts with a walk and as the day was gray and overcast I figured we should roam further afield and see what the surroundings offered. We set off down the road. Deb from Ohio was walking with Ned on their morning romp and soon caught up to my ambling dog who was sniffing fit to inhale half west Texas. New smells for my Rusty.

They have been on the road for four years in their trailer interspersed with foreign travels in Latin America and Europe. We fell to walking together on the road, Ned marveling at the Rusty's voice obedience which I explained had taken some not inconsiderable effort walking the back roads fo the Keys...I marveled at Ned's sidearm carried Texas style on his hip. Apparently they like to walk at night and had heard some interesting wildlife including a local version of a panther or mountain lion known as an ocelot. I would point my camera at it but Ned, retired military man had previously received different and perhaps more useful training apparently. 

They were staying at the military campground a mile or so away from Governor's Landing, similar I suppose to Sigsbee in Key West where retired military can stay at a reasonable price in an unreasonable town. Had I grown up in the US I would have considered the military an excellent way to get an education but as a retiree I had never considered the camping perks! I got coffee and cookies and we talked and laughed for an unconscionable long time as they had excellent stories to tell. They re waiting for Covid to let up just as we are for international travel to resume. They re having fun doing the waiting.

Rusty got his water so full of mental and physical refreshment we both ambled off back down the road. I hadn't heard from Herself on the phone so I assumed she was still asleep. I sent her the picture above noting we had been adopted and never heard back so I figured we had time to dawdle.

In the picture above you see sage which is all over the place and to my nostrils doesn't smell anything like as strong as the stuff one eats but I am not a botanist. Ned told me the leaf turns purple after the rains and does it quite spectacularly so at last I know why Western literature goes on so much about the mythical "purple sage." The stuff you learn while in a van.

I like trains and I used to miss the tracks and the sound of the train horn in the train-free Keys so I never pass up an opportunity to photograph those leading lines. There was a pick up truck that had a horn that made a sound like a train horn and people used to get as mad as wet hens when he sounded it driving around Key West. I never said a word for fear of being lynched but I rather liked it.

The couple driving the SUV and trailer above, Alicia and Mark backed onto their spot after us and were extremely polite in asking if we minded them pulling forward into our space to line the rig up to go backwards. Oddly enough Mark grew up not very far at all from where I was born in England and lives in Canada. Alicia got the trailer ten short days before becoming our overnight neighbors and made backing up in the dark look simple. No trees shrubs or outhouses were harmed in the operation.

That ended up being another long evening fo chatting of this and that and it turns out they want to visit the Keys so were curious about what we had to say. Price as always is prohibitive and with a trailer it would be so much harder to be unobtrusive. Then again how do they park the trailer and use the car around town for the day? Laye called around to see if anyone had a space but so far no luck. Some days Gannet 2 seems rather narrow but other days the versatility of fitting into a car space, the unobtrusive nature of a delivery van help justify the vast expense and limited living space of a custom converted Promaster.

For the rest Lake Amistad was a break for us from driving and seeing and doing. Layne got out her watercolors and Rusty dragged me round the lake through thorns and over crumbing granite shale.

That I didn't twist and ankle or topple over must be attributable to the daily round of YouTube exercising we indulge in. I wondered what the surgeon who put my pelvis back together would have thought of me acting like an impetuous youth.

Between the long morning walk and the afternoon lakeside scramble Rusty couldn't keep his eyes open but he did not want to go indoors so the inside came out to him. He passed out.

We got back on the road after. round of good byes and found ourselves inevitably on US Highway 90 zipping west at a sedate 60 miles per hour to save gas which costs upwards of $3:50 in the small towns along the way. We also came across our first and doubtless not last Border patrol inspection station. Two young men in green uniforms and fulsome beards of a vast proportion not approved by the Key West Chief of Police (!) were shivering in front of a gas heater. There was one question while a drug dog sniffed the rear of our gun/drug/immigrant-free van. He asked if it was just the two of us in the van and Layne replied brightly there was Rusty as well. The beard didn't even twitch but he waved us on.

Later I distinguished myself at a construction zone by obediently following a cement mixer truck through a traffic control point into the left lane. When he switched back into the right lane I of course followed him until She Who Must Be Obeyed gently pointed out that he was part of the construction crew and we needed to get on back into the left lane and continue our journey to the state park. She kindly stopped making fun of me well before we arrived at the bizarrely named Seminole Canyon State Park. Florida Seminoles..? In Texas? This we had to see.