We left the blink-and-you-missed-it charm of Wikieup and pointed the truck north toward Gunlock State Park, not entirely sure what we’d find but optimistic, as usual. With no reservation and a bit of quiet faith, we rolled in and somehow secured the very last available site for two nights. A small miracle in the RV world. We backed in, leveled up, and without wasting much time went in search of what we’d heard was a rare and fleeting spectacle.

When Gunlock Reservoir fills beyond capacity, water spills over the dam and cascades down the surrounding red rock cliffs, creating a series of waterfalls that look far more like something you’d expect in Zion than in a quiet corner of southwestern Utah. Locals will tell you it’s rare—and they’re right. It’s only happened a handful of times in recent years, and we had managed to arrive right in the middle of it. Good timing—we’ll take it.

We started by walking across the dam and down the trail to view the falls from above. From that vantage point, the water seemed almost casual, like it had somewhere better to be but decided to linger for the scenery. People were wading in the pools, hopping from rock to rock, and generally enjoying what felt like a pop-up national park feature. Some of the small streams looked like you might be able to slide down them and have some fun, but some of them fall 20′ to 30′, ouch.

Then we drove down to the base of the falls and followed a well-worn trail up and across the rocks. “Trail” might be generous—it was more of a suggestion—but it worked. We scrambled across warm red stone, hopping gaps and navigating ledges until we found ourselves surrounded by multiple tiers of cascading water. The pools looked inviting in that deceptive early-spring way, where your brain says “refreshing” and your feet say “absolutely not.” We chose to keep our dignity and our circulation intact and stayed dry, content to admire the scene and then carefully pick our way back.

Dinner that night took us into nearby Santa Clara, where we ended up at a place that looked, from the outside, like it specialized in low expectations. Tucked into a strip mall across from a gas station was Arrabiata Steakhouse. Fortunately, we’ve learned by now that appearances can be wildly misleading.

What followed was, without exaggeration, one of the best meals we’ve ever had. We started with burrata and toasted bread, followed by a salad that somehow made raisins and gorgonzola feel like old friends. The ravioli was exceptional, and then came the main event: an 11-ounce filet mignon, perfectly seared and cooked medium rare with the kind of precision that suggests someone in the kitchen takes this very seriously. Dessert—a chocolate mousse—was excellent, though it had the misfortune of following everything else. Even so, the entire meal was outstanding. A Michelin-level experience hiding in plain sight, next to a gas pump.

The next morning we embraced a slower pace, eventually launching the kayaks around 11:00. From the campground we paddled west across the reservoir toward the red rock cliffs. The lake was high enough to flood trees and brush along the shoreline, turning the edges into a maze of partially submerged branches that made for surprisingly fun navigation.

As we reached the far side, the wind picked up—enthusiastically—and we quickly decided that hugging the shoreline was the superior strategy. Out in the middle, it was a workout. Along the edges, it was a pleasant paddle. We worked our way toward the spillway at the top of the falls we’d explored the day before. The current there was surprisingly mild, and with a bit of awareness (and self-preservation), it was easy to stay well clear of any unintended adventure.

At one point we pulled the kayaks onto a log caught just upstream of the spillway, sat for a while, and took in the view from above. Soda in hand, waterfalls below, sunshine overhead—it felt like we had stumbled into a private overlook that most people never see. Eventually we pushed off, paddled back along the dam, and returned to the truck, satisfied and just a little windblown.

Back at camp we kept things simple with hamburgers and spent the afternoon doing what has become a familiar and cherished routine: sitting, talking, and quietly appreciating where we were and what we’d been able to do.

This stop marked the end of a truly remarkable ten year set of trips. By the time we pull into our driveway, we will have spent 396 nights in the trailer and towed it 35,034 miles. We’ve camped in 22 states and seen more than we could have reasonably expected when this all began. On this most recent journey alone, we logged 108 nights, 6,870 miles, and added nine new states to the list.

We’ll head home, clean up the trailer, and tuck it away for a while—likely three years. But not permanently. This isn’t the end. It’s just an intermission. The road has a way of calling you back.

We left Oro Valley, Arizona on Tuesday, March 31, at about 11:00 a.m. Saying goodbye to family is never easy, but this one felt a little heavier than usual. With our upcoming move to Indiana for three years, there was a quiet awareness that the next time we see everyone might not be as soon as we’d like. We’ll almost certainly cross paths during that time, but as every grandparent knows, “almost certainly” still means the little ones will somehow grow up faster than expected. With that cheerful thought tucked away, we did what travelers do—we pulled out of the driveway and pointed the truck northwest.

Our destination for the night was Hidden Oasis RV Park in Wikieup, Arizona, a small stop along US-93 that mostly exists to serve people passing through it. The plan was simple: one night, full hookups, and a quick exit in the morning. And, technically speaking, that’s exactly what we got—just not in the way we planned.

When we arrived in Wikieup, we confidently turned left into what we believed was the correct driveway. It wasn’t. We were actually one driveway too early and had unknowingly pulled into a different RV park entirely—the one behind Dazzo’s Chicago Style Eatery. Not realizing our mistake, we went through the full routine: leveled the trailer, hooked up utilities, set up camp, and generally made ourselves at home. It wasn’t until dinner time—hours later—that we discovered we were in the wrong place.

At that point, there was no chance we were moving. The site wasn’t exactly picturesque, but it was perfectly adequate for a one-night stay and an early departure. As I walked over to Dazzo’s for dinner, I couldn’t help but laugh and think, “Well, they weren’t kidding when they said the oasis was hidden… because it definitely isn’t here.”

Dinner, however, was a win. Dazzo’s served up solid Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and we followed that with pie—because when pie is available, you don’t ask questions. In this case, acquiring the pie required a short walk next door… to the actual Hidden Oasis RV Park. So yes, we stayed at the wrong RV park but still managed to enjoy dessert from the right one. It felt like the kind of logistical maneuver that would make sense only on a road trip.

After a reasonably good night’s sleep, we packed up early and got back on the road, heading north in search of a slightly more scenic place to spend a couple of nights before our journey comes to an end.

We rolled into Oro Valley on Wednesday, March 25, 2026, right on schedule at about 4:30 p.m., which in RV terms qualifies as both punctual and mildly miraculous. We tucked the trailer neatly into our son and daughter-in-law’s driveway and were immediately greeted by a full welcoming committee—kids included, energy levels high, and hugs abundant. After some catching up and a good dinner, we did what any seasoned travelers do after a long drive: we went to bed early and called it a win.

Thursday was intentionally low-key. We lingered around the house, inspected the in-progress chicken coop (which is shaping up to be nicer than some RV parks we’ve stayed in), and met the resident chickens, who appear to be on the brink of fulfilling their egg-laying potential. That evening, we secured a babysitter and the adults slipped away for a double feature: dinner followed by a visit to the Tucson Arizona Temple—a peaceful and meaningful way to spend the night.

Friday brought a bit more action. We took care of business with an oil change for the truck—because even road warriors must occasionally be responsible—then pointed ourselves toward the mountains and headed up to Mount Lemmon. We hiked a few miles along the Incinerator Trail, climbing steadily to a high vista that delivered the kind of sweeping desert views that make you forget you’re slightly out of breath. Lunch at the top felt well-earned. After descending, we drove up to Summerhaven with dreams of cookies or fudge, only to discover both shops were closed. A minor tragedy. We consoled ourselves later with frozen pizzas and a quiet evening.

Saturday was family adventure day. We went for a bike ride, which quickly turned into an impressive display of parental strength and determination. Our daughter-in-law carried one child in a bike carrier and another in a backpack—an arrangement that looked like a CrossFit event disguised as a family outing. Our son had their oldest secured in a child seat on his bike. Linda and I pedaled along in admiration. We managed two spills total, which, given the complexity of the operation, felt like a statistical success. No injuries, so we’re counting it as a clean ride. Immediately afterward, we headed to their church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, building for an Easter walk—an interactive, reflective experience walking through scenes that highlight the life and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It was thoughtful and well done. We wrapped up the evening with Thai food and conversation, which is quickly becoming one of our favorite traditions.

Sunday was Palm Sunday, and we attended a sacrament meeting centered on Easter themes. It was a meaningful service and a good reminder of why we celebrate the season. The rest of the Sabbath was spent the right way—resting, visiting, and enjoying time with family.

On Monday, we took a day trip out to Boyce Thompson Arboretum near Superior. If you ever want a masterclass in what survives—and even thrives—in a hot, dry climate, this is the place. Many of the cacti were in bloom, which added unexpected color to the desert palette. We saw a towering Century Plant (often called a “century cactus”), proudly sending up its once-in-a-lifetime bloom stalk. Despite the name, it doesn’t actually wait 100 years—but it does bloom just once before calling it a life. The arboretum is beautifully maintained, and walking it with family made it even better. It was warm enough to make you appreciate every patch of shade, but a light breeze kept things comfortable.

Afterward, we made what might be considered the real objective of the day: a stop at the Florence Fudge Shop & Cafe in Florence. We ordered sandwiches and salads, which we all understood were simply formalities before getting to the fudge. The fudge did not disappoint.

We spent the evening back at the house, talking and mapping out the next leg of the journey, which is always a mix of logistics, weather-watching, and mild optimism.

By Tuesday morning, it was time to roll again. We said our goodbyes and pulled out around 11 a.m., heading toward Hidden Oasis RV Park near Wikieup. We’re now in “strategic retreat” mode—making shorter travel days as we work our way home, carefully avoiding the kind of winds that turn a pleasant drive into a white-knuckle experience. Our rule is simple: anything over about 15 mph gets our attention, and several upcoming stretches are forecasting 20–25 mph. So we’ll continue to leave early, drive smart, and be parked comfortably before the afternoon gales show up to ruin the mood.

On Friday, March 20, 2026, we left the wide-open gravel expanse of Chosa Campground and pointed the truck west toward the mountains above Silver City, New Mexico. Our destination was Mesa Campground in the Gila National Forest, a welcome change from desert boondocking to pine trees and cooler air. When we arrived, the campground host greeted us with the news that all electric sites were taken. After a few days at Chosa, that felt less like bad news and more like a return to normal life.

We claimed Site 9, an outside pull-through with a legitimately nice view through the trees. On paper, it looked like an easy win. In practice, it turned into a minor geometry problem. The site was just narrow and short enough to make positioning the trailer more complicated than many of the back-in sites we’d handled recently. After a bit of maneuvering (and a little humility), we finally got everything lined up just right and settled in.

The next day, March 21, we loaded up the kayaks and headed to Lake Roberts, a small but scenic mountain lake about 5 minutes away. We launched easily and spent several hours paddling the shoreline. The lake was calm, the air was cool, and the setting—surrounded by ponderosa pines—felt like a completely different world from where we’d been just days earlier.

We saw ducks, other waterfowl, a bald eagle overhead, and at one point a very large fish that launched itself partially out of the water right next to me, which was equal parts thrilling and mildly alarming. We pulled up to a small island for lunch and had the place entirely to ourselves. After lunch we paddled to the dam and checked out the spillway, which had no water running over it. Being right next to the spillway made Lake Roberts feel like the world’s largest infinity pool. While paddling the lake was easy and enjoyable, it was one of those simple afternoons that ends up being a highlight.

Sunday found us attending church with the small but welcoming congregation at the Cobre Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in nearby Bayard, New Mexico. The branch is modest in size, but the warmth of the members more than made up for it. We stayed afterward visiting with the Branch President, Relief Society President, and Elders Quorum President, and left feeling like we’d spent time with old friends rather than people we had just met.

Monday brought cooler weather, which felt like an invitation to get outside again. We chose a short hike on the Purgatory Chasm Trail. It’s not a long hike, but it packs in a surprising amount—interesting rock formations, a bit of water, some shade, and enough variety to keep things engaging. It’s the kind of trail that doesn’t demand much but still delivers. The rest of the day was quiet and productive, spent relaxing at camp and doing some study and preparation for our upcoming mission.

On Tuesday, we drove out to City of Rocks State Park, one of the more unique landscapes in New Mexico. On the way, we stopped for breakfast at M&A Bayard Café in Bayard—a small, local spot that felt exactly like the kind of place you hope to find on a trip like this. Well-fed, we continued on to the park.

City of Rocks is exactly what it sounds like—massive volcanic rock formations rising out of the desert floor like a natural maze. We spent time wandering through the formations, climbing here and there, and keeping an eye out for petroglyphs. Linda managed to find a couple of particularly interesting ones, including depictions of the familiar hunchbacked flute player—often associated with Kokopelli—hidden in less obvious places. One was etched on the back side of a rock within a small cavity and covered by a hand-sized stone. There’s something oddly satisfying about discovering something like that and then carefully putting it back the way you found it, like you’re part of a quiet, unspoken agreement with everyone who comes after.

After exploring the park, we drove up a rocky hill just east of the main formations (near the park’s overlook area), which rewarded us with a sweeping view of the entire landscape. From above, the scattered rock columns look even more surreal, like someone dropped a box of giant stone blocks across the desert.

From there, we headed into Silver City for a late lunch at Jalisco Café, a long-standing local favorite. The food was solid, the portions were generous, and perhaps most importantly, it was pleasantly cool inside—always a winning combination.

The drive back to camp took us along New Mexico State Road 15, a narrow, winding mountain road that we knew all too well. Nearly ten years ago, we had hauled our trailer up that road, ignoring the very clear warning signs about sharp turns and limited clearance. At one particularly tight hairpin, we were forced into the opposite lane and came uncomfortably close to a head-on encounter with a Prius. This time, even without the trailer, the turns felt tight enough to demand full attention. It’s safe to say our risk tolerance has matured a bit over the last decade.

Back at camp, we closed out the evening the right way—with a campfire using wood purchased from the state park. Dinner was simple: roasted hot dogs, followed by s’mores. There’s something about sitting around a fire in the mountains that makes even the most basic meal feel like an event. It was a fitting end to our stay, and a nice pause before heading on to Tucson for nearly a week with family.

On March 18, 2026, we broke camp at Maverick Ranch RV Park, leaving the dramatic desert of Big Bend National Park behind us and pointing the truck northwest toward Guadalupe Mountains National Park. The drive clocks in around five hours depending on stops, and while a few stretches of West Texas highway reminded us that suspension systems are not just decorative, the journey was otherwise smooth and uneventful—wide open country, long horizons, and the occasional oddity along the way.

For the next two nights, we selected a truly minimalist camping experience: Chosa Campground. This is Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land, and “campground” might be generous depending on your expectations. Picture several acres of flat gravel in the desert, a large identifying sign, a dumpster, and absolutely no fees. No hookups, no reservations, no frills. And yet, by nightfall, the place develops a quiet sort of community. About twenty RVs arranged themselves loosely around the perimeter, while tent campers migrated just beyond the fenced boundary in search of softer ground. Despite being only about a quarter mile off the highway, it was surprisingly quiet.

That evening was low key: dinner, some trip planning, a bit of TV, and unfortunately a late turn-in. The next day would be a full one, and we’d do it with little sleep.

The next morning, we were up at 7. We packed lunch, filled our hydration bladders, and headed into Guadalupe Mountains National Park. Unlike Big Bend, Guadalupe is more vertical than vast—the park protects the highest peaks in Texas, including Guadalupe Peak at 8,751 feet. It’s also the exposed core of an ancient Permian reef, which means you’re hiking through what was once the bottom of a shallow inland sea roughly 250 million years ago.

We started at Frijole Ranch with the Manzanita Spring and Smith Spring loop. Manzanita Spring sits right at the ranch and historically served as its primary water source. Early settlers dammed part of the outflow to create a small pool used for water storage and bathing. The water was crystal clear and, in the desert heat, more than a little tempting.

From there, we continued up to Smith Spring, about a mile into the foothills. This section of trail transitions from open desert into a surprisingly lush canyon pocket. There are small cascades, shaded sections, and enough greenery to feel slightly out of place in West Texas. Of the two, Smith Spring was easily the highlight—more scenic, more secluded, and more rewarding.

After finishing the loop, we stopped briefly at the Pine Springs Visitor Center to get oriented, then drove to Guadalupe Peak Overlook for lunch. From there you get an excellent view of Guadalupe Peak itself, the highest point in Texas, rising sharply out of the desert floor. It’s one of those views that makes you briefly reconsider your life choices and wonder if you should be hiking to the top—right up until you remember it’s an 8–9 hour round trip, it’s 90 degrees in the shade, and you don’t care about summiting.

After lunch, we made the longer drive around to the east side of the park and entered McKittrick Canyon. This area is often described as the “most beautiful spot in Texas,” particularly in the fall when the maples turn, but even in March it stands out as a greener, more sheltered canyon. The trail begins near the McKittrick Canyon Visitor Center and follows a rocky wash up the canyon.

We headed in, but the temperature was pushing 90°F—far from ideal for a canyon hike with limited airflow. After about 30 minutes (roughly a mile), with the scenery still in its early, less dramatic phase and the heat starting to take a toll, we made the call to turn around. This is a trail better suited for cooler weather or an early morning start; in summer conditions, it would be downright punishing.

We returned to the trailer, cooled everything down, cleaned up, and prepared for the evening’s main event: grocery shopping. To make it feel slightly less like a chore, we upgraded the experience by going out to dinner first. With supplies restocked and everything squared away, we wrapped up the night and got ready for an early departure the next morning.

On March 16, 2026, we pointed the Denali west and traded riverside serenity at Parkview for desert drama at Maverick Ranch RV Park, just outside Big Bend National Park. The only site left was a pull-in, which—of course—we had to back into. The catch: every utility hookup was on the wrong side of the trailer.

Dumping tanks required creative hose geometry, water required extra reach, and shore power needed an extension cord that probably deserves its own zip code. Still, we had the gear, and within a short time everything was humming along like we planned it that way. The picnic table sat proudly on the “wrong” side as well, but given our short stay, we decided not to rotate the entire trailer 180 degrees just to eat lunch properly.

That evening we ventured out for dinner and selected a bar-style restaurant with promising reviews. Unfortunately, we arrived during “spring break specials,” which turned out to be a culinary interpretation of lowered expectations. The meal wasn’t good—but in fairness, it was memorable, which is its own kind of success. We retreated to the trailer, watched a bit of TV, and reset for a better showing the next day.

St. Patrick’s Day delivered. We drove into Big Bend and made our first stop at Sotol Vista Overlook. The view opens dramatically into the desert below—layered ridges, distant river, and that vast West Texas scale that makes you feel both small and oddly well-placed. We marked it for sunset and moved on. Along the way we stopped to take a look at the Mule Ears, which have evidently been used by hikers and even pilots for navigation for many decades.

We also stopped and took a look at Tuff Canyon. It was formed by many layers of hot ash with basalt and other rocks thrown into it by volcanic and other geologic activity millions of years ago. Water, wind, and additional geologic activity has worn their way down through the soft Tuff to the basalt at the bottom. It was worth the look and brief geology lesson. We made a few other stops to read signs and enjoy various views of the park.

Next stop: Santa Elena Canyon. This is one of those hikes that delivers immediately and then just keeps getting better. The trail climbs briefly and then drops you into the canyon where the Rio Grande quietly does its long, patient work. Towering limestone walls rise straight up on both sides—Mexico on one side, the U.S. on the other—like two neighbors who built a fence and then forgot why.

Naturally, I waded into the river and made a token attempt at international travel. Progress was halted by a rather persuasive 500-foot vertical wall on the Mexican side. Turns out, geology is still the most effective border control.

From there we headed to the Chisos Basin area for lunch and a quick visit to the facilities. The lodge no longer serves food—an important operational detail—but a food truck had stepped in to fill the void. Expectations were appropriately calibrated to “let’s just not make this worse than last night.” I ordered chicken strips and tater tots; Linda went with a hamburger. Against all odds, my meal was excellent. Crispy, hot, and exactly what you want after a desert hike. The burger was merely average, which, given the trajectory of recent meals, felt like a win.

We made an attempt at the Lost Mine Trail, but the parking situation was completely saturated. No staging area, no overflow, no “just circle once and see what happens.” We made the executive decision to keep moving rather than idle our way into frustration.

So we returned to Sotol Vista early, claiming our sunset spot hours in advance like seasoned professionals. The time was put to good use: a short nap, some reading, and a bit of quiet appreciation for the kind of day that requires no improvement. When sunset finally arrived, it was… fine. Nice. Respectable. But if we’re being honest, we’ve been spoiled. Utah still holds the crown for sunsets. This one didn’t quite rise to that level.

We drove back to the trailer in the dark, had a simple dinner, watched a little TV, and turned in. The next morning we’d be back on the road—this time toward Guadalupe Mountains National Park—ready to trade desert basins for higher peaks and whatever new “wrong side of the hookup” challenges awaited us there.

On Friday the 13th we decided to tempt fate a little and break camp early. We left Lake Livingston and headed west toward the Frio River and Parkview Riverside RV Park near Concan, Texas. Traveling on Friday the 13th may sound like inviting trouble, but the road treated us well and everything worked out just fine, until the last few feet where we found the road literally covered by the Frio River. However, the water wasn’t very deep and Linda just drove the truck and trailer across it. By mid-afternoon we rolled into Parkview and claimed Site 10, a lovely little spot right along the river. Our plan for the next day was simple: launch the kayaks and explore one of the prettiest rivers in Texas Hill Country.

After arriving, the Trailer Queen did what she has now done dozens of times on this trip. She calmly slipped the truck into reverse and backed our trailer straight into the site as if she had been doing it her entire life. I mostly stayed out of the way and offered encouragement. She is getting impressively good at this whole trailer-backing business, which is fortunate because the campsites seem to be getting tighter while my competence as a spotter continues to decline. While the sites are a bit close together, the view of the river from site 10 is quite nice.

The drive from Livingston turned out to include an unexpected surprise. Just before La Grange, Texas we began passing miles of tents, barns, and temporary buildings filled with antiques, furniture, art, and just about every kind of collectible imaginable. What we were seeing was almost certainly the famous Round Top Antiques Show, one of the largest antique fairs in the country. During the spring and fall shows the quiet countryside between Round Top, Warrenton, and La Grange transforms into what feels like the longest flea market in the world, advertised as 11 miles long. Dealers and shoppers arrive from across the United States and even Europe, and for several weeks the rural highways are lined with tent cities filled with treasures. We only saw it from the road, but it went on for miles and miles.

We arrived at Parkview around 4:30 p.m., got settled, and then headed back out around six to see something a little unusual. Just a few minutes away is Frio Bat Cave, often called the Concan Bat Cave, home to a massive colony of Mexican free-tailed bats. In the spring and summer hundreds of thousands of bats emerge from the cave each evening to hunt insects across the Hill Country.

The viewing experience there is surprisingly personal. Instead of watching from a distant overlook, visitors sit fairly close to the cave entrance. As dusk approached we waited quietly with a small group of people. At first there was only silence and the faint rustling of wings deep inside the cave. Then the bats began to pour out—first in bursts and then in a steady swirling stream. Soon they were everywhere, spiraling overhead and darting out into the evening sky. At times they swooped so close we could hear the soft flutter of their wings passing through the air. It was slightly eerie and completely fascinating.

Saturday morning, March 14, started cool and clear. We waited for the temperature to climb a bit before launching our kayaks into the Frio River just below Garner State Park. The Frio is one of the gems of Texas Hill Country. Its name means “cold” in Spanish, which becomes immediately obvious the moment your feet touch the water. The river stays cool year-round thanks to springs that feed it through the limestone hills.

The stretch we paddled is part of the dammed section near Garner State Park, so the current moves slowly and the river spreads into wide, calm pools. The water has a faint green tint, but it is remarkably clear. In many places we could see straight to the rocky bottom. In fact, much of the river is shallow enough that you can wade across in water no deeper than your chest. Bald cypress trees leaned over the banks and limestone outcroppings rose above the water here and there.

We paddled upstream until the river gradually became too shallow and rocky to continue. That seemed like a good place to stop for lunch. We pulled the kayaks near a large rock, opened our sack lunches, and enjoyed the quiet of the river. A small school of fish—four to six inches long—gathered nearby, so we shared a few crumbs of Sun Chips with them. Within seconds the water began popping with little splashes as the fish surfaced to grab their unexpected snack.

After lunch we turned around and floated back downstream, passing two tiny rapids we had bumped through earlier. They were hardly more than playful ripples over the rocks, but they were still fun to run. Once we cleared the narrow sections the river widened again and the current slowed almost to a standstill. At that point the biggest challenge became the steady ten-mile-per-hour wind blowing directly in our faces. We had to paddle steadily just to keep moving downstream.

Eventually we reached the small dam below the park. We pulled up beside it, relaxed on our kayaks, and sat there on the edge for a few minutes watching the water spill over the concrete. Then we paddled the short distance back to the campground and hauled the kayaks out of the water.

The afternoon was far too pleasant to retreat indoors. We carried our camping chairs down to the river and planted them directly in the water where it was about eighteen inches deep. From there we sat with our feet in the cool current, enjoying the sunshine and watching the lively crowd floating and splashing along the river. Tubes drifted by, kids played in the shallows, and laughter echoed through the cypress trees. It felt like a perfect Texas Hill Country afternoon.

Later that evening we cleaned up and did something especially meaningful. Thanks to modern technology we were able to participate remotely in the baptism of one of our grandsons. Even though we were hundreds of miles away, we were able to watch and share in that special moment from our little trailer beside the Frio River. It was a wonderful way to end the day. Well, almost the end. We still had laundry to do. Life on the road still includes the occasional practical task.

Dinner that night was simple and classic camping fare. We built a fire in the provided fire pit, roasted hot dogs, and followed them with s’mores for dessert. There is something timeless about sitting around a fire in the cool evening air watching the flames dance while the stars slowly appear overhead.

Sunday morning began with a relaxed breakfast before we drove about forty minutes south to attend church with the Uvalde Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The members there were warm and welcoming, and it was nice to worship together and participate in Sunday School even while traveling far from home.

After church we returned to the campground, ate lunch outside, and spent some time studying the scriptures together. By mid-afternoon the temperature had climbed into the low 90s, which made the river even more inviting. We put on our swimsuits, carried our lounge chairs back down to the water, and set them up right in the middle of the river where it was again about eighteen inches deep. I planted an umbrella in the gravel for shade, and we spent the afternoon lounging in the gentle current while the cool water flowed around our chairs.

It was one of those simple travel moments that turns out to be surprisingly memorable—sunshine, clear water, friendly conversations with nearby campers, and the quiet realization that we were sitting in the middle of a Texas river enjoying the beauty of the Lord’s creation.

That evening we returned to the trailer, watched a little television, and began preparing for the next leg of our journey. In the morning we will point the truck west again and continue toward the wide-open landscapes of Big Bend National Park.

On March 11, 2026 we hitched up at Bayou Segnette State Park and pointed the truck west toward Texas. Our destination for the day was Lake Livingston State Park, a pleasant forested park about seventy miles north of Houston that sits along the edge of one of the largest reservoirs in the state.

Unfortunately, the area where we were headed was expected to have severe thunderstorms and perhaps even tornados. We worked our way west, but selected a strategic lunch break and rest before heading through the approaching storm front. Once back on the road we carefully wove our way through the front and avoided any significant wind, hail, or other damaging elements.

By mid-afternoon we rolled into Site 25 and backed the trailer neatly into place. The site was only a short stroll from the lake, though a stand of tall East Texas pines and hardwoods prevented any direct water view. That’s fairly typical here—Lake Livingston State Park is more of a wooded lakeside retreat than an open shoreline campground.

In our previous post we mentioned the odd behavior of our trailer’s wireless stabilizer remote. At Bayou Segnette the thing worked only intermittently, which had me scratching my head. Behind our Louisiana campsite stood a large communications tower with what appeared to be several vertical antennas mounted near the top. Once we arrived in Texas and tried the remote again—no tower in sight—the stabilizers worked perfectly. Evidently the radio signal from the tower was strong enough to swamp our little remote control. It’s not every day you get an impromptu lesson in radio-frequency interference while setting up a camper.

After getting settled I spent some time catching up on blog posts while Linda wandered down to the lakeshore for a short walk. The wind was kicking up whitecaps across the lake, and the normally calm water looked more like a small inland sea. We briefly considered launching the kayaks but decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

Instead we had a relaxed evening. Dinner, a little television, and then—unexpectedly—one of those small delights that travel occasionally hands you: fireflies. We’ve seen fireflies many times over the years, but rarely like this. Normally they blink low to the ground in grassy areas. Here they were drifting through the trees ten or fifteen feet above us, tiny floating lanterns scattered through the dark branches. They flashed with surprising intensity, each pulse bright enough to catch the eye from across the campsite. Watching them flicker in the warm Texas night made me feel briefly like a delighted eight-year-old again.

The next morning greeted us with temperatures in the mid-40s and a cool 57°F inside the trailer. After weeks of warm Gulf Coast weather it felt downright refreshing. We set our chairs out in the sun and warmed up, and spent an easy hour or two mapping out our next stops on the long road west toward the deserts of Texas and beyond.

During this peaceful planning session we had an encounter with what can only be described as two highly motivated squirrels. A small piece of popcorn “accidentally” hit the ground and instantly triggered what appeared to be a squirrel rapid-response unit. Two gray missiles launched from a nearby tree, landed on the ground, and vacuumed up the popcorn with impressive efficiency. Having discovered a potential food source, they decided to negotiate further.

One squirrel climbed onto the picnic table and leaned over the edge like a tiny acrobat preparing for a jump. The other hovered nearby, clearly evaluating the tactical situation. I prudently moved my chair a few feet away from what appeared to be the squirrel launch platform. Peace returned for perhaps thirty seconds. Then something grabbed my arm.

My startled reaction sent a splash of water flying from my bottle and the would-be bandit retreated at once. Apparently the squirrel had concluded that if humans weren’t dropping snacks voluntarily, it might be time to escalate the operation. They were harmless of course, just extremely optimistic. Still, we preferred not to encourage them to set up permanent residence under the trailer. We resisted the urge to bribe them with additional snacks—at least officially.

Later that afternoon we pulled the bikes off the rack and explored the park’s dirt trails. Lake Livingston has several multi-use paths winding through the forest, and they’re perfect for relaxed riding. The route we took covered about 7.7 miles, weaving through tall pines, skirting small ponds, and splashing through a few leftover puddles from recent thunderstorms. There were occasional roots and low branches to dodge, but overall the trails were in great condition and a lot of fun.

Back at camp we washed the bikes, packed away the gear, and headed into town for dinner at the Wet Deck Bar & Grill. Despite the name, the deck was perfectly dry. The restaurant sits right on the lake and has a small boat dock where boaters can tie up and come ashore for food and drinks—something that always gives lakeside restaurants a lively atmosphere. We grabbed a table out back and watched the sun sink slowly into the water while finishing dinner. It’s hard to beat a Texas lake sunset.

Afterward came the less glamorous but necessary chore of travel life: grocery resupply. An hour later we rolled back into camp with the fridge restocked and the cupboards once again prepared for the miles ahead.

The fireflies did not make an appearance that evening—perhaps the cold front temporarily extinguished their lanterns. Given the warming forecast, I suspect they’ll be back soon enough, blinking quietly through the trees as if someone scattered a handful of stars among the branches.

The next morning, we efficiently prepared to leave and pulled out anout 9:30 am for the six hour drive to our next destination.

On March 9, 2026, we hitched up the trailer and pointed the truck west toward Bayou Segnette State Park just outside New Orleans, Louisiana. The drive was uneventful, which in the RV world counts as a minor miracle. We landed at Site 42, and Linda—who by now backs a trailer with the calm precision of an aircraft carrier captain—slipped the rig neatly into place.

Just behind our site stood a tall radio tower. Mounted on it were what looked to me like a couple of small wireless antennas. I only noticed because when I went to use the wireless remote for lowering the stabilizer jacks, the thing behaved like it had stage fright. Sometimes it worked perfectly. Sometimes it ignored me entirely. My first thought was the battery, so I plugged the remote in and charged it up. The problem seemed to persist, though, and I began to wonder if those antennas were somehow interfering with the signal. It felt a little like parking your RV next to NASA and wondering why your garage door opener suddenly thinks it’s part of a space launch.

After getting settled we kept the evening simple. Dinner, a little studying, some television, and a bit of planning for our one-day blitz through New Orleans. When you only have a single day in a city with three centuries of history, you quickly learn to prioritize.

The next morning, March 10, we rose early and called an Uber to take us to the ferry in Algiers Point so we could cross the Mississippi River. The plan sounded elegant and very New Orleans-ish. Unfortunately, when we arrived we were informed the ferry wasn’t running because of heavy fog on the river. Apparently even ferries prefer to see where they’re going. Plan B was another Uber, this time straight into Jackson Square in the French Quarter.

Naturally, the first stop was Café du Monde. If you visit New Orleans and do not eat beignets there, someone may revoke your tourist license. We ordered beignets and water. Beignets are square pieces of fried dough buried under a blizzard of powdered sugar. Café du Monde’s menu is famously simple—beignets and coffee—and they still operate on a cash-only basis. The system has worked since 1862, so I suppose they see no need to complicate things.

After our “gourmet” breakfast we stepped next door into St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest continuously active Roman Catholic cathedral in the United States. The present structure dates to 1850, though earlier churches stood on the same site going back to 1718 when New Orleans was founded. Inside we admired the stained glass and paintings for a few minutes before wandering outside again.

From there we climbed up onto the levee to look out over the Mississippi. The fog that had shut down the ferry had finally lifted. Moored nearby was the famous Steamboat Natchez, one of the last authentic sternwheel steamboats operating on the river. We briefly considered the two-hour cruise and then concluded that, for us at least, walking around the city sounded more appealing than floating past it. So we began wandering.

We walked up St. Peter Street to Royal Street, turned right, and strolled for several blocks past galleries, iron balconies, and musicians setting up for the day. Eventually we angled over to Bourbon Street. Visiting Bourbon Street at mid-morning is a completely different experience than the version you see on television at midnight. The street was calm, the balconies were quiet, and the only thing stirring were sober tourists like us.

At Canal Street we hopped aboard the historic green St. Charles Streetcar Line. The line has been running since 1835 and is the oldest continuously operating streetcar line in the world. The ride down St. Charles Avenue is like gliding through a moving museum of southern architecture. We got off near Washington Avenue and wandered through neighborhoods of grand mansions, peeked into a historic cemetery, and eventually landed at Joey K’s Restaurant & Bar for lunch. Joey K’s is the sort of place where the food arrives generous, the people are friendly, and no one is trying to reinvent shrimp.

After lunch we missed the next streetcar and decided to Uber back toward Jackson Square. We browsed a few shops, wandered down Canal again, and then hopped onto a red Canal Streetcar Line. We rode it all the way out toward New Orleans City Park and then turned around and rode it back. The air conditioning alone justified the excursion.

Dinner that evening was at Restaurant August, a Michelin-recommended restaurant not far from the river. We arrived a little before 5:00 p.m., only to discover they weren’t quite open yet. When the host came to the door I asked if there might be a quiet corner where they could hide two tourists wearing shorts and clearly not dressed for the sort of elegance the restaurant usually sees. She smiled and said not to worry about it, come on in.

Inside, we ordered the four-course menu and selected from three choices for each course. Neither French nor Southern cuisine is normally at the top of our list, so we approached the meal with a spirit of adventure. The service was impeccable. Some courses delighted us more than others, but the beef, duck, shrimp, and strawberry shortcake were genuinely exceptional. Even when a dish wasn’t exactly our style, it was fascinating to see the creativity behind it. Dining there felt a little like attending a culinary concert.

After dinner we hurried back toward the ferry landing. We stepped aboard just as it was preparing to leave—perfect timing. The boat pushed off across the Mississippi and delivered us back to Algiers. We walked along the levee for a few minutes, admired the nighttime view of New Orleans across the river, and then called an Uber back to our campsite. It was an outstanding day.

Like any large city, New Orleans rewards visitors who are thoughtful about where they go and when they go there. By sticking to well-traveled areas and moving through the city during the daytime and early evening, we felt comfortable and safe the entire time.

The next morning, March 11, we woke early and prepared to roll out. The biggest concern wasn’t traffic—it was the weather. Severe thunderstorms were marching across the region with forecasts mentioning supercells, hail, and even possible tornadoes. Traveling with a 27-foot trailer is not the ideal hobby during tornado season.

We watched the radar carefully, said a prayer or two, and threaded our way between the worst of the storms. With heaven’s help, we slipped through the gaps between the red and purple blobs on the radar map. When we reached the other side of the storm front, it felt like we had just completed a small but satisfying victory lap.

The campground is impressively equipped. There are swimming pools, sports courts, paved bike paths, bathhouses, and hundreds of full-hookup sites spread through a pine forest just a short distance from the Gulf of America. It feels a bit less like a luxury RV resort than our previous stop, but at about $100 per night instead of the $200 we had just paid in Florida, that seems like a perfectly fair trade.

The park has a posted speed limit of 15 mph, though the occasional vehicle seems to glide through a bit faster than that. Fortunately, we were here primarily for the extensive bike trails and a visit to the beach, so the traffic didn’t bother us much.

Because we arrived early in the day, we decided to make the most of the afternoon and explore the park by bike. Gulf State Park has one of the largest paved trail systems on the Gulf Coast—over 25 miles of paths known as the Hugh S. Branyon Backcountry Trail network.

We rode west toward Woodside Restaurant, which sits near the heart of the trail system, and stopped there for lunch. Afterward we continued riding around Lake Shelby, a large freshwater lake surrounded by forest and marsh habitat.

From there we continued east along the shaded Gulf Oak Ridge Trail before looping back west on the Catman Road Trail. The route eventually took us through the Sawgrass Trail and finally along the Campground Trail back to our site. While most of the trail is paved, long portions are wood boardwalks over marshland. It was fun riding over these walkways and the way they made our bikes sound like trains traveling down old tracks.

Altogether the ride came to about twenty miles and turned out to be an excellent way to see the park. The section near the restaurant and around Lake Shelby was quite busy with both cyclists and pedestrians, but with a bit of patience and careful riding it was still enjoyable.

After returning to the campsite we headed over to the pool to cool off. The warm Alabama air and sunshine made the water especially welcome after the ride. That evening we enjoyed a quiet dinner at the trailer and a relaxed evening in the campground.

Early the next morning, March 8, we were awakened by the sound of thunder rolling across the Gulf Coast. The sky flashed repeatedly with lightning and rain poured down in sheets. I have always enjoyed nighttime thunderstorms, and this one did not disappoint.

When it was actually time to get up, we prepared for church and drove toward the The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints meetinghouse where the Foley Ward meets.

We arrived right on time only to discover that the building was being remodeled. A sign outside directed visitors to a temporary meeting location. We followed the directions and drove over, but when we arrived the parking lot was completely empty—which is never a good sign on a Sunday morning.

After checking the Church’s website more carefully, we realized what had happened. The ward is part of the Mobile Alabama Stake, and that particular Sunday was stake conference weekend. The meetings were being held in Mobile, more than an hour away. At that point we decided to turn around and head back to the trailer and hold our own quiet worship service there.

The rest of the afternoon was spent studying for our upcoming mission assignment, planning our next stop near New Orleans, Louisiana, and enjoying a walk along the beach.

We entered the beach at the Shell Beach parking area and walked west toward Alabama Point East. The Gulf stretched out green and restless under the partly sunny sky, and the beach was nearly empty. The surf warning flags were red that day, indicating strong currents and rough conditions, but we were content simply to walk along the shoreline and wade a bit in the water. Our beach visit ended by a walk down the park’s peer where we enjoyed a beautiful sunset before leaving.

That evening we returned to the trailer, prepared for our departure the next day, enjoyed a nice dinner, and reflected on how much we had enjoyed our short stay. In just two nights we had managed to ride miles of beautiful trails, explore the park, walk the beach, and enjoy the quiet rhythm of life along the Gulf Coast.