The Traveling Trio

rystjohn

Observer
Hey everyone! I've been lurking here for quite some time, and I've been a tad active as well when I've had questions or comments. I wanted to give back to the community by sharing our story and hopefully giving and gleaning information for other full and part time campers.

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As a backstory, my girlfriend and I have both traveled pretty extensively, but usually seperately. After coming home from my last solo-cross country trip on a motorcycle, Beth put her foot down and said that she wanted to travel across the country with me this time, and that she wanted to do so in a van or otherwise. Plans were made, and we dreamed of doing this for a year, or to become indefinitely on the road - we tossed ideas around for forever, and finally decided upon a 1997 Dodge Ram 2500 with a Cummins Turbo Diesel, and a 2007 Four Wheel Camper Grandby.

Since then we've spent nearly every second of free time and every extra penny into getting the truck fully maintained and the camper ready for full-time life.

You can read about both of these decisions on our website here if you'd like:
Choosing our Adventuremobile
The Truck
The Camper

We've been on the road nearly three months - we are currently in Sahaurita AZ visiting my father and from here we honestly have no idea where we are going! It's a fantastic feeling that is also terrifying! Our long-term plan is to mosey around the US, Mexico and Canada, supporting ourselves through odd jobs, design work, photography, and anything else we can do to keep fuel in the tank and food on our plates. We want to support the overlanding community, sustainability, conservation, and following your dreams.

We'd love to keep you all up to date and participate on the forum here, sharing what we've done, and gaining insight to problems or issues we have, or helping to solve other people's issues. Our big question to all of you right now - would you rather: A) read about it here through a short synopsis of what I've written on the website, B) have me provide links and/or subscribe to our blog C)have me copy and paste the posts to the forum

Let me know, we're just looking to become more involved in the community and meet a few of you along the way!

We left Overland Expo a few weeks ago and we met some amazing people and had some fantastic opportunities given to us which we've taken! Attending the expo was hands down one of the best decisions we've ever made and we look forward to the next one! If any of y'all met us let us know on here - we don't know what your screen names might have been. We were the couple with the white fluffy dog in the Four Wheel Camper area.

We're currently looking for work and hoping that something will pan out - we're a trio and we stick together so if our dog can't come we don't go. I spent the past two weeks working landscaping in the 103ºF heat in Phoenix, and I think I had my fill. I kept up with the other guys but it was tough backbreaking work. Landscaping in the desert consists of shoveling rocks, moving rocks, digging trenches, moving dirt and occasionally planting something. Phew.

Anyhow what most of y'all want to hear about is the adventures! Well I've been busy as I can be and I've written quite a bit over at our website: Traveling-Trio.com which we of course urge you to visit and subscribe if you haven't already! But I also had a lot of requests for me to divulge my writing here, so I'll give you a teaser below to hopefully pique your interest in visiting our site.

If anyone is in the area and needs some short-term work or knows someone who knows someone, we'd love to know!

Cheers!

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This post was originally published on Traveling-trio.com, 21 May 2015. © Robert Yeager St. John

SLOWING DOWN

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Darlene sputters, grumbles, and dies. I crank the starter again, she chugs a bit, sputters, gains the tiniest inkling of momentum as I floor the accelerator pedal and dies once again.

********.

We’re some of the last folks at Overland Expo West and we might be stuck. Beth is off filling water for us before we leave, my mind is racing now and I don’t know what to do.

Words of wisdom gleaned from the previous week come to mind: slow down.

I crank the starter again and tap the accelerator. Darlene grumbles to life, somewhat reluctantly as black smoke billows out from the exhaust under the truck, she stalls for a second and then catches her breath. With a little coaxing she’s purring like a Wookie once more.

This time I wait before shifting her into gear, instead letting Darlene warm her fluids in neutral. The past week was full of rain, snow, sleet and hail. The soft ground where we parked our 4 ton house swallowed the tires a few inches when it briefly became mud; Darelene’s cold transmission was having a hard time delivering the required torque while staying alive.

A few minutes pass and I finally breathe again as, with a slight hesitation, we reverse from our camping spot and are rolling South towards Coconino and Sedona. My mind wanders as Beth rambles on about the past week and Alfredo whines in my ear. I’m paying attention to neither of them – instead I’m focused on Darlene: What if the transmission bands are worn? Do I need to adjust the bands? Is the transmission shot? Why didn’t she want to go? This is supposed to be a tough truck, why couldn’t she handle such a tiny task? What’s going to go wrong next? Are we going to wind up stranded with a broken transmission? Do I smell burnt tranny fluid? Did I mess something up?

I’m exhausted from my internal monologue as the outside world returns to my senses.

A friend who spent the past 18+ months traveling abroad solo shared his words of wisdom with me while we were in Asheville. His advice comes to mind as we wind our way down HWY 89A, “Don’t stress ********. Big or small. It will drive you crazy. Not worth it. Smile and say f@ck it. Move on. You’re going to have really good days and really bad ones. Everything works out as it should.”

I take a deep breath and control my wandering mind, “it’s ok,” I tell myself. I know I’m right.

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As of May 20 we have been on the road for exactly two months. We have been more-or-less unemployed for at least one of those months. Things are getting “real” as you could say, and our diminishing budget is becoming apparent with every passing day until we find more work, sell more art, or win the lotto. We’re banking on the first two.

Through all this however, the hardest thing we’ve had to deal with is learning to slow down, to disconnect, to not be busy.

I’ve found myself wearing my watch daily for the past two months, and in these same two months I’ve cared less about the time than I ever have in my life. Upon disclosing this to Beth she responds with the wisdom of a sage, “It’s because we don’t have that structure anymore. We don’t have those markers through the day signaling change. We aren’t waking up at the same time day in and day out, going in and getting off work at the same time. Instead we’re in the now, and on the rare occasions we’ve needed to know when now is, the watch can tell us.”

She’s right. For the past 27 years of our life we’ve had a societal structure and schedule where attendance was mandatory: wake up, eat breakfast, go to work/school, come home, have time to yourself or with friends, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. The more we fit into our daily lives the better, right?

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We’ve broken away from routine and have not yet found our footing in this strange land of idle time.

Technology has seeped into every bit of our life, promising to make our lives easier while keeping us constantly engaged, constantly busy. If I sit on the john, I have my phone in hand, mindlessly thumbing through information. While waiting in line, I remove the phone from my pocket to check some seemingly important factoid a friend has divulged from the depths of human knowledge onto Facebook. Or videos of cats. As I lay in bed the cold glow of the screen illuminates, beckoning me to say goodnight with one more scroll through Instagram or Tumblr. When I close my eyes it’s hollow siren’s song buzzes against the side table – check your email, it might be important!

Now we find ourselves unmolested by obligations. My phone cries out in desperation as it’s unchecked battery dies. The reception bars on our phones act as compasses – if they diminish we know we’ve gone in the right direction. We rise and sleep with the sun, the natural circadian rhythm of our ancestors has come back to us, leaving us refreshed and full of life each day ready for…nothing.

“Surely we must have something important to do right now!” our brains scream to us in panic as we sit idly, watching the clouds above drift by as we explore our minds.

In this land of idle time, we’ve found our productivity, quality of life and feeling of fulfillment has increased. We have taken the time to talk to one another, discuss thoughts from deep within and explore our own minds – something that can’t be done by browsing Facebook or rushing from one chore to the next. We sit down and accomplish goals – I write a new article, Beth makes jewelry, Alfredo digs a hole. Sometimes all we do is stare at the campfire in silence, hands clasped save for when we pass the bourbon. All is well in our world.

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This idleness is not a vacation nor vice devoid of meaning. It is necessary for our growth as artists and human beings. It is something we have lost as a culture – time used to reflect, to journey within, to allow moments of pause within conversations rather than waiting for our turn to speak.

Within these idle moments we are granted the opportunity to see the picture of life as a whole. We are allowed to make connections we might not otherwise see, to have moments of inspiration strike us and as odd as it may seem, allow us to accomplish more work.

There is a trap in thinking that by being busy we are somehow being productive. That by filling our time with things to do, we are somehow fulfilling our reason for being and accomplishing more. I beg to differ with this assumption, instead I say that by being idle we produce more meaningful work, that less is more, and that we should measure our life accomplishments through quality, not quantity.

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I have spent countless hours staring at a computer screen, accomplishing nothing and feeling downtrodden and dejected – “why couldn’t I get more done” I often mutter to myself. Now I find myself staring off at the meadow around me, the tall grass casing a soft earthly glow as they catch the waning sunbeams of the afternoon light. Minutes, hours pass and I’ve done nothing. It feels great. I’m here and that’s all that I need. A hawk passes overhead and I watch his shadow dance around us as he hunts for lunch. My stomach grumbles and I realize that without keeping time I’ve forgotten to eat lunch as well.

The wind whispers through the tall pines around us as birds chatter in their perches. I sit mindlessly in my chair desiring that long lost feeling of Zen I had once before in my life. Waves of discomfort come over me as my mind attempts to find something to hold onto – there must be something I need to do right now or somewhere I need to be!

I ride these waves of discomfort, watch them dissipate and paddle back to my Zen. Slowing down is a difficult thing to do, both freeing and terrifying, but I’m determined.

I take a deep breath and exhale, staring off at the sunset. I have nothing to do, and plenty of time to do it.
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sgltrk

Observer
Hi Yeager,

I don't think anything is wrong with your truck. I have a 1998.5 Ram 2500 CTD (24 valve) so, I'm familiar with the cold weather starting symptoms you experienced. As you know the Cummins engine uses an intake air pre-heater to warm the incoming air until the engine gets warmed up. Normally you turn the key to the "run" position and wait for the "Wait to Start" light to go out before starting the engine. When it is mid to low 30's, or colder, you have to cycle the air pre-heater a couple of times before you crank the engine.

So, key to "run" position then when the "Wait to Start" light goes out turn the key to "OFF" then back to "run" to cycle the pre-heater a second time. Wait for the "Wait to Start" light to go out the second time then crank the engine.

This has worked for me in 15 degree weather even with the truck outside all night.

Enjoy your travels,
SGLTRK
 

rystjohn

Observer
Hi Yeager,

I don't think anything is wrong with your truck. I have a 1998.5 Ram 2500 CTD (24 valve) so, I'm familiar with the cold weather starting symptoms you experienced. As you know the Cummins engine uses an intake air pre-heater to warm the incoming air until the engine gets warmed up. Normally you turn the key to the "run" position and wait for the "Wait to Start" light to go out before starting the engine. When it is mid to low 30's, or colder, you have to cycle the air pre-heater a couple of times before you crank the engine.

So, key to "run" position then when the "Wait to Start" light goes out turn the key to "OFF" then back to "run" to cycle the pre-heater a second time. Wait for the "Wait to Start" light to go out the second time then crank the engine.

This has worked for me in 15 degree weather even with the truck outside all night.

Enjoy your travels,
SGLTRK

Thanks for the tips - however we already do this and it wasn't cold when we started the truck & had issues. It was 70° and I think the transmission was cold and maybe ha drained?

Either way we haven't had an issue since. One thing we encountered yesterday was the breather tube on the front differential was leaking gear oil. It was 104° and we were driving up a steep grade - up Mt. Lemmon. Apparently this happens...?

Also our coolant nearly hit the redline at times while driving up...hmmm.

Oh who knows, the joys of an 18y/o truck....our adventure continues.

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rystjohn

Observer
Hey all!

To those of you who subscribed to the blog, I can't thank you enough! For the rest of you...here's what you've missed out on:

We've been all over Arizona and finally settled on the Mogollan Rim to work as the youngest camp hosts ever! We were in dire need of cash (basically always are living on the road) and found this gig online. Now we're here until Sept 20 when we head to Montana for a week, and then onward to Minnesota to work the famed Sugar Beet Harvest.

Between my initial post, there were a few other adventures which I can share with you all below. I hope you enjoy!
 

rystjohn

Observer
Anywhere But Here pt. 1

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I wake with that sinking sensation of dread which comes from knowing my day would be void of even the simplest of pleasures and instead would be one of test and turmoil; I would be driving across Oklahoma.

The day began slowly as they do now, our life having become less about rushing and more about experiences. Beth forgot her laptop charger at Wesley & Eryn’s and so several miles from our starting point we awaited its delivery at a McDonalds parking lot off the busy interstate, Beth enoyed the cool AC inside as I sweltered in the growing humid heat of the day. No need to rush, we’ve learned that when we have nowhere to be we can’t be late – so why not take our time?

On the road Westward we could hear our names whispered on the wind, the scenery blurring past us at 70mph – pastel smears of greens and blues slowly fading to grey. The morning was full of intermittent showers and the sky seemed less happy as we neared Arkansas and the state-of-which-we-will-not-speak.

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I have not had good experiences in Oklahoma and try as I might to convince Beth of my opinions, she merely smiles and says, “yes dear.”

At mile-marker sixteen of this dreaded territory we stop for a simple dinner at the Oklahoma Welcome Center which jovially welcomes us to the land where the state bird is any object the wind can blow. The three of us had decided earlier to push Darlene and ourselves to the limits and trek the 1,200 miles from Nashville to Albuquerque in one run. The thought of resting my head in any of the states between unsettled me. Beth and I would continue to switch out driving every few hours, and Alfredo would stay sleeping and if he needed anything he would let us know. Good boy.

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The Oklahoma weather gods must have heard my mockery of their great nation, and bequeathed on us of most terrifying landlocked storm I’ve ever seen. With salad hanging from my mouth like a brontosaurus, I craned my neck upwards with wide eyes toward the looming thunderhead rapidly approaching. I barely had time to swallow and speak.

“Babe, we gotta get out of here!”

With the last syllable off my tongue the wind shook the camper with a mighty fury and we were reminded of our fragile nature in life.

Beth leapt from the camper to help secure the roof from the outside – lowering it was showing to be a problem in the high winds as my surfboard had temporarily become a wing, and our dear camper was attempting a flight to rival the Wright’s.

In the cab we sat shivering with our cold wet clothing forming puddles in the floorboards around our feet as the water in our hair and clothes followed gravity’s pull.

“What should we do?”

Around us, the sudden congregation of the interstate road-safety indicator – the long distance trucker – solidified our decision to stay put.

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We spend the next lifetime, or two hours – we’re not entirely sure, huddling in Darelene’s cab as the Terrified Trio. Alfredo’s heavy rapid breathing accents the heavy smacking of raindrops on the roof and windows, as the NOAA weather report repeats on the CB radio in a raspy metallic voice.

…Remember, it only takes 3 feet of moving water to sweep away most vehicles including trucks and SUVs. Most flash flood drowning deaths occur in automobiles. If there is water on the road, do not drive through it and take another route… Severe weather and thunderstorms have been reported in this area and a flash flood warning is in effect for…

A list of incomprehensible county names based off Osage, Choctaw, Apache and Wichita words rambles on, meaning nothing for us as we have no idea where we are. Our fear manifests as humor and we laugh at the absurdity of our situation – we are only sixteen miles within Oklahoma and already having an unpleasant time. Lighting cracks around us and we giggle at the towering lamp poles surrounding us, seemingly begging to be hit next. The NOAA report repeats endlessly as background noise. The phrase take another route morphs into take another trout – Beth and I swear we hear this and laugh manically at the idea of finding a trout to ride through all this water. After all it might help.

We have no idea how much time has passed, the rain has softened to a pitter-patter and the truckers who have been our canaries in a coal mine slowly take flight into the cold wet night. We check the radar one last time, turn the CB back to channel 19 and roll back onto the wet interstate, our eyes are peeled for another trout, ya know, just in case.

The miles drag by and the weather does not improve. We hit clear patches followed by torrential downpour, intermixed with the gentle patter of a spring shower.

I turn to Beth and in my best Forrest Gump voice, “We had big ol’ fat rain, little bitty stingin’ rain and sideways rain. We even had rain that seemed to come from underneath!”

We laugh like school girls, smile, and then hit a huge patch of hidden water and nearly hydroplane. The laughing stops. There will be no fun in Oklahoma.

The radar shows a looming storm system rapidly moving towards our location and our only salvation seems to be the lights of a Loves truck stop in the distance. We make the call between ourselves and park for the night under their harsh halogen lighting. Learning from our earlier mistakes we leave the top down and attempt to rest ourselves the best we can.

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Anxiety runs through my veins and I can not sleep. In the camper Beth and Alfredo gently breathe behind me as I stare out over the hood from the driver’s seat. I am ready to take action at moments notice, but have no idea what I may need to do or if being here will help. The metallic voice of the NOAA channel gently whispers, advising me to take another trout as the cold glow of my phone illuminates the cab between the pop flash of lightning.

Outside the truck a group of high school kids run rampant around their trucks. The only thing pumping through their veins is a flood of out-of-control hormones, potentially alcohol and drugs by the looks of it. The boys and girls drive in circles around one another in their loud automobiles oblivious to the weather above them as they narrowly miss Darlene’s front end. I watch the swirl of clouds on the radar and I know either of these gyrating masses could potentially cause trouble for me, but I don’t know which I’m more concerned over.

The cloud of teenagers dissipates shortly after midnight, after all there must be school the next day, right? The thunder and lightning continues to pop and crack around us. Beth’s breathing remains steady and soft. Rain arrives and departs in waves, and my imagination repeatedly gets the best of me – I see tornados on the horizon, blink and realize they are shrubs or fence posts. I see movement from the corner of my eye, surely an F10 cyclone headed straight for us! Lightning pops and it’s just a cow chewing its cud.

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The night continues like this until Beth stirs awake and beckons my restless body and mind to bed. I glance one last time at the radar and realize the clouds have slowed to a crawl. All night I have been waiting for this system to hit, and on the verge of sleep it just now arrives.

If **** does hit the fan, I’d much rather be in the arms of the woman I love than sitting alone in the front seat. I army-crawl through the pass to the camper and snuggle into the warmth and love of Alfredo and Beth’s nest. My eyelids droop and a bolt of lightning pops a mile or two away and I swear I see another twister. I let out a sigh, close my eyes and go to a happy place in my dreams. Anywhere but Oklahoma.
 

rystjohn

Observer
Anywhere But Here pt. 2

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Consciousness returns to my sleeping mind by the sound of a freight train headed straight towards me. I’d always heard this is how tornadoes sound before they hit. Hesitantly I open my eyes ready to face the inevitable.

An eighteen-wheeler rumbles past us, the jake brake and downshifting lets out a loud VVVVVRRRMMMMPPPPPOP POP POP POP POP bringing me back to this harsh reality. We are still in Oklahoma.

Peering out the camper window I thank the Adventure Gods for our continued safety through the night. A convoy of truckers roll by in the gentle misting rain of the early morning light. I forcefully blink to clear my eyes and glance at my watch. It’s 5:14AM.

What the hell are they doing leaving so early?

I wonder if we should get out of bed and follow suit, but my mind and body reside in a heavy fog, unable to properly function. I roll to my other side, the tender arms of Beth and sleep embrace me once again.

As time does when sleeping, two hours pass within a fleeting instant and I awake with a startle. We are greeted by overcast skies and gentle warm winds.

We’ve made it!

Westward we rumble down Interstate 40, coffee in our veins and our moods considerably lighter. We are still on edge but by day’s end we’ll be in Albuquerque!

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As though the Oklahoma Gods wish to smite our cheer of leaving their territory, the sky quickly darkens and fat juicy raindrops splat heavily upon the windshield.

You gotta be ************* kidding me!

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Just off the interstate, an aging brick and mortar diner serves as our place of refuge from the storm, should we need it. The metallic man intones his sermon on NOAA weather station 162.400MHz and we chant along.

Take another trout.

I watch the radar with intent. If we push forward we will hit the growing storm dead-on while driving. If we wait we’ll be sitting ducks. Hail pelts the roof, sounding like heavy pinto beans pouring on us from on high. We decide to wait.

I hope the solar panel can withstand this abuse.

Ten miles down the road after the weather has cleared our decision to wait out the storm is justified. A crumpled aluminum ball that was once a minivan resides in the median. Emergency vehicles surround the bent and rippled vehicle, their red and blue lights reflecting off its broken metal skin. We leave the wreck behind us, thankful for our safety.

Never in our lives did we imagine we’d crave Texas soil with such tenacity. A cloud of it rises from behind us as we skid to a stop at the border. I could kiss the sweet earth but instead we photograph ourselves jumping for joy. Have have further to go before this day is over.

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We arrive in Amarillo and the Cadillac Ranch is just as I remember from years prior- littered with spray paint canisters, paper and oddly enough, shoes. This place is an iconic interstate oddity, a location to leave your brief calling card of existence, only for someone else to cover your marks with their own.

A loaded down Suzuki DR350 catches my eye as we meander into the field. I instantly peg the rider – the only solo traveler amongst the mess, other than us the only person taking his time. Can’t be rushed when you have nowhere to be. I introduce myself and we briefly chat, but I can tell he’s desiring his solitude. I leave him be as I ruminate on memories of my solo cross country trip by motorcycle.

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The vastness of the Texan panhandle is lost on a road atlas. Crossing into the Land of Enchantment takes longer than expected, but as soon as that beautiful New Mexican soil is underneath our Cooper tires Beth and I breathe a sigh of relief. I know that tonight we will be swaddled in safety like the fresh made tortillas which wrap the Golden Pride burritos I plan on devouring first thing tomorrow.

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As the sun sets off our bow the lights of Albuquerque come to life, sparkling in the deep darkness of the desert. We have made it, tomorrow holds the promise of a better day.

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rystjohn

Observer
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The sun has yet to crest the Sandias as we drive Westward from Albuquerque. Entering Arizona, the morning light revives the dark desert landscape with contrast and warmth, our long shadows cast ahead of us as though attempting to gain the lead.

Outside of Houck we stop to refuel: coffee in, coffee out. Only a few more miles down the road and we’ll be there – the Petrified Forest National Park.

Four years ago I stopped here on a whim as I drove East. I was on the last leg of a five week solo roadtrip and was not ready to go home. I had become enthralled by the desert where I had spent the last two weeks – I had often sat alone in the grandiose arid landscape, watching clouds drift towards me that had begun at the horizon. The vastness of the land placed an emphasis on my infinitely small place in the world and helped me to realize how insignificant my problems were in the grand scheme of the universe. The weight of a dozen worries lifted from my shoulders as I drove through the magnificently gorgeous section of the park called The Painted Desert.

“To the desert go prophets and hermits; through desert go pilgrims and exiles. Here the leaders of the great religions have sought the therapeutic and spiritual values of retreat, not to escape but to find reality.”
-Paul Shepard


Apparently hundreds of people a month pocket a piece of petrified pre-history only to return home and find their luck turned sour. In desperation these rock poachers send their spooky souvenirs back to the Park Service complete with letters asking for forgiveness.

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The rangers pile these rocks of repentance into great heaps, averaging 12 tons yearly. Supposedly the bad luck disappears after the stones are returned to their rightful place.

I recount this tale to Beth as we pull up to the gates of the National Park as a warning; we don’t need any bad luck while on the road. Just in case this is not incentive enough to leave the rocks be, the park ranger at the kiosk informs us that it’s a federal offense to collect or remove any of the rocks from the land, punishable by fines and/or imprisonment.

As we drive North into the park the scenery does not readily change – it is no surprise that so many travelers on I-40 zip right by this natural wonder without a second glance. We turn into the first overlook,Tiponi Point. From the corner of my vision I see Beth’s eyes widen as her jaw drops. She understands now why I wanted to stop here.

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200 million years ago great conifer trees thrived in what once was a vast floodplain. When these trees fell, a mixture of silt, mud and volcanic ash covered the logs and created an anaerobic environment that slowed the wood’s decay. As silica-laden groundwater seeped through the logs, the wood tissue was replaced with silica and minerals which petrified the logs in beautiful multi-colored designs. In the 1800s federal mappers and surveyors explored this area and recounted tales of a remarkable “Painted Desert and it’s trees turned to stone,” and in 1906 Teddy Roosevelt helped to pave the future of the park by declaring it a National Monument and preserving nearly 53,000 acres of natural pre-history.

I see a petrified log and point it out to Beth.
“Wait, where?”

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The tree-turned-stone is off in the distance and Beth isn’t sure what she is looking for. I describe as a large “dinosaur turd” and give her landmarks to locate it.

“Whoa. WHOA! Wait – they’re all over!” She finally finds what she’s looking for and I can see that her perception of the world has immediately broadened. Suddenly seeing or experiencing things that have been around you the entire time is a magical experience. Your world instantly changes and the only comparison I can think of is seeing the hidden object in a Magic Eye image. I will see this happen in both of us again weeks later while hunting for geodes.

We stop at Chinde Point and look out at a vast valley of tan and green. In the distance petrified logs are scattered about the landscape looking oddly alien in this parched tree-less land.

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“They’re everywhere!” Beth yells joyously as she points to the ancient logs. An elderly couple arrives and parks next to us, breaking the solitude of the desert with a friendly, “Good morning!”

The couple’s salutation makes us realize it is indeed morning at 8:57AM, and not mid-day as we both thought. The 90º heat and high sun had us in an alternate time, many hours later. Cheerfully knowing that we have plenty of the day left, we climb into Darlene and sweep South on the road through the park.

Slowly we drive the varied landscape – we are in no rush and are fully engrossed in the moment regardless of our time schedule. We pass multi-colored striations in the hills and valleys that tell tales of a time before man; fallen logs permanently speak of a great tropical conifer forest that existed before this dry grassland.

My favorite section of the entire park is the drive through the Tepees – ancient conical earthen mounds with varied bands of blues, purples, grays, and oranges, created by Triassic river deposits millions of years ago. Beth’s mouth is agape once more in amazement and I smile from ear-to-ear. These formations make us feel as though we are on another planet or in another time, this can not be our Earth. Indeed we are glimpsing out the truck windows into the past at ancient records of our Earth before man ever crawled from the primordial ooze. We are driving through the history of our planet, Darlene is a temporary time machine.

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Leaving the Tepees behind we continue South with a quick stop at the Jasper Forest. Seemingly growing once more from the ground, petrified logs jut from the grassy earth at random. We pause at the Crystal Forest and consider hiking, but our wimpy East coast bodies are no match for the mid-morning heat of the desert and so we forego the exploration by foot.

Leaving the park I swear I glimpse a pile of rocks behind a building, a mound of bad ju ju reversed. Silently, I hope there are no petrified specimens lodged in our treads and ask the forces at large for forgiveness if need be. Exiting the park we are immediately bombarded by billboards with “PETRIFIED WOOD” in hand-painted five-foot tall block white letters. Shop after shop promises free petrified wood, terms and conditions unknown, not to mention luck. Although collecting and selling the ancient hardened tree-bits is legal on private land, we agree it best to let history stay here as we continue towards Flagstaff.

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If you are ever in the area of the Petrified Forest National Park we highly recommend driving through and exploring the hiking trails, but only in fair weather – it can get HOT here. If you are heading East on 40, take exit 285 to US 180 East through Holbrook to the South entrance, which will lead you back North to 1-40. Westbound 40, take exit 311 and follow the park road South until reaching 180 West, which will rejoin you to 40 in Holbrook. If you don’t have a National Parks Pass (which you should) the gate fee is affordable and worth the adventure and sights. Personally, this has remained one of my favorite National Parks for years, second only to Arches. We’ll see if our continued adventures change this ranking.
 

rystjohn

Observer
I look around the Jeep at the other’s faces; behind me Beth’s face shows unease and nausea as Alfredo flops around with the sway of the suspension, beside me Chris is lost in concentration on the poor excuse for a road that lies ahead, his white-knuckled hands steadfast at ten and two. The map in my lap aggressively shifts as we bounce over yet another rock, a breeze from the open window flicks the corners like a dog’s panting tongue. I squint down at the bland white map as though this will somehow help discern our location. The road is getting worse. I don’t want to wind up like the ivory pile of gnawed bones we discovered that was once a cow.

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“I’m pretty sure we’re here,” I hold the map up and attempt to pinpoint a spot with my bouncing finger a measly two miles from where we began. Over an hour and a half has passed, we still have over eighteen miles to go. If we had known this road’s dreadful condition or if we were into off-roading, we’d be having a much better time and wouldn’t have left with only a few hours of light left. We decide to double back and try a different route tomorrow. At this pace we’re better off walking.

South of Sedona we had set up camp in the high desert after leaving the cool mountain air just North of Red Rocks two days ago. Darelene’s stock suspension received a rigorous workout on the dusty washboarded Forest Road 618 as we searched for a viable spot to pop our top – the Coconino National Forest Motor Vehicle Use Map Bill gifted us at Overland Expo promised dispersed camping all along the route but none of the sites seemed inviting or even accessible until we found the intersection of FR 618C.

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At night the fire’s crackle and the whisper of the wind was all we could hear as the flames lapped at the millions of stars above us. Just before dawn we awoke to the howl of coyotes nearby. We didn’t want to leave this place, but an adventure to an abandoned hot springs called our name.

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Forest Road 708, or Fossil Creek Road as most folks know it, is closed. We park on the side of the road and I call the number on the closure sign, hoping this is only temporary. The recorded voice informs us that the closure is in effect from 9AM until further notice due to high vehicle traffic. In desperation I look at the map and find a tiny road connects to FR 708 from an alternate direction, the black and white striping denotes “open to all vehicles.” We will find ourselves on this unmaintained poor excuse for a road in a few hours, bouncing over boulders, questioning our decisions, and eventually turning back to try Fossil Creek Road again in the morning: FR 9D.

A stones throw past mile marker 241 on HWY 260 East we arrive at our forest road, an unassuming dirt trail masked as a small farmhouse’s driveway. Trusting the signage we turn off the highway and follow the rough road bouncing over dirt, manure, hay and rock past the clapboard farmhouse and around a bend until we reach a vast grassy clearing. An escarpment of the Mogollan Rim is visible in the distance, to the East high power lines trace off to the horizon. At a poorly built fire ring we park Darlene, no use in taking both vehicles, and pile into the Jeep bounding our way down to connect with FR 9D, bubbling with enthusiasm.

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Three hours and three miles later we are back where we began: shaken, disheveled, and ready for a relaxing night around a campfire. The sun sets with a colorful wash of blues, oranges and purples, our campfire dances as we stare into the flames, each of us thankful we turned back and didn’t wind up like that cow.

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Pre-dawn light rouses us from slumber. With haste we stuff ourselves and our packs with coffee, breakfast, water, cameras, snacks, sunscreen, and a map as we race to Fossil Creek Road before the closure starts.

In triumph we cruise the rugged track towards our destination. Rocks, dips, bumps and washboards of this road feel smooth as silk compared to yesterdays rocky ride. A fine dust covers all, turning our pale skin and black Jeep tawny; far off ghostly plumes kicked up from vehicles reveal the distance we’ve yet to drive.

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Seventeen miles of Fossil Creek Road lead to seeming desolation pockmarked by sooty families in dusty camp sites, boxed in by gritty cars, tents and heavy lines of traffic passing by. Why people would choose to come out here only to watch dirty brown motorcades pass them at regular intervals is beyond my comprehension. At FR 502 we make a hard turn South towards Child’s Power Plant, breaking formation from the ghostly procession as it continues in a blanket of dust. The road gradually rises up and over a ridge on a one-and-a-half-lane switchback towards the Verde River, our journey’s end.

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The harsh scent of hot brakes sting my nostrils and I tell Chris to downshift lest we lose our ability to stop. We pause at an overlook to let the hot rotors cool, staring down at the Verde River below. It is hard to believe that there once was a resort down here in the early 1900s, that humans would ever try to settle such a desolate area in an attempt to tame this wilderness. Our adventure has already been a trek with modern vehicles and maintained roads, it is inconceivable that folks made this journey with some of the first automobiles on the first primitive roads. In this vast desert there is no sound but the gentle wind shuffling clouds about the turquoise sky, our breaths are insignificant puffs in this immensity.

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Overlooking a maintained campground on the river, we park next to an abandoned minivan; it’s tires are flat, the license plate has been removed and the sliding door is missing. I’m smacked by the smell of urine as I peer into the egress at trash, bedding and random automobile parts, hoping it will not be our misfortune to stay the night here. Below us the sounds of primitive drums pound, folks are wandering about half-clothed. Before venturing here I intently read all I could on the area; stories of folks making semi-permanent residence at the campground, prevalent nudity, drug use, and occasional violence had put me on alert, but the energy emanating from below was jovial. We duck under a gate and walk the rustic road past the abandoned Child’s Power Plant. A large spray of graffiti proclaiming “FEED ME YOUR BLOOD! HAIL SATAN!” places my mind and body back on alert – we are three scrawny white folk in the middle of the desert with no help for miles.

Several minutes down the road we pass a rock with a large spray painted ‘X’ that we later learn is the correct place to cross the river, affectionately called “X marks the rock.” Instead we follow the road until a footpath leads us down toward the river where we manage to ford across the surprisingly swift current. Walking downstream a trail manifests and leads us past oddly placed palm trees and crumbled foundations.

The hotel that used to stand where the hot spring pools are located now burnt down in 1962. Before then it apparently was quite the place in the Jazz Age and rumor has it that Al Capone used it as a hideout at times. Now all you see are remnants of the old structure, mis-placed palm trees and the pools.

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A series of steps lead us down to a large pool signaling our arrival. Aside from us there are only two couples occupying the springs – one seasoned regulars, the others newcomers like us. The pools are fed from natural springs deep within the rocks, the basin’s drains plugged with bowling pins to hold the supposed magical water in place, the excess dripping out carefully crafted channels leading to the river beside us. Graffiti covers nearly all the man-made structures, colorful in hue and content with caricatures, warnings, biblical quotes and inspirational messages. The dark mineral water has an oily film on the surface and seltzer-like bubbles rise from abyss. We jump in.

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A scene from Dante’s Peak comes to mind as we soak in the blissful warmth – campers find themselves boiling alive in a natural spring as a volcano beneath them rumbles to life. We let our cares drift away with the clouds above and balance the heat with a dip into the brisk Verde River, our systems shocked to life from the contrast. We scoot from hot to cold and back again, eventually settling on the banks of the river, basking in the Summer sun like lizards.

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The day meanders by, we are alone in a paradise hidden within the desert, grateful for finding this place and having the ability to enjoy it unabated. Hours later the last sips of the water we brought signal time for our exodus from this paradise. Begrudgingly we head back to the vehicle.

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The sun nears it’s departure from the sky as we arrive back at camp. Clouds on the horizon threaten storms as we build our nightly fire. We sit around the crackling flames watching once again as they seemingly reach for the heavens; in a valiant effort, embers pop skyward attempting to join their starry brethren above, only to extinguish within the darkness around us. I stare intently at the flames as though searching for a hidden meaning within them, concluding that experiences such as ours this weekend are exactly why we travel and what we should be living for, sharing our stories is necessary.

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I smile comfortably in the silence of the night knowing that tomorrow we will awake to solitude in this field, fully able to enjoy our day free from any dirty cavalcade passing by in search of paradise. I think we’ll be coming back soon.
 

OverlandKyle

Adventurer
Beautiful writing.... It feels as if I'm right there with you and Beth as you travel.... I know you guys are with me in spirit as I travel as I have your logo on my trailer.... Please continue to write as much as you can, you guys are living the dream

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Kyle
 

rlyoung112

New member
A) read about it here through a short synopsis of what I've written on the website, B) have me provide links and/or subscribe to our blog C)have me copy and paste the posts to the forum

I'd say this option. The first two seem a bit markety. We know you have to make a living, but a thread simply linking to a blog would be terrible. Or maybe alternate your methods and try to please this community AND your blog subscribers/wallets.

Admittedly, I read what was here THEN traveled over to the website as well.
 

rystjohn

Observer
I'd say this option. The first two seem a bit markety. We know you have to make a living, but a thread simply linking to a blog would be terrible. Or maybe alternate your methods and try to please this community AND your blog subscribers/wallets.

Admittedly, I read what was here THEN traveled over to the website as well.



Thanks for the reply! That's what I've decided to do is just post the stories here rather than link to them. Of course we LOVE when folks visit our site too and subscribe!
 

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