Our wandering path
Outdoor obsession: Fort Worth Botanic Garden
- Live oaks stretching across the path.
- Wildflowers.
- The Stickwork sculpture by nationally renowned artist Patrick Dougherty.
- Poppies.
- An anole hiding in plain sight.
- Out Shopping by Zimbabwean sculptor Colleen Madamombe.
- Detail of Out Shopping by Zimbabwean sculptor Colleen Madamombe.
- Cardinal shrub.
- Daydreaming by Zimbabwean sculptor Zachariah Njobo.
- Columbine.
- Father & Son by Zimbabwean sculptor Samson Kuvemguwa.
- A pecan tree, the state tree of Texas.
- Vine-covered walkway and fountain.
- Foxglove.
- Ndebele Queen by Zimbabwean sculptor Tafazwa Tandi.
- View of pond and terraced gardens built by the WPA.
- An ash, a native to Texas.
- Koi in pond.
- Ferns and horsetail reeds.
- Turtle in pond.
- Primrose.
- Pansies, always my favorite.
- Shrub rose.
- Bluebonnet.
We mostly live outdoors, sitting in our camp chairs, hiking, bicycling, hanging by the campfire. And everyone knows that Tom is obsessed with trees.
So, it’s not surprising that we love botanic gardens.
And Fort Worth has one of the best. In we went.
To our delight, in addition to the local and international plant life, there was a rose garden built by the WPA, art by Zimbabwean sculptors on display throughout the plantings and a Stickwork sculpture by nationally renowned artist Patrick Dougherty.
Enjoy the photos.
A hard exit and a soft landing
- The Periwinkle Polka Dot booth(s) at the Tempe Festival of the Arts, with our upcycled clothes for girls and adults.
- I always got my Fridas with me, this one on a Kantha-quilt jacket, for the Tempe Festival of the Arts.
- My new Knit Stars knitalong, some Twisted Ambitions Yarn for some Summer Lee socks, and a blue sock blocker, arrived just in time to throw into The Epic Van for our departure.
- On the road again: US 70 near Duncan, Arizona, heading east. We saw a coyote running across the road and a hawk flying with a long snake hanging from its talons. Love it out here.
- Good morning, Guadalupe Mountains National Park.
- Reading material: Our friend Tom Zoellner’s new book Rim to River. Loving it.
- Welcome to Texas. At Cooper’s Old Time Pit Bar-B-Que in Llano, Texas.
- The gang, Bob Moser, Clara Willoughby, me and Tom at brunch.
- More barbecue. And sides.
- Bob with the Texas Monthly sign at the offices overlooking the Austin skyline.
- Bob at his standing computer in his Texas Monthly office.
- Detail of a Texas Monthly cover of Willie Nelson.
- Choosing to Run by Des Linden, with the help of my friend Bonnie D. Ford in the Book People store.
- Tom shows his winning mini-golf style.
- Bob, left, Clara, right, Tom and I at the Peter Pan Mini Golf in Austin, an institution since 1948 and featured in Friday Night Lights.
It’s been a long time since we’ve been on a multi-month trip in The Epic Van, and we were thrilled to envision ourselves meandering the open road on a loop to the East Coast and back. There it was in my calendar, circled in red ink, April 4, departure day.
But we first had to get out of Arizona, and it was proving to be difficult.
We’re positive that we’re positive
- Fill it up, we’re hittin’ the road. About 2/3 of a tank for $75. The distance it can take us from the inferno of Scottsdale, Arizona: Priceless. Look out Idaho, here we come!
- Rainy days never get me down. Roll on!
- Clouds over the Four Corners area.
- We don’t need no stinkin’ campground. Boondocking near Bears Ears in Utah.
- Tom relaxing after a long day of, well, nothing really.
- Rain in our boondock camp.
- Sunset from camp. Million dollar view for $0.
- The Colorado River near Hite Crossing Bridge in Utah.
- Yoga with a view at Fred Hayes State Park at Starvation near Duchesne, Utah.
- View from our chairs in Uinta Canyon Campground, our Covid isolation spot.
- Knitting in isolation: baby hats galore.
We’ll, it happened. After more than two years of successful avoidance, we got Covid.
It was three days into our latest nomadic outing, this one a planned loop through Utah’s Uinta Mountains, a long-awaited visit to our friends’ place in Yellow Pine, Idaho, for the annual Harmonica and Music Festival, through Pinedale, Wyoming, and Flaming Gorge, to a stop in Corrales, New Mexico, to visit two other camping couples we love, and back to our Scottsdale perch for a week. Then, out to Big Sur and up the California Coast to Washington to visit family, and on to Oregon for our annual beach cottage reunion with friends.
We were thrilled to hit the road, back in The Epic Van, wind in our hair.
Then Tom got the sniffles. Then I did.
“Allergies,” I told myself. “Something we’re not used to in the Mormon Lake area or near Bears Ears National Monument or at Fred Hayes Lake State Park at Starvation, near Duchesne, Utah, where we stopped on our third night out.
But then, Tom said, “Something is not right,” like Miss Clavel, the nun, said when Madeline (in the Madeline book) was sick.
We bought a thermometer, and I took his temperature. Slightly elevated, but not terrible. I got out the Covid test I’d brought along to use just before our arrival in Yellow Pine, to reassure everyone we were “clean.” After 15 minutes: Negative.
“Maybe you have a cold, or some other virus,” I said, hopefully. My sniffles had stopped, and I felt fine. “Still, we’ll proceed as if you have it.”
Masks on, windows open, fan circulating fresh air throughout the van. Tom took some Advil and went to bed, where he spent a fairly sleepless night with muscle aches and chills, not helped by the cool air being sucked through the van.
Next morning, another test. This time, clearly positive. I took one: Negative.
Full red alert. I called the Walgreens pharmacy in Vernal, Utah, the nearest “large” town, and they said we needed a prescription to get the anti-viral Paxlovid, either from our doctor, or from an urgent-care clinic. I called our doctor, in Scottsdale, who is a saint, left a message, and within a couple hours she had called in prescriptions for both of us, mine to be used only if I eventually tested positive. I ran in to get the prescriptions and we headed back to camp.
I was still thinking maybe I could escape. I had, after all, for more than two years. I read a recent Washington Post article about “Novids,” those people who had, so far, avoided Covid. They feel lucky, grateful, a bit self-satisfied and maybe, just maybe, a little superhuman. I could relate. We’ve been very careful, in part, because of my 93-year-old mother, with whom we stay in Scottsdale when not on the road, and because we REALLY didn’t want to get it and face unknown difficult outcomes. We’re still wearing our masks EVERYWHERE, even at a drive-through window picking up fast food. We’re often the ONLY people wearing them in the grocery store/drug store/hardware store/book store. We very rarely eat in restaurants, rather ordering takeout from our favorites and eating at home for birthday or other celebrations. When we do go out, we sit outside, and wear our masks through the space until seated. We still haven’t gone back to a movie in the theater, which was a regular outing pre-pandemic. Or a concert. We went to an anniversary gathering of Mothers Who Write, a writing group/class in which both Mom and I have participated. It was a wonderful get-together of many of the writers, with several reading in person, and celebrated with a published anthology, in which Mom and I each had pieces. Still, we wore masks, sat apart, stayed only a few minutes after the readings were over and went back home. Tom had gone back to the gym, with his mask on except in the shower or steam room. We had resumed some nomad trips, which is the perfect isolation activity. For months, all was well.
But with the new highly contagious BA.5 strain, things are not the same. All around me other superhuman, Novid friends were succumbing. One, on a cruise to Scandinavia, which had been postponed for two years because of Covid, even though all passengers and crew had to be fully vaxed and test negative before boarding. She was confined to a special isolation room for days, while her husband and friends carried on without her. Another, in California, started feeling ill and still is, after several weeks and a series of Paxlovid, finally ending up in the emergency room and spending two nights in the hospital. Her daughter, who had been staying with her, tested positive, and had to cancel a long-planned trip to Costa Rica. Another friend traveled with her grown children to Mexico to visit relatives and, upon return, both kids tested positive, one continuing to test positive after nine days.
Then, I tested positive, too. Damn. So none of us are superhuman. I felt pretty rough, slightly elevated temps, scratchy throat, and listless.
Tom and I both started the Paxlovid, and holed up in Uinta Canyon Campground for our five days of recommended isolation.
Fairly quickly, we felt better. And on Day 3 of the regimen, I tested negative. Tom didn’t test negative until Day 6.
In all of this, I remain grateful:
• That we developed Covid after leaving my mother’s. She and my sister, Nancy, who lives with her, both have tested negative and appear to have escaped. Our son, Nate, who lives nearby, also seems in the clear. All, so far, retain their superhuman badges.
• That all our former superhuman friends appear to be recovering, albeit some quicker than others.
• That Paxlovid exists, and that we were able to get it quickly and at no cost, yes $0, and that it appears to be working well.
• That The Epic Van is an Epic Isolation Pod. We had plenty of food, ice and drinks on board, our own bathroom, comfy camp chairs and a campsite next to a running creek, pine trees and grazing deer, and were entertained by afternoon monsoon showers that plinked on the roof of our metal cocoon. (To the a-hole who stole our camp table while we were out getting life-saving drugs, the first theft we’ve experienced in eight years of leaving stuff at camp when we’re away, “You, sir, are not a gentleman.” And I’m really glad I didn’t leave my NEW camp chairs. The table, by the way, is a beat-up, 8-year-old, piece of crap that I’d been considering replacing, but couldn’t justify environmentally even though pieces of it were missing.)
• That Tom is an excellent cook, even at camp. We had a camp-chili favorite, with ground turkey and fresh veggies, chicken and apple sausage with a side of corn/chilis/beans kind of succotash, fresh squash, tamales, spinach, egg sandwiches for breakfast, and a sweet-potato tagine.
• That Tom and I are compatible, even in illness, and aren’t claustrophobic even in The Epic Van, which has lovely 360-degree windows to see our ever-changing view.
• That we have portable hobbies, reading, writing and knitting. Covid talley so far: Finished three baby hats and two red-and-white dishcloths. Finished multiple books together and alone, including: In Morocco, by Edith Wharton, a highly recommended, but racially insensitive, Victorian travelogue, in anticipation of a trip to Morocco in January; The Lost City of Z, by the New Yorker’s David Grann, an amazing Amazon basin adventure story that Tom picked up at Changing Hands before we left and which kept our Covid-dulled brains totally absorbed, Craft, An American History, a fascinating analysis by Glenn Adamson, revealing makers’ central role in shaping America, Ordinary Grace, by William Kent Krueger, a lovely story told from a young boy’s view of a summer of many too-close deaths in his small town in Minnesota, some essays from Nobody’s Looking at You, by Janet Malcolm, including the title one on clothes maven Eileen Fisher, and from Tom’s personal bookshelf, The Age of Extremes, by Eric Hobsbawm, a political and social history of the 20th century from World War I to the splintering of the Soviet Union.
• And that we were able to recover and test negative in time to get to the Harmonica and Music Festival in Yellow Pine, Idaho. (More on that in my next post.)
Pandemic left us out of camping shape
- The Epic Van at McDowell Mountain Regional Park, happy to be on the road again.
- Horseback riders head for the trail at McDowell Mountain Regional Park.
- The sun rises over Jeff and Ann’s camp host spot at McDowell Mountain Regional Park.
As we roll back out on the road this year, it’s clear we’ve lost some of our camping sea legs, so it’s good we’re out on a soft start visiting our camping buddies Jeff and Ann, who are camp hosting at McDowell Mountain Regional Park, a mere 45 minutes from my mother’s house, where we’ve spent copious amounts of time during the pandemic.
We’ve done several short trips and one or two long ones during the pandemic, but haven’t been out nearly as much as we’d like. This year, we’re planning loops to both the East and West coasts, with family reunions, hiking, biking and rafting along the way. We’re pretty pumped about it.
So, only 45 minutes away, we thought. A breeze. We’ll get up, do some last-minute errands, and roll in around noon. We arrived at 4:30 p.m.
First, we were getting our room, which becomes the guest room when we’re not there, back into guest shape with clean sheets and stuff stuffed into the closet.
Then I spent an hour madly searching for the cord bag for the Jackery battery, a vital piece of equipment that keeps our phones and iPads charged when we’re parked and not plugged in (most of the time). I looked through all the (limited) places it might be in the van, NOT in the wire shelves with the books and cans, where I ALWAYS keep it, NOT in the tiny closet with our clothes, cheese board and (new) mousetraps, an oddly satisfying juxtaposition, NOT under the bed in back, NOT ANYWHERE. Back to the bedroom, NOT in the closet or on the shelves in the closet, NOT on the bookshelf, NOT in the many stacks of books on my side of the bed, NOT in the many stacks of books on Tom’s side of the bed, NOT in any dresser drawers, NOT under the bed, NOT, alas, hanging from the ceiling. Finally, FINALLY, found it. On the shelf of my bedside table in plain sight. I say it’s because it’s black and was in a shadow, NOT because I’m blind or senile. Another hour of my life I won’t get back.
Then I had to run to my Periwinkle Polka Dot studio to drop off the last lot of Kantha quilts from India, freshly laundered the night before, so they’ll happily be waiting for me when I return.
Then we threw the rest of our clothes, the coffee fixings, and toiletries in the van and headed to the grocery store to stock up. No problem.
Last thing, propane.
Off we roll to our regular propane spot at the U-Haul on East Indian Shool Road. No can do. Someone stole the adapter for RVs. Later, we learned, it’s because they’re solid brass and worth something on the scavenging circuit. On to the next U-Haul. Out of propane. On to a third. Only the manager fills RVs and he’s not there. Onto a fourth, no connector. Finally, fifth one’s a charm.
When we FINALLY rolled into the park, Jeff and Ann were on duty at the kiosk, laughing at our tardy buts. We settled in before dark, had a margarita when Jeff and Ann got off duty and slept soundly in the dark, quiet hills, happy to be back in The Epic Van.
Like I said, good thing it was a soft launch to get us ready for the Death Valley trip that starts this weekend with camping buddies Keven and Georges. Stay tuned.
The Epic Studio: Finding a nomad’s utopia in a pandemic
- Upcycled denim overalls, cut off and made into a dress using a vintage pillowcase.
- A picture of one corner of the studio, with bins of vintage fabrics and racks of finished pieces along the wall.
- One wall of the studio, with some of our finished items and cubbies for yarn, books, and sewing baskets.
- Our booth at the Tempe Festival of the Arts.
- Our booth at the Tempe Festival of the Arts.
- A swing coat made from a piece of vintage Hawaiian bark cloth.
- Some of my knitted baby hats with tulle poofs. Who doesn’t need a little poof.
- Some of our knitting and crochet hats, berets and scarves.
- Three swing coats, from left, made from an embroidered dresser scarf, vintage Hawaiian barkcloth and a vintage 1950s tablecloth.
- Decorated jean jackets.
- Dresses made from upcycled men’s and women’s shirts.
- A poncho made from a vintage wool blanket, denim decorated with cut lace and a raincoat from waterproof material used for outdoor tablecloths.
- An upcycled denim pinafore with a pocket from a piece of vintage tablecloth and pink floral edging.
- Upcycled overalls with cut lace, Tami’s expertise.
- A reversible romper made from a vintage tablecloth.
- Upcycled “Frankensweater” made from cashmere sweaters cut up and put back together in different combinations, trimmed with vintage velvet and with buttons made of paint chips.
- A swing coat made from a vintage 1950s tablecloth, lined with fleece and with a coconut-shell button.
- A swing coat made from my mother’s old Hawaiian-print quilt, with a coconut-shell button.
- A velvet party dress with a vintage-velvet collar.
- An upcycled cashmere sweater with vintage velvet trim.
- Overalls upcycled into dresses with vintage fabric skirts.
- A swing coat made from an embroidered dresser scarf.
- One of my knitted baby sweaters with a vintage velvet tie.
- A swing coat made from vintage brocade.
- A swing coat made from the quilt we used in The Epic Van for many years.
- Crowns made from lace and ribbon and bits and bobs.
- A swing coat made from a vintage, Hawaiian-print tablecloth.
- An upcycled denim bag with hella decoration.
I have a studio. Which, I guess, makes me a nomad with a little perch. It definitely makes me happy.
Carmel and Big Sur: Feels like home to me
- A panorama shot of Carmel Beach.
- Burrito and Waialua soda from Bruno's at Carmel Beach.
- Sushi!
- Tom on the Ridge Trail at Andrew Molera.
- A view of the coast from the Ridge Trail at Andrew Molera.
- Wildflowers.
- The small old-growth redwood grove on the Ridge Trail at Andrew Molera.
- A redwood trunk.
- A view of the amazing golden California hills from the Ridge Trail at Andrew Molera.
We’ve been visiting the Dahl House in Carmel for decades as the grateful guests of my step-brother Barry and sister-in-law Leslie. And after our visit to the eastern Sierras, we stopped here again.
Riding out dangerous Northwest heat wave
- The Epic Van in an epic heat wave in western Washington state, trying to hide in the old-growth Douglas fir.
- Even old growth trees at Rockport State Park can't block out the searing sun.
- Tom cools off for the first time in days with his toes in the Skagit River.
By Tom Nichols
We’re baking in the midday sun, even while sheltering under old-growth Douglas firs at Rockport State Park.
“I’m in the sun again and I’m about to cry,” Judy says, as our chair dance, perpetual jockeying on the checker-boarded forest floor, moving away from sunshine and into soothing shade. It’s our third day in the northern Cascades.
Blitzed by a record heat wave in the Northwest, worst since the 19th century, Judy and I scramble to stay as cool as possible while keeping close enough to a sports bar to enjoy the Phoenix Suns playoff run in the Western Conference finals.
Winging it: When you find a good spot, stick
- Light through the clouds in the Sierra.
- Tuttle Creek Campground is nestled in the foothills of the Sierra.
- Tom in his winter hiking gear along the Cottonwood Lakes Trail.
- Snow on a fallen log along the Cottonwood Lakes Trail.
- Snow in the Sierra.
- A view from the road up the Sierra, across the Alabama Hills to the Inyo Mountains.
- Wildflowers at Tuttle Creek in the Sierra.
- Yoga with a view of the Sierra.
- Clouds over the Sierra.
- A road near Lone Pine in the eastern Sierra.
- A storm in the Sierra.
- A rider takes her mule through its paces at Mule Days in Bishop, California.
- Clouds over the eastern Sierra.
- Tom crossing a creek in the eastern Sierra.
- A view down the road into the Sierra.
- Sunset over the Sierra.
- The lunar eclipse.
Winging It Rule #1: When you find a near-perfect campground, stick around for a while. (I just made up this rule, but I like it. Kind of like Jethro’s rules in NCIS.)
A winging success: Surviving the deserts, near-perfect camp
- The endless road through the Mohave Desert.
- Our lunch spot at Grimshaw Lake near the small town of Tecopa, California, in the Mohave Desert.
- Sand dunes in Death Valley National Park.
- Our campsite at Tuttle Creek Campground, with the Inyo Mountains in the background.
- Storm in the Sierra.
- Storm in the Sierra.
When you’re winging it, all camps are relative. It’s a balancing act between weather, availability, hiking access and routing.
Post vaccination: Back to winging it on the road
- The Epic Van in our campsite at Roosevelt Lake.
- Our view of Roosevelt Lake from our campsite.
- Blooming saguaro, our yoga view.
- Sunrise over Roosevelt Lake.
- A view of Apache Lake from Tom's hike on the Vineyard leg of the Arizona Trail.
We took off Friday for our first big post-vaccination jaunt: eight weeks through Arizona, up the eastern Sierras, then the California coast, then Oregon and Washington, and back past the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho. We don’t have reservations anywhere. We’ll find our camp spots where we stop at night.
It’s a feeling of freedom similar to when we first got in the van and headed down the road seven years ago.
Nomads and the civilised look at each other with disapproval and misunderstanding. Why would anyone want to wander the wilderness and live in a tent? Why would anyone want to live in a box and obey unnecessary masters?
Ali, Mostly we’ve found people think it’s really cool. Many tell us they dream of being able to wander the world. Are you a nomad?