A Dose of the Desert

Journal Entry #54

February 23, 2025

We have spent the past two weeks meandering across the great expanse of Texas, then crossing New Mexico along route 9 which hugs the border of Mexico and plunging into the deep wilds of the southern Coronado National Forest in southeastern Arizona.

On average, we generally travel about three hours every 2-3 days. Our “slow travel” is a practical consideration- it allows us to recharge our house batteries from the dual alternator as well as reheat our hot water from the engine coolant lines which Tom re-routed back to a marine tank heater when we built the van. 3 hours of drive time gives us full battery power lasting about 3-4 days for the electric power we use for cooking, refrigeration, lights and computing. The same amount of drive time heats our hot water to near boiling, allowing for hot showers from our recirculating shower system.

But slow travel is also a philosophical choice; the goal is not to race from one point to another, but rather to settle in and explore wherever it is we land. We tend not to set particular agendas for ourselves outside of knowing which days are travel days. In between the travel days we don’t always know where we’ll be spending the night. We use maps (big detailed paper ones, which we love) to do some scouting and research from the road, and we lean into areas where we see hiking or mtn biking trails to guide us to our next destination.

This is our third return to far West Texas and the greater lower Southwestern US in the van. We both often say we need our “annual dose” of the desert.

We drive across the empty expanses, dotted with creosote bushes and dry golden grass, our route punctuated by dramatic red-orange mountain ranges in the distance.

There are endless views in all directions and just a lonely ribbon of road with few others on it. The distant horizon and the lack of humanity washes away any harried monkey mind thinking. Something about the space and the road before us has a calming effect. It allows room for thoughts to both slow and also expand. It brings much needed Perspective (both figuratively and literally speaking.)

The past three nights we camped in a primitive area tucked in the heart of the wilderness. We traveled on a rough gravel forest road, far beyond where larger rigs would venture. We managed a slow drive down a rocky ridge, under some low branches into a grove of juniper and mountain laurels. Our spot was perched above a small waterfall and babbling creek with red faced cliffs in the distance. For three nights we had the grove to ourselves aside from the two coatimundi who stole away into the canyon when we arrived.

Long hikes are also a salve from the daily (crazy sh*tstorm of) news. No signal, no noise. Just the sound of our footsteps and easy conversation between scrambles and sweeping views. I am beyond thrilled to have my “hiking legs” back and, after two hip replacements last year, the ability to hike trails that require big climbs and significant miles again is a both medical miracle and an utter joy.

Today we rose at dawn to drive up to a trailhead in the Chiricahua National Monument. We watched the sunrise and struck up a conversation with another couple, Mike and Debbie. Avid birders, they were traveling in a promaster van; the only other vehicle in the parking area. They were 8 months into fulltime vanlife. We each shared stories of places we loved as we sipped coffee in the early light and toured each other’s rigs. Before setting off on our respective hikes, we shared contact information.

When we meet kind, likeminded travelers (sunrise arrivals at trailheads tend to draw similarly motivated folks!) we always offer our Ithaca driveway if they are ever passing through. We are still close with many of the people we have met on the road and have reconnected with them from time to time; there is a kinship that exists around this kind of wandering and adventure. These moments are the best of humanity.

But the current reality finds its way in. We are not immune to it, even out in the remotest places. We have adjusted our plans to head to Saguaro National Park tomorrow, having learned that due to the recent firing of over 4,400 National Forest and National Park staff, this park will be reducing the number of days they will be open (presumably because of staff reductions) and will be closed on Mondays until further notice.

At the end of our hike, as we returned to the van, I came upon a plaque that spoke to me:

Evergreens hunched against the wind. The haunting laugh of a canyon wren. A canopy of blue sky over the burning desert… This is wilderness—a place that offers a superior kind of pleasure— where nature remains untarnished and undepleted… The wilderness can be a healing balm for the tensions of the world…

It is where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, and where man himself is only a visitor who does not remain.

— The Wilderness Act, 1964