Epic views: Shot of the day
A view from Skyline Drive in Skyline Drive, which runs 105 miles along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Shenandoah National Park.
So many places. So little time. Check out some of the cool things we’ve seen.
All my Montana photos are full of sky.
Tom vies for sainthood as we pivot
The Epic Van parked at Wenatchee Lake State Park.
Put another mark under the “saint” column for Tom, who rarely, hardly ever, well, almost never, gets upset with his adorable wife.
But, really, this was a big fuck-up.
Find a road less traveled, but start at the Rooster
The Red Rooster in Saleh, Washington.
If you’re looking for a road less traveled, you could start in Selah, Washington, just north of Yakima.
But first, you should stop at The Red Rooster, where you might find a table of about eight people REALLY enjoying their lunch. Don’t be put off by the cracked linoleum, the off-key shout-singing from the drinks-for-lunch gang, or the guy at the end of the bar with a Trump coozie around his Busch beer can. Just order some pulled pork barbecue, with beans and coleslaw on the side.
Harbor hopping along the West Coast
Our Bodega Bay view.
Tom’s our trip planner, and I usually just climb into the front seat and ask, “Where are we headed.” This time, for our annual drive up Highway 1 along the West Coast, he added a new trick: Harbor hopping.
Nothing better than a beach town
Morro Rock, the neck of a volcano, rises out of the bay.
I love a beach town.
And here, in Morro Bay, California, I’m in heaven.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in Hawaii, where every town is a beach town. Maybe it’s because I’m an old hippie at heart. Maybe it’s because sun and surf are natural de-stressors.
But I can just feel myself sigh when there is a dusting of sand across the road.
The final Nomad budget report
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By Tom Nichols
Our financial gamble to retire early in 2015 and live on IRAs as New American Nomads worked out pretty well.
Despite a historic downturn in stocks and bonds in 2022, we ride into the future with our retirement nest egg intact in dollars, though NOT in inflation-adjusted dollars. We withdrew five percent of our assets each year to fund our early-retirement dream.
Now, our full-retirement income gives us the freedom to make plans for buying a house of our own some day and continue our travels in The Epic Van as long as health permits. Our income is fixed, no longer uncertain, which is why this is my final report.
Curbside camping and reunions
Curbside camping in Brentwood, California.
We love urban camping, especially when it comes with the added bonus of connecting with old friends.
So, we parked for two nights in Brentwood, California, in front of Mike and Brenda Ober’s house. Mike and Tom have known each other since grade school in Rantoul, Illinois, and we relish every chance to get together and visit with them.
Carmel: Familiarity breeds contentment
Pelicans over Carmel Beach.
My ying-yang mind is exhilarated by the unknown and contented by the familiar. New places promise discovery and surprise, but require an adventurous energy. Familiar places deliver deep relaxation and easy joy. Our life in The Epic Van gives us a delicious mix of both.
Carmel is a familiar place, where I can curl up happily, like a cat taking a nap.
Condors, a swimming pool and wasp stings
Tom on the Condor Gulch Trail in Pinnacles National Park.
On our second day at Pinnacles National Park, we hiked up Condor Gulch, a one-mile hike to a viewpoint of the peaks from which this park takes its name. We started at 8 a.m. to avoid the heat of the day, and were rewarded with the sight of two condors, their huge wingspans taking them over the pinnacles like something from the dinosaur age. Condors have a wingspan of 9 1/2 feet, and can soar at 55 miles per hour at an altitude of 15,000 feet.
Along the trail, we passed berries we’d never seen, sugar and ponderosa pines, all suffering from climate warming, some carved into Swiss cheese by industrious woodpeckers, and their holes utilized by squirrels to hide acorns for the winter. We also saw colorful lichen on the sedimentary outcroppings, volcanic towers, bees and wasps. The park has 400 species of bees, the largest diversity of bees in a single place in North America. Dozens of hawks circled in the updrafts around the pinnacles.
Signs along the trail remind hikers to carry first aid, water and food, and be prepared to take care of themselves. There is no cell coverage anywhere in the park.
Tom, the mountain goat, hoofed on another three-quarters of a mile to the top of a ridge where the Blue Oaks Trail extends to higher portions of the park.
At the viewpoint, I talked to some German tourists, making a quick turnaround to head toward the Balconies trail on the other side of the park, a popular trail we have put on our “next time” list, a list that’s so long, it will, most certainly, outlast us.
Back at the campground, we took advantage of the pool (Yes. A pool in a national park.) to cool off our heat-beat bodies. As we lolled in the water, talking to a woman who’s a park ranger from Marin County, I was stung by a wasp, trapped in the water by his wet wings. Serious firepower. My hip is still throbbing.
We took advantage of the free showers, preserving our water supply (see previous post), and bought some internet from the camp store, the only place to get any connectivity in the park. We texted mom, Nancy and Nate to make sure everyone was still alive, and to assure them we were.
Happy with the status quo, we rolled back to our shady spot by the stream, where the water gurgles, California scrub-jays flit by, deers meander munching shrubs, and the most buff squirrels I’ve ever seen hopscotch from live oaks to California bays like on a racetrack.
We wondered how, in our nine years going from Arizona to the Pacific coast annually, we had failed to stop here before. It will never happen again.
Tomorrow: On to Carmel. Hard living, but someone has to do it.
The run for the coast: Rocks, repairs, and relaxation
The scene of the crime: Rock vs. The Epic Van
Last week, we left Scottsdale heading toward the coast and our annual gathering with my fellow Stanford Fellows at Manzanita Beach in Oregon. The trip already is a roller coaster of repairs, setbacks, leaks, as well as desert beauty, sequoias, solitude and relaxation.
We first headed toward our Las Vegas repair shop to install a new ceiling fan (the old one gave up after nine years and weeks of 110-plus days in the driveway). We spent the night at our now-regular parking lot at Railroad Pass Hotel & Casino, a short roll into Vegas for our 9 a.m. appointment.
No problems. A couple of hours and we were back on the road, headed for Tecopa Hot Springs, anticipating a luxurious soak to unwind the kinks of responsible life in the city. Tom spied an informational sign about the Tecopa cutoff on the Old Spanish Trail, hung a left, and CRUNCH, one of the loudest grinding metal sounds I’ve heard in nine years of running over holes, logs and debris.
Climbing out to survey the situation, we found water dripping, not gushing, but steadily dripping, from our fresh-water tank. Too late to make it back to the repair shop, we began searching for a place to camp to return in the morning. Everything in the area west of Las Vegas was closed because of recent flooding, so back we went to the casino.
We had a restless night, wondering how bad the damage was, whether we would be able to keep any water in the tank, whether, if we found places to shower, there would be enough to flush the toilets and wash dishes, whether we would have to get a second 5-gallon water jug, like we use for drinking water, and use it to flush the toilet, whether we would have to turn around and head home.
By morning, I was determined that, whether or not we had water, we were going on. Even if we had to drag jugs of water with us, wash our hair with La Croix or, like a bear, go in the woods. We were on the road, dammit, and there was no turning back.
Groundhog Day. To the repair place at 8 a.m.
They put The Epic Van on the rack, and found what we suspected. The rock had driven the plastic tank into the metal bar above it, poking a hole in the tank. It would need replacement or repair, neither of which could be done immediately and would require a couple of days. Because the leak was in the top of the tank, we could partially fill it and be judicious with our water use.
We made a repair appointment for our return trip and rolled on, past the scene of the crime, skipping Tecopa and heading instead to Red Rock Canyon State Park.
The dusty, Joshua tree-dotted campground, with glorious views, is just our cup of tea, and we soaked in the glaring sun to bake out our added tension. Nights were warm, but our new fan kept it tolerable. Deep breaths.
After Red Rock, another first, up the north fork of the Kern River on the western side of the Sierras, just south of Sequoia National Park. The first night, we found a national forest site along the river, then for the weekend, grabbed a commercial site outside Kernville where we could shower and preserve our onboard water.
The road to national park is closed because of flooding, but you can get to the Trail of 100 Giants, a wonderful path through sequoias and sugar pines.
We wandered the trail, marveling at sequoias up to 20 feet in circumference. Down river, we set camp chairs under a cottonwood beside the rocky river, where I could dip my toes in the refreshing cool water. We read, we did some yoga (and I did some knitting) and slept, beginning to feel reeeeeaaaaallllly relaxed.
Next stop, Pinnacles National Park, another first for us, and a campsite beside a stream, where I sit writing as I listen to the burbling water and the calls of birds. Tomorrow: a hike toward the volcanic zone at Pinnacles.
Arizona serenade at Fort Worth Stockyards
A Texas longhorn.
Before leaving Fort Worth, we stopped at the historic stockyards, where we got up close and personal with some Texas longhorns and learned a little about the area’s past.
Fort Worth was the last stop on the Chisholm Trail before cowboys took their herds across the Red River into territory controlled by Native Americans. They would party, rest up and resupply here.
Later, when the railroad arrived, Fort Worth became a major shipping center and, eventually, Armour and Swift built packaging plants.
Although the holding pens are mostly gone, some of the buildings have been preserved. We visited the museum, where one of the gracious volunteers, Miss Devon, learning we were from Arizona, serenaded us with a song she wrote about Texas Canyon in our home state. It was amazing. To see the video, go to our Facebook page.