Exploring scale solar system walks is a groovy way to refresh our perspective our place in the stars. And explore places on Earth.
Our little blue marble is amazing. How life began and evolved here over billions of years is mind-blowing. And yet within that marvel, we’re microscopic in the big scheme of things—in our solar system alone much less considering the entire universe.
One of the ways I love seeing our place in space represented is through scaled solar system walks. If you’re not familiar, they’re walking tours you can take that have plaques or displays showing the planets, not only in a relational distance to one another but also in the planet sizes themselves.
They can be super-fancy and formal (usually sponsored by a museum or some such) or simple, homemade versions. They run the gamut. But by far my favorite I’ve ever explored is the one on the road to Great Basin National Park.
Someone tied various objects and hand-painted signs along a barbed wire fence on the road leading to the park. The planets were represented by things like basket and tennis balls, a bell, etc. You get the idea.
And if you were simply focused on getting to the park, you’d miss the whole thing. It didn’t have a fancy marker or display to tell you about it. It just seemed to be someone’s quirky little project. But you had to be paying attention to notice it.
The last time I visited years ago, many of the planets had gone missing. So unless someone has tended to it, there’s probably not much left. And that’s a shame. It was so veryon-brand, oddball Nevada. And I loved it.
Anyway, I encourage you to seek out scaled solar systems walks where you live or in places you travel to. They’re a fun way to explore a town or city even if it’s your own. Much like geocaching, they take you places you might not go otherwise.
And they’re an important reminder of the dichotomy our “little” Earth represents in the universe—tiny in the big picture but unique and amazing in its own right.
Peace out!
Share your thoughts in the comments below!
Bluesky Art Show
This post is inspired by the Bluesky Art Show, a challenge to share artwork surrounding a weekly themeeach Saturday.
How do full-timers take a vacation? We were about to find out. A vacation by definition is a change from your normal activities. And after what had become our normal activities as full-timers over the previous six weeks we definitely needed a break. So while going to Baja added to the chaos, it was also necessary for us to step away for a short time and regroup.
Breaking away
We normally travel to Baja by motorcycle. This trip would be quite different—only a handful of days, with dear friends we would pick up in San Diego, and in our new-to-us truck. It felt bizarre not to be towing our house behind us and we reveled in the ease of it and let the stress in our lives of late fall away with each mile.
Just before entering California, we took an extra long break in a highway rest area to give ourselves some mental space to decompress. We had plenty of time, a feeling we hadn’t experienced in months, so we embraced it. I grabbed a geocache smiley and we mostly just allowed the mental dust to settle. That unusually lengthy road trip break led to one of the strangest small-world encounters I’ve experienced—bumping into the original owners of our truck, who we’d never met before.
Bewildered by the insanely slim odds of that occurrence, we laughed our way to San Diego where we would spend our first evening away from “home” catching up with good friends who live in the area. Boy did we blow off some steam! That set the tone for connecting with our travel companions the next evening. It was Leslie’s birthday and we had some celebrating to do before heading over the border at Tecate and introducing them to Baja.
Getting the much-needed party started.
Baja adventure
Our trip would be short—only a four day toe-dip into the wine region of Baja. Once across the border at Tecate, the first stop had to be tacos, of course. We were high on relief and they felt like the most delicious tacos we’d had in our lives. And with that, we got serious about not being serious for a few days.
Leslie scored us a great AirBnB nestled amongst the vineyards in the Valle de Guadalupe. It felt good to step into a different world from what we’d been living in. The laid back pace of Baja is the reset we needed. We took our friends to our favorite restaurant, made a day trip to Ensenada, and explored new places together. The where and what details aren’t really all that important—it was the time together. We stayed up late, ate too much, drank too much, watched silly movies, danced like idiots—the list goes on. We hadn’t seen them in person since our Cuba adventure a year earlier and we had a tremendous amount of friend therapy to accomplish in a very short time. And damn if we didn’t make every moment count.
Our first tacos of the trip at Tacos El Guero.
Tacos El Guero in Tecate.
Rooftop relaxation at the AirBnb.
Happy hour on the roof.
Lomita winery view from our AirBnb.
Mural at Lomita winery.
View from the Lomita winery.
Wine tasting at Lomita winery.
Overdue friend time.
Fish market in Ensenada
Bringing home goodies to cook at the AirBnb
Jim keeping an eye on our fresh seafood.
Viagra man around town.
Tacos from El Chente in Ensenada.
Ice cream in Ensenada
Finca Altazano, our favorite restaurant.
Smoke on the horizon
In the midst of our silliness, we couldn’t ignore the unsettling story brewing on the other side of the world. Leslie checked the news feed frequently, trying to make sense of the growing health crisis. We kept thinking, “this isn’t good but hopefully it’s too soon to worry.” It wasn’t, as we all know now.
After our short frolick in Baja, we sent Jim and Leslie back to Atlanta and made our way back to Phoenix to see if we could get our full-time RV-ers act together. Hopefully our rolling home was still intact after being left unattended for a week. It was.
Our plan was to head back to northern Nevada, handle some personal tasks, then set back out as footloose-and-fancy-free full-timers, open to where the road would take us with some of our challenges now in the rearview mirror. Basically, finally dive into our adventure after some false starts. Novel idea, right?
But first we had to sell the Power Wagon. With the title in hand after my blitz back to Carson City to retrieve it from our safety deposit box, J listed the truck. He was brutally honest about its shortcomings and priced it to sell quickly as a project truck. We simply didn’t have the time or bandwidth to try to squeeze every penny out of it, deal with multiple meetings with potential buyers, and play the irritating negotiation game.
We ended up selling it to the first guy who came to look at it after fielding a mind-boggling number of inquiries in just minutes after the listing was live. J has quite a knack for writing listings like that and his prowess did the trick. We were able to put the Power Wagon saga behind us.
We had lots of adventures in this old beast but it was time to move on.
A vision for the future
Feeling like we were starting over on our full-time adventure, we revisited our path forward. It was prudent given how horribly our first month and a half went. So what were we hoping to accomplish with nomadic life?
With our accelerated timeline exiting the house, we figured we’d just try nomad life on and see if we liked it—a proof of concept. Combined with the distinct lack of progress on building out the property, we wanted to make sure we didn’t have on blinders about where we wanted to be long-term.
So, we set out to enjoy the freedom of full-time travel for a bit and take a break from the building frustration. Maybe we’d discover something that would change our course. Maybe full-time life would finally work for us and we’d keep at it. Or maybe we’d be able to return to the building project with renewed spirit. We were open to the possibilities.
It’s well-documented at this point that my transition to nomad life with my dear man was an utter shitshow. We were exhausted before we even hit the road. Starting from the bottom is not exactly a recipe for success.
We knew we’d have to replace the Dodge Power Wagon along the way. It was old, beleaguered, and struggling to manage the load. It wasn’t the right tool for the job and after many attempts to fix chronic issues, putting any more money into was a fool’s game.
Fortunately, J had already been researching our next vehicle thinking we had six months to a year to figure it out. We thought we had time to get settled in and keep our eyes out for the truck we wanted.
Then, on a two-lane stretch of US 93 in Arizona while attempting to make a rapid, uphill exit from a dicey-as-fuck rest area with no line of sight into traffic going over 80 miles per hour, the Power Wagon lost its shit. A blood-curdling series of flashing lights and warning beeps spewed forth from the instrument panel. The truck struggled to get up to speed at all much less as quickly as we needed it to before a speeding vehicle rounded the corner into us. It was heart-stopping.
After a few minutes regaining our composure and being very grateful we were still alive, reality began to sink in. The Power Wagon couldn’t be trusted. It was going to strand us somewhere with our house in tow. Or worse, cause an accident because it could no longer do the job.
J looked at me and said, “We need a new truck.” And, after a short pause, “Like right now.”
I nodded and croaked out “Yes. Yes we do,” my heart still not having climbed down from my throat.
Limping into Phoenix
In the last few days before leaving Nevada, we’d pieced together a series of stays at Maricopa County campgrounds that would cover our first few weeks on the road. The area is extremely popular that time of year so we had to hop, not only between parks, but between campsites within the parks based upon reservation availability. The parks are true gems but the logistics were complicated and exhausting on top of our other struggles.
Our first stop was Cave Creek Regional Park. We oozed into the Phoenix area the day after our US 93 Code Brown, being ever-so-ginger with the Power Wagon. Given the uncertain nature of its failure issue and lack of reliability, we were on edge the whole day. We took a huge sigh of relief and had a substantial happy hour after getting settled in.
We finally offloaded the sidecar outfit that we’d been tripping over the last four days as it consumed all of our living space in the toy hauler. That’s on top of the piles of extra stuff we threw into the trailer at the last minute because we didn’t have time to sort it before we left. So in addition to crawling over the sidecar, we were constantly moving the extra load back and forth around the trailer every day as we tried to get settled in and organized.
And now it was suddenly time to get serious about a new tow vehicle. Everything else would have to wait.
Meals are not glamorous while transiting with the sidecar.
Scrambling for wheels
We spent the first day in Phoenix getting oriented to the area. I’d never been there before and knew basically nothing about it. We picked up tacos and went to our pal Dave’s house to catch up over lunch and filled him in on our troubles.
That night back at camp, J searched relentlessly online for a truck. He wanted a 2nd generation Dodge Ram 2500 manual diesel long bed with a crew cab. Those were a lot of boxes to tick off on a 20-ish year old truck. He found some within our 500-mile search radius that were close on specs and was doing the mental gymnastics on what he was willing to forego given our now-urgent time frame.
The next morning over coffee, he resumed his search. It was Christmas Eve. He looked up from his screen and said “I think I found it.” The kicker? It was right there in Phoenix.
He said, “I think we need to go look at it today.” I agreed and we shoveled some breakfast into our pie holes and drove an hour to the used diesel truck lot where it sat.
Commiserating about our challenges over tacos with Dave.
Diesel dream
The 1999 forest green diesel beast met all of J’s desires. Every one of them. And it was in fantastic condition. You wouldn’t have guessed it was twenty years old. It had only one previous owner who had clearly been meticulous with its care.
We took it out for a test drive, trying to be as critical as we could. It was a challenge in Phoenix traffic on a rainy day in an unfamiliar, manual transmission truck that essentially drives like a tractor. But it was clear that J was loving it. We forced ourselves to step away and sleep on it even though the choice seemed clear.
The next day was Christmas of course so we spent the day enjoying the hospitality of our dear friends, Dave and Merelyn. Then it was back into the fray of sorting our tow vehicle issue.
These fabulous people saved our asses.
Putting the pieces together
The decision was no longer in doubt but as with any large purchase, you need to cover your ass. So the day after Christmas, we arranged to take the truck to a nearby diesel shop for an inspection. The report came back overwhelmingly positive. They had a few recommendations but overall they were impressed with it.
We were a little in shock that not only had we found a truck so quickly, it was exactly what J wanted, it was sitting right there in Phoenix, and it was in amazing condition. It was almost too good to be true. We kept waiting for the catch.
The truck dealer whipped up the paperwork and we began finalizing the deal. That’s about the time I realized I’d forgotten our checks. They were back at camp over an hour away. I couldn’t stand the thought of driving over an extra two hours in Phoenix traffic. I was crushed. Eventually we worked out a deal with the seller. Yes, he would let us charge the truck purchase! Thankfully we have a lot of credit.
A short time later I found myself driving the Power Wagon behind J in the diesel to the local tag office to get our temporary plates. Then we bee-lined back to the diesel shop to have them do some upgrades and minor repairs. It turns out it was going to take them a couple of weeks to get the parts and do all of the work so we said goodbye to the truck we’d owned for all of an hour and headed back to camp.
Finding our new truck right under our noses in Phoenix was quite a stroke of dumb luck.
Truck hokey-pokey
So now we own two large trucks and live as full-time nomads. We can’t sell the old one until we get the new one back. And we needed the Power Wagon to last long enough bridge the gap. We were also in the throes of heading to Baja for a trip with friends we’d planned long before the house sold.
That means that in the midst of the ongoing campsite shuffle we had the challenges of finding a way to get back to Nevada to get the new truck registered since it would be our travel vehicle to Baja. Going into Mexico with temporary plates wasn’t an option.
Yet another issue? The title to the Power Wagon was in a safe deposit box, back in Carson City. Awesome, right? Can’t sell the truck without the title in hand. We also needed to figure out where we could stash the trailer for the 9 to 10 days we’d be on our Baja trip. Oh, and we needed a sitter for the Adventure Dog. The complexities and dependencies quickly became overwhelming and the trip was approaching quickly.
Having two large vehicles as a nomad was a lot to handle. I call this happy hour scenario “truckhenge.”
It takes a village
Fortunately our pals Dave and Merelyn are two of the most amazing friends we know and they saved our asses. With their help we were able to put a plan together.
First, they let us ship all sorts of bits, pieces, and farkles for the new truck to their place. Then they let us store the Power Wagon at their house while we used the new truck, back from the shop at last, to tow the toy hauler to Lake Mead. From there we hopped into Las Vegas and secured plates for the truck. Next, I flew to Reno for a day, rented a car, chased down the Power Wagon title, and checked on our household goods and vehicles in storage for good measure. It was a whirlwind and we’d knocked out several of our obstacles and charted our return to Arizona.
We had a few more details still to manage, though. The biggest of which was a place for Toby and where to park the trailer while we were in Baja. Dave and Merelyn to the rescue again. They agreed to keep Toby for us and that was everything. Knowing he would be with people who adore him and not with an unfamiliar sitter meant we wouldn’t worry about him constantly.
It was down to where to park the trailer. I couldn’t find much temporary storage to begin with, much less without exorbitant fees. Dave and Merelyn offered to let us park it in front of their house—yes along with the Power Wagon, the dog, and storing other valuables for us.
It was too much; we couldn’t bring ourselves to ask that of them as well. In another stroke of dumb luck, we found a marina RV park with dry camping as our last Maricopa park reservation came to an end. They also had RV storage, but only long-term. Chatting with the friendly desk clerk, we came down to paying the $20/night fee for dry camping and we’d simply leave the trailer unattended for our trip. In the end, we came out ahead since it saved us the two nights in a hotel we would have needed to manage putting the trailer in storage. Go fig, right?
The relief of having those details sorted after weeks of not being able to solve the problem was tremendous. We decided to park the Power Wagon in front the trailer while we were gone, not only to ease Dave and Merelyn’s load, but to hopefully make the trailer not look abandoned for over a week.
Clearly the Toby the Adventure Dog would be quite content at Dave and Merelyn’s while we were gone.
Time for Baja
The plans were in place at long last. We were hopeful that stepping out of our challenges for a short time would let us return with fresh, new conviction to get ourselves settled into nomad life. And we just crossed our fingers that our 200-square-foot home would be ok while we were gone.
I was riding my BMW F700GS across the country along with my dear man on his Yamaha FJ-09. We left from our home (at the time) in Dayton, Nevada with various destinations in Georgia, Tennessee, and North Carolina on the radar. We didn’t have a strict agenda, necessarily. There was a need to be in the southeast for particular events but we’d given ourselves enough buffer to have a leisurely ride there.
We don’t make reservations for trips like this. We’re well aware that moto travel is far too unpredictable for that. Plus we like having the flexibility to change course if we want. So one late afternoon as we were figuring out our end-game for that day, it was clear that Durango, Colorado would be our resting place for the night.
Riding in Colorado
Tacos to the rescue
We didn’t realize that it was the weekend of the Durango Cowboy Poetry Gathering. The town was packed with well-dressed folk attending the event and hotel rooms were in short supply. By the time we rolled into town, we were lucky to get a passable room at all, much less one a walkable distance from downtown to be able to enjoy some good grub and cocktails.
It was later in the day than we would normally have stopped and we were starving after a vigorous day in the saddles. There was no time to shower before walking to town. We needed food quickly. Tacos were in order and I knew just the place, having been through Durango a few times before.
With a quick change out of our moto gear and bit of a freshen up, off we went for tacos, sans showers. J followed my lead, trusting my taco judgement. Nini’s Taqueria fit the bill for our weary traveling souls. We devoured dinner with all the gusto of people running on far too few calories for the day.
These tacos didn’t stand a chance after a vigorous day of riding.
Happy hour shenanigans
Now we needed Manhattans, our go-to happy hour cocktail. Again, I knew the place and led J to the The Diamond Belle Saloon. We found it full of revelers decked out in their western finery. It was a sight for sure. And we were certainly out of place in our casual clothes and unwashed helmet hair.
We hovered at the end of the bar, jostling between the comings and goings of the other patrons and hoping to snag a space. Our patience paid off a short time later. We settled into the two stools at the end of the bar a short time later. We savored our well-deserved Manhattans, reliving a great day of riding.
A proper Manhattan is a fitting end to a day of travel and adventure.
Eventually J stepped away for a personal break. Before leaving he asked, “Do I need to leave you with a weapon?” I laughed, of course. His query was mostly facetious. Not that he had anything usable as one anyway, but I understood he wanted me to elevate my situational awareness while he was gone.
I ordered a beer from the bartender and began checking in with the world on my phone after a day mostly offline. You know, the usual BS—email, social media, etc. A few moments after J left his seat, with his cocktail on the bar and his coat still on the stool, a group of four men commandeered the end of the bar.
They were clearly many drinks into the evening. And they certainly weren’t there for the poetry festival, dressed in preppy casual clothes. Hardly the rugged cowboy look.
The bartender approached to deliver my beer and see if we needed anything else. Just then one of the men asked what I was drinking. Without looking up from my phone, I picked up my beer and tilted the label slightly towards them with a healthy dose of leave-me-the-fuck-alone attitude.
He didn’t get the message. His next comment came quickly. “Kinda light, don’t ya think?” I whipped my head his direction, Exorcist-style, and gave him a look that could not be mistaken for anything but pure, unadulterated malice.
“Are you dissing my fucking drink, dude?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a bemused grin emerge on the bartender’s face as he stepped back to lean on the bar behind him. He folded his arms on his chest, looking like he wished he had a bowl of popcorn for the show that was about to start.
The offending man took a slight step back. It was clearly not the reaction he was expecting. He doubled down on his poor behavior, though, and continued his intrusive commentary on my drink choice.
“I mean, beer isn’t exactly a real drink.”
I was a bit taken aback by the absurdity of this man-child so I didn’t respond immediately. All I could think at first was that I was being punked. This had to be a joke. No, there were no cameras around, this guy was seriously saying this shit to me.
Before I could begin to excoriate him with profound pleasure, J returned. I saw his face over the shoulders of the wall of very large men between us, blocking the path back to his seat in the crowded bar. They didn’t pick up on the fact that I wasn’t looking at them but past them.
I got a little grin on my face thinking of the question J asked me just before he left. I let out a little ironic chuckle that he was right about the weapon. Understanding I wasn’t in distress, he stood back and watched for a moment, waiting for a cue from me. I simply glared at the clueless men and growled “You’re in the fucking way,” as I gestured behind them.
Startled back into reality, they turned to find J looking, shall we say, quite unamused. They parted so he could get by and one of them asked him if he was my husband. “No. I’m her fucking bodyguard,” he replied sternly as he resumed his seat.
After a bunch of sputtering gibberish pseudo-apologies—mostly to J and not to me, mind you—they settled into their own conversations again. I was intent on not letting the brief encounter ruin our evening. So I returned to my beer and my conversation with J, ramping down from Defcon 1 and my plans to rip this guy a new asshole.
The old timey piano music added to the standoff atmosphere in the saloon.
A grown-up in the mix
One of the men, by far the oldest in the group, eventually spoke to both of us again. He made a sincere apology for his young friend’s behavior. He was a nice enough guy and seemed pretty embarrassed.
After some chatting, he put together that we weren’t there for the poetry festival either. He’d traveled from Pennsylvania with his son and his son’s friends for a golf weekend. The preppy look suddenly made sense.
J looked at me, not knowing how much conversation had passed while he was gone and asked “Did you tell them what you did today?”
“No, didn’t get around to that” I said casually as I sipped my apparently inadequate-for-twenty-something-assholes beer.
J proceeded to explain our cross-country motorcycle trip and that today was just one of many 300-plus-mile days of carving mountain twisties on the bikes.
“Oh,” the man said with a look of admiration and a healthy dose of intimidation. “We got in some good curves today. On the… golf carts,” he said with stilted hesitation. He laughed and we chatted a bit more.
He had a lot of questions about our motorcycle adventures. His young companions listened silently and with increasing sheepishness about choosing me as the target of their manipulative, juvenile antics.
After some time they drifted away to other parts of the saloon as the conversation wound down. I never got around to deflating them further by mentioning that just a couple of weeks before I’d been riding in camel races.
Have fun in your golf carts, boys. Try to keep up.
Epilogue
I later learned that the tactic this asshole was using on me was called “negging.” It’s an actual thing – a manipulation technique designed to get someone (often women) to engage by undermining their self-confidence and self-esteem to seek approval from the person delivering the comment.
This has been around for awhile but it was news to me. I have no idea if this guy targeted me because he couldn’t tell I was considerably older in the dim light of the saloon. Or maybe because he noticed I’m older, thought I was alone, and figured I was some desperate cougar. I have no idea.
All I can hope is that the dad gave them some proper guidance once the jerks sobered up.
That’s the question a neighbor asked us upon returning to camp after a long day away in town. Imagine our confusion. Because well, no, in fact we don’t.
We’d exited early that morning to drive the 70 miles to the nearest sizable town. We needed better cell service to participate in a virtual meeting, visit the laundromat, resupply groceries quite unexpectedly, and run to the hardware store for some unfortunate trailer supplies. We were ambitious enough to think we’d be able to get in a shower too. Silly us. Something had to give.
But let’s back up a bit.
Oh, why hello little “friend.”
The visitor
We’re camping at Great Basin National Park at the moment. A couple of days ago we ventured into the small town of Baker, Nevada to mail a Sierra Mountain Passes order. We arrived back “home” to a little surprise. An uninvited visitor had clearly been partaking of our hospitality.
Our chipmunk friend saw fit to chew through a window screen and make itself at home. Finding no buffet waiting, it decided not to stick around for our return. Or so we thought.
Over happy hour, I joked with my dear man that with the exception of a small screen hole to repair, our unexpected visitor left only footprints. How very Leave No Trace of it.
We thought it was a simple situation with the first hole.If only it had stopped at leaving footprints.
If at first you don’t succeed
Our little friend decided to visit again the next day while we were gone handling all of the above-mentioned, tiresome tasks. Try, try again it did after not succeeding in a feast the previous day. We anticipated another visit from it, though, knowing they’re persistent little buggers. So we made sure all the windows were closed before we left.
Our camp neighbor walked up to us after we pulled in that afternoon and asked us that question. He said the chipmunk was sitting in the window for a long time chewing on the screen. We looked at the window and saw the shredded carcass of what was once our bedroom screen. He showed us cell phone pictures of the critter sitting in our bedroom window. We were flabbergasted.
It took some time to process and comprehend. We still had so much more to wrap up before we could relax for the evening—perishable groceries in the truck as well as not-entirely-dry laundry. And now this. We almost didn’t know where to begin dealing with it.
We cautiously opened the trailer door expecting a panicked chipmunk to lunge out at us, likely going for our jugulars. Nothing. We inspected around the bedroom and obvious areas. No chipmunk.
It left more than footprints this time, of course. Droppings, urine puddles, and the destroyed screen were part of the offerings. Along with a ravaged cabinet face that we deluded ourselves was its exit point.
The battle weary screen in the bedroom.The little chipmunk had to be terrified. It was clearly quite a battle to get out of the trailer.The little critter went apeshit on the screen.
We were wrong
We tended to the tasks of putting away groceries and laundry, eagerly anticipating a well-deserved happy hour. But first I swapped the destroyed screen for the only other matching one in the trailer so we didn’t have to choose between having the bedroom window open with no critter barrier overnight—if even a flimsy one—or sleeping in the equivalent of a sauna.
Feeling like we had averted the crisis, we set our sights on happy hour. First I strolled to the pit toilet, though. Walking back towards the trailer I noticed the bedroom screen looked funny. It was probably the 20th are-you-fucking-kidding-me moment of the day. The screen was chewed through. Again. In less than an hour.
If I were a cartoon character, I’d be the one with the exploding head. That’s what it felt like when the realization hit me.
Happy hour would have to be delayed. We desperately went through another round of digging through the trailer looking for the intruder. Tearing apart the bedding and mattress, looking through cabinets, and so on. No chipmunk. Well, surely it left this time. We convinced ourselves that the new hole was its gateway to freedom and the saga was over.
The bedroom window was the scene of much drama.In less than an hour, the bedroom screen was violated again.Our chipmunk friend tried to help us with some remodeling. Gives the trailer that lived in look, don’t ya think?
We were wrong again
The next morning we awoke to the Adventure Dog being unusually animated. We assumed he just needed to go out for a relief session but his behavior was a bit off. My dear man took him out and came back to bed. Moments later we heard a commotion in the kitchen. Our stainless steel cocktail glasses make a distinct sound. We knew something was in the sink. We thought it was a mouse. (More on that in a bit.)
We jumped out of bed and saw the chipmunk scrambling towards the rear window of the trailer, looking for an exit. It had none and, startled by our arrival, dove beneath the bench. We hastily threw on some clothes and I raced out the door to the back of the trailer to open the toy hauler ramp.
We yanked up the rear screen to give it a clear exit, pulled off the bench cushions and lifted one bench. It ran under the other bench. We lifted that one. The frightened animal was cowering between my riding boots and my camera-gear backpack. We swished it out with the broom and it frantically ran to freedom.
It was not exactly a relaxing morning. We were so baffled how it kept getting in. In reality it never left. It’s just an expert at hide-and-seek.
At happy hour that evening, my dear man said “I think now I understand why some people don’t like camping.”
Our MacGyver-inspired repair.Yet another MacGyver repairThe rodent exit ramp.
Because the prologue to the chipmunk drama is that we’ve been battling a mouse invasion for over a week now. That was the driving force behind the need to make the big trip to town to resupply compromised food and buy more mouse traps and other deterrents.
We know we need to get under the trailer and start sealing up entry points. Yet another big job to do and there are only so many hours in the day. And we’re worn out.
So no, definitely not living the dream yet. Send more whiskey, please. This was definitely not in the brochure.
We scored the best site in the campground. Gee, if only we could actually enjoy it instead of battling rodents.
We are all living in surreal times in our own different ways. The meme I’ve seen that captures the sentiment best is “We are not all in the same boat but we are all in the same storm.”
And, of course, we entered the global storm while in the midst of our own personal one. We were decidedly behind the eight ball when the pandemic hit. Not starting from a place of strength made it all the harder to manage.
The weight of the world seemed to suddenly lift off our shoulders as soon as we got back to doing what we love.
Physical emergence
Now for better or worse, shutdowns are easing. Parks have reopened for the most part. So we trepidatiously left our Covid-19 safe house after eleven weeks, knowing the chaos isn’t over.
Our hosts are wonderful and we’re grateful for their generosity as we had to respond to rapidly changing events. It was time to move on and get back to what we set out to do, in spite of less than ideal conditions out in the world. But we’re in a better position now to manage our personal situation in the midst of the ongoing pandemic.
Ironically, we ended up back at Washoe Lake State Park as our first stop. That’s where we were when everything shut down. It was a deliberate choice to have a short trip—only 15 miles—to get back on our nomadic feet. We wanted to give ourselves the space to refresh our memories. The procedures and routines of life on the road in a trailer have languished while sitting still for nearly three months.
Tapas, Manhattans, and cigars overlooking Washoe Lake revived our spirits.Finally back on the road just in time to celebrate six months as nomads and the first anniversary of Sierra Mountain Passes.
Mental emergence
The exhilaration of going back to doing what we love took a few days to manifest. We needed decompression time first. There was a sort of shock to being on the road again. The landscape at Washoe Lake certainly fits the bill to ease weary souls, though. Mountain views, sand dunes and wild horses grazing in the in the distance, abundant bird life—that put us back in the frame of mind to embrace exploring again.
We also quickly realized what we needed most was a motorcycle ride. In our houseless situation, the Adventure Dog can’t be left behind while we go riding together. Plus we had to retrieve the bikes from storage. But with a dog-sitter reservation and some vehicle swapping efforts in the storage unit we were able to regain some of our previous life. It was glorious.
The joy of a day out on the bikes together for the first time in four months was almost beyond comprehension.The nesting killdeer pair relit a fire in me both as a photographer and as a naturalist.
Inspiration
Inspiration often comes from unlikely sources. Sometimes is makes sense to take on a challenge to regain your mojo. Sometimes you have to not fight it.
My attempts to revive my photography fire by force or challenge have not panned out over the last few months. It took a nesting killdeer pair at our Washoe campsite to excite me once more.
With increasing mental bandwidth each day, I suddenly found myself pulling out my camera and tripod to try to capture their antics and sweetness. Right in the middle of happy hour, no less! I was excited to be shooting again — genuinely thrilled and giddy. It felt tremendous.
I took delight in watching the birds tend to their eggs and do their fake injury stunt to lure people away who inadvertently (or willfully cluelessly) got too close. It became the talk of the day as we peered out at them through the trailer windows to check on them constantly.
We never did get to see the eggs hatch before we had maxed out the seven-day stay limit at the park. No matter. They gave me a gift they’ll never realize. That encounter and excitement led me to dip my toe back into time lapse photography for the first time in well over two years as we moved on to Wild Horse Reservoir State Recreation Area. Boy I’m rusty but happy to be refreshing those skills as well.
The view from camp at Wild Horse is nothing short of magical.I felt like me again with the inspiration to spontaneously pick up the camera do a time lapse.
Time will tell
We’ll see how things play out for us on the road as the Coronavirus runs amok. But we’re in so much better shape to respond thoughtfully rather than react constantly. That’s a big difference this time around.
And to be sure, this year will certainly stand out in the history books for all of us as individuals and as a global community. And it’s only half over.
The seed was planted on New Year’s Day, 2018. We were hanging out at home with dear friends visiting from Georgia and chatting about places we’d like to go.
My dear man enthusiastically brought up Cuba. He’s wanted to go for over two decades. And he wanted to see it before American fast food stores occupy every corner.
Our pal, Leslie, being the amazing, spit-firey woman she is, said “Well, let’s go!”
And like that, we discussed tentative dates and the ball began rolling. So there I was, quite unexpectedly planning a trip to a country I never really thought about visiting before. I still marvel at my disinterest even having spent my childhood in South Florida, just 90 miles from the island nation.
I spent the first 18 years of my life spitting distance from Cuba. It wasn’t until over 30 years after leaving Florida, that I finally visited and got to experience the beauty of its landscape and people.
Rearview mirror
Traveling to Cuba is completely worth the effort. There are extra considerations for Americans that are seemingly intimidating, though. In reality, we found them to be trivial.
So in spite of never having Cuba on my travel radar before, it was a fantastic trip. My dear man was even more delighted than me and calls it our “scouting” trip for future adventures there. Now we’re much more savvy about what to expect and how to manage travel in Cuba.
We did a lot of research before going to be certain we understood how things work in Cuba. But there are many things we learned “in the field.” So in this first installment, let’s go over the biggest takeaways.
Learning how to “do” Cuba on our first trip. Or what my dear man calls our scouting trip. We’ll be much savvier next go-round.
Money
There are two currencies in Cuba. The Cuban Peso Nacional, or CUP, is used by Cuban locals. The other currency is the Cuban Convertible Peso, the CUC. That’s for tourists, like us. (Here’s a good breakdown of the very confusing system.)
For U.S. residents, credit and debit cards don’t work in Cuba so bring a lot of cash. Way more than you think you’ll need because once you’re there, you’ll have no more access to money.
Now that we have a better sense of how money works in Cuba—how to change money, exchange rates, and fees—our strategy next time will to be to exchange enough at the airport to get to our first night’s accomodation. From there we’ll visit a hotel to exchange more. Why?
Well, the lines at the airport exchange machines are daunting and require your passport. Our attempt to exchange bills at bank later on was also very challenging. Again long lines, passport required, and the bank’s unwillingness to exchange bills with even the slightest of flaws. Even though we took plenty of cash, we suddenly found ourselves with useless American dollars because we couldn’t exchange them. It was stressful.
It turns out though, that exchanging at hotels is a very different story. No passport, no line, and no fussiness about the condition of the bills. Whew! That was a close one.
If you like to eat at the local stalls rather than the touristy places, make sure you have small bills. They often can’t break the larger bills, especially early in the morning. And often, their prices are in CUP, not CUC so be sure to ask about the cost in CUC.
The bank would not exchange this “altered” American bill but the hotel didn’t blink an eye about it.
Connectivity
Cuba is slowly opening up in terms of internet availability but access is still limited. It’s certainly not ubiquitous and easily accessed like in the U.S. We arranged to have service with our cell phone carrier (Verizon) while there but it was extremely unreliable and, in the end, completely useless even for voice and text messaging.
That means you’ll need to be prepared in advance with information on places you want to go and how to get around. And make sure important people in your life are aware you may be off-grid while there.
Our travel pals, Jim and Leslie, eventually figured out how to get internet cards from local hotels. They are sold in one-hour increments and are limited in number. Just walking into a hotel to buy one doesn’t mean you’ll get one. And you’ll have to use it in places with wifi access. They can’t be utilized simply walking down the street. So you can get access but you have to work for it a little.
Recent news since our visit indicates that the Cuban government is allowing more places to have their own internet access so hopefully this will be less of an issue over time.
My awesome and beloved travel partners exploring Havana via a classic convertible.
Language
Knowing some Spanish is really helpful. I know that’s not a surprise. It’s always useful to know a little of the language of the country you’re visiting.
In Cuba, we found that our “casa particular” hosts spoke English well enough to make arrangements for us. But on the streets, having a moderate understanding of the language went a long way in getting us away from the unauthentic tourist-centered establishments. To get to know the real Cuba and her people, brush up on your Spanish and keep a translation app handy.
Also, the people we met seemed to appreciate our effort to speak the language and we had many good laughs over some of my silly Spanish goof-ups. It also allowed me to engage with the people there who didn’t know English and who we would otherwise not been able to chat with at all.
Having some of the local language in our tool kit let us talk with Cubans in a way we wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. The result? Beautiful connections.
Trust your hosts
The local hosts are great and can sort logistics for you easily. I had some concerns about not having arranged much of anything in advance but our hosts easily arranged tours for us upon our arrival. Granted, tours are not generally my thing. I skew more “indy” traveler. But in the case of Cuba, it’s a great way to support the local people as well as get a feel for places before exploring on our own.
View from the rear seat of a classic car tour and Leslie having a serious conversation with our knowledgable guide.
Transport
Getting around Havana is fairly straightforward. Taxis, buses, tour cars, and your own two feet cover all the bases.
However, transportation between cities was a particularly worrisome detail we didn’t set up in advance. Our Havana host happily arranged a ride with a group taxi to Viñales. The same was true for our return to Havana from Viñales. It was no sweat at all.
There are many options for getting around Havana including taxi, bus, and by foot.
Stay up to date
Cuba is rapidly changing as are the rules for U.S. citizens to travel there. Make sure you read the latest info before you go, particularly if you’re a U.S. citizen. ViaHero has a wonderful guide to visiting Cuba that they keep up to date.
Peace and beauty in Cuba.
Coffee
Like many Americans, I drink a lot of coffee. My travel companions for this adventure share my vice as well. But Cubans drink coffee differently — espresso style.
We were happy to embrace to local style to some extent. But in the end, we had to face the fact that we’re copious coffee drinkers and needed to seek out American-style java. Our hosts were gracious about providing extra coffee on the mornings we took breakfast in our casa particulars. But on the mornings we didn’t, it was a scramble.
The hotels are good about having Americano coffee but you have to accept navigating a sea of fellow tourists for the effort. For us, wanting to patronize more of the authentic side street food stalls, we had to make do with espresso style most of the time. And even in those stalls, the coffee isn’t necessarily prominent but it’s almost always there once you know how to look for it.
The kicker of all this coffee drama, is that in all of our other travels, we carry “emergency” coffee — instant Starbucks packets. No, it’s not the best but it’s something in cases when we stay at quirky mom-and-pop motels that don’t offer coffee. Or even in modern hotels that are stingy with it.
And for some reason, we didn’t bring any on this trip. I think we were trying to keep it simple. Next time, we’ll be sure to have some on hand.
The espressos were a nice way to blend in with locals at stands but we definitely needed our American coffee!
Ice
Unlike lodging in the U.S. where ice-makers are typically available, ice isn’t readily available in Cuba. Unfortunately, ice isn’t a luxury for me. I need it to manage my injuries and stay comfortable to travel.
Our casa particulars had freezers but no ice makers or ice trays. So next time, I’ll bring a silicon ice tray to make my own to manage my personal needs. A flexible ice tray doesn’t take up much space and is easily squishable into a suitcase. And for me, it means the difference between a good trip and one overshadowed by pain. That pain did catch up with me in a big way on this trip so I’ll be sure to manage that better next time.
Plus, it means having ice for our rum. So there’s really no downside to adding an ice tray to the packing process.
Fusterlandia is a feast of color and texture.
Fusterlandia
My pal Leslie found out about Fusterlandia, a quirky art installation in a neighborhood west of Havana. It’s an amazing thing to see a neighborhood transformed by tile mosaics.
You’ll need to take a bus or taxi to get there. We chose a taxi and along the way had lunch as well as an impromptu tour by our driver. The catch is that once there, we saw a bunch of visitors struggling to find a taxi back to the city and standing in the heat looking very uncomfortable and stressed.
Leslie had the good sense to have our driver wait for us. A visit to the Fusterlandia neighborhood really doesn’t take too long if you’re being casual about it. Make sure you discuss the cost with your driver so you aren’t surprised by it. But if you aren’t planning on staying too long, it’s a better bet than being stuck without a ride back.
If you do decide to spend a good bit of time there and the expense of the taxi waiting is too much for your budget, just make sure you have an exit strategy. Know how to find the bus or arrange for a return pick up time with the driver.
Remember, in Cuba, you can’t simply request an Uber or pull up the internet on your phone to find a solution.
If not for a helper in Vinales, we wouldn’t have found this little tobacco farm we really enjoyed.
Talking to locals, you find out about places that aren’t obvious. That’s not to say you abandon situational awareness or good sense. You simply have to redefine it and not bring preconceived notions with you.
You will encounter people who try to take you to places off the beaten path. These “helpers” are hoping for a tip for their help. Some travelers would say never follow them. I say use your wits and gut instinct. Trust but don’t be foolish.
The challenge in Cuba is that there are great restaurants and tobacco farms that aren’t obvious and you would completely overlook. We followed some of the helpers and had a better experience for it. There were some that were more persistent than I cared for, however, so you have to be adamant about not needing their help. Just know it will happen and be smart about it.
The Cuban people are loving, proud, and enjoy helping visitors learn about their country. Embrace that and enjoy what travel can do to expand your mindset about the world.
Take to time to get off the main tourist streets and watch Cubans living their lives.
It’s live, y’all! After ten long months of prep work, I’m happy to introduce you to our new labor-of-love—Sierra Mountain Passes!
I’ve been teasing my newsletter subscribers for a couple of months now and it’s finally a reality. As you can imagine, there are a lot of behind-the-scenes details that go into getting a project like this off the ground. So yes, a mini celebration was in order on launch day!
Launch day celebration.
What is it?
Well, it’s all about travel in the Sierra Nevada mountain range! There are 22 Sierra passes, covering 400 miles of rugged mountains. Travel there can be glorious. It can also be challenging if you don’t understand the mountains.
So we’ve set the site up to be a comprehensive center of information about traveling in the Sierra. Our aim is to arm travelers with knowledge to have the best trip possible. That means finding the best places to go as well as how to avoid the pitfalls of travel in such a dynamic place.
Right now, there’s a slight motorcycling focus. No surprise, right? That’s what we do best! The basic information applies to all travelers, though. And we’ll be broadening the scope to more completely cover other types as we move forward. Auto, RV, and bicycle travel are all on the menu. That will take some time, of course.
That’s me riding Monitor Pass.
Sonora Pass
Carson Pass
Monitor Pass
Donner Pass Road and Donner Lake
Tioga Pass
Join in
Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to keep up as we expand. I have no doubt you’ll be inspired to visit! I’m sure you’ll quite understand why I moved here once you do.
If you have questions that aren’t answered yet, give us a shout. It’s very likely someone else has that question too. And we’ll get the answer for you.
In the meantime, if you’re already in love with the Sierra like we are, check out our store. We have stickers from our favorite passes available with more designs and products to come as we grow. Stay tuned!
The beginnings of the Sierra Mountain Passes store.
Adventure on, friends. I’ll see you on the passes.
Travel is often about contrasts. We take notice of details when we step out of our too-familiar everyday scenery. They flood our senses as we absorb the sights, smells, and sounds of our destinations. The excitement of life and discovery light up our brains.
The contrasts of Cuba were gloriously stark. Not only to the place I call home but within itself. It felt impossible to absorb. And yet it all fits together seamlessly—the old and new, countryside and city, tourists and locals. It’s an extraordinary place, steeped in history.
Capturing Cuba
The urban architecture in Cuba is often detailed and intricate. It’s also known for its colorful facades that beg you to drink in the bright hues and vibrance. And the tropical forests embrace you in the deep, lush colors of nature—almost impossibly rich and surreal.
So in spite of intending to be off-duty for my recent visit to the island, I still felt compelled to take pictures. The colors can saturate you, though. So I embraced my infrared camera to dive into the details, textures, and contrasts that were sometimes lost in the vibrance. Shooting in black and white reveals structure and removes flamboyant distractions.
Havana
Havana is a bustling city, of course. But the energy is different from the urban environments I’m accustomed to in the U.S. There’s an underlying flow and rhythm to the constant movement.
Our second-floor apartment overlooked El Capitolo. From our balcony perch, we watched Cubans go about their everyday lives. Within the purposeful comings and goings, there was never too much of a rush for hugs and warm greetings amongst friends and families. Everyone seemed to know each other. It was delightful to witness.
Viñales
Tobacco country feels like another world from Havana, yet in reality less than 200 km from the big city on the small island nation. Viñales is a quiet haven, but still crawling with tourists. Once you step away from the main streets lined with tourist restaurants and busses, it’s easy to find the easier pace of the locals.
It seems almost every home in Viñales is also a casa particular. Ours was on the outskirts. And there we were treated to being a part of the daily life of Cubans. One that consists of work, school, and home while folding visitors into the mix with love and generosity.
Best of both worlds
Although these two cities are starkly different in the physical sense, there’s no difference in how the Cuban people treat each other. Hugs, robust handshakes, and genuine enthusiasm are the norm. Even as a visitor, that love is evident.
Cuba is a remarkable place. So much of what I read before I visited had me prepared to return to a different era. But it’s a country in transition. And it’s transitioning quickly. The living history experience desired by visitors is not really the main story anymore.
It exists, yes. Classic car tours and horse-drawn carts are prominent. The step-back-in-time I anticipated wasn’t as dramatic as visitors in years past must have had, though. Modern cars, cell phones, and electric scooters were the norm as we explored Havana and Viñales this year.
Cuban coffee with friends
Tourist or traveler?
You know the oft-used quote —
The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.
We were fortunate that our casa particular hosts understood we weren’t typical tourists. They understood we weren’t simply interested in checking off the standard experiences. So they set us up with local guides who were willing to help us understand Cuba, not just see it. We were able to have real conversations with Cuban people. There were no canned tour scripts, just people proud of their country and curious about ours.
Genuine conversation on our classic car tour.
Best in Cuba
One of the reccuring themes we encountered is the “best in Cuba” proclamations. Mojitos, cigars, Ropa Vieja—you name it, every place claims they have the best something-or-other in Cuba. We asked one of our cigar plantation guides about that. Was it just a big joke?
He laughed. “Why wouldn’t you say yours is the best?” was his response. Touche’.
At another tiny cigar farm though, our guide said “You probably noticed that everyone says their cigars are the best.”
Yes, we replied, laughing.
“Well, mine are probably not the best,” he humbly responded. We laughed again. And bought his honestly-marketed cigars. They were, in fact, quite lovely. And certainly better than the factory examples we’d had the day before.
Our humble tobacco farmer—possibly the only one to ever say his cigars aren’t the best.
Searching for authenticity
The conversations with our guides and local hosts were delightfully genuine. Restaurants were some of the toughest places to get past the tourist scene and prices, though. We had some success in getting off the main streets to find real Cuban food in small food stalls. But it was often a challenge to find good dinner without internet access to help us sift out the real deal as well as navigate the busy, complex streets.
I’m a fan of asking locals for information. Unfortunately in Cuba, many of the locals will point you towards the “tourist” stuff because they think that’s what you want. Especially when it comes to Ernest Hemingway. Their preconceived notion about Americans is that we want to see the places he loved. All Hemingway, all the time. I suppose if I was a Hemingway-ophile I might have embraced it but I’m not. Which brings us to El Chanchullero.
Jovial converstation at El Chanchullero
El Chanchullero
On our last night, thanks to a trickle of internet service, we scored our biggest food success. It was at El Chanchullero, a small authentic restaurant with orgasmic Cuban food.
We wandered into the busy two-story restaurant hesitantly. We were expecting a long line knowing this was a popular restaurant but the lack of one left us uncertain. The place was indeed packed but without wait there were two empty stools at the bar overlooking the kitchen. We wiggled our way back through the tightly spaced tables and asked if we could sit there.
The menu was simple but rich. On it, a mini-manifesto I could only partially translate with my middling Spanish. I got the sense, though. They are unconventional. El Chanchullero celebrates people and conversation with those who are different from yourself. They reject Hemingway as the tourist draw to Cuba. Their motto is “Hemingway was never here.”
Sitting at the bar is our vibe in most places anyway but this was an extraordinary treat. We watched the chefs cook furiously in the small space. Our server suggested dishes and cocktails. We ate and drank and talked with the staff, all charmed by my dear man. Through broken Spanish and English, laughter abounded. When the manager and server ended up buying us shots, we knew we’d made a true connection.
Hemingway was never here.
Authenticity and success
But here’s the catch about El Chanchullero. This little independent-spirited restaurant prides itself on being the antithesis of the Hemingway-in-Cuba experience. Yet after being featured on a major travel site, it’s now so popular that you’ll wait in line if you don’t arrive early as we did.
They remain true to themselves so far it seems. Can they maintain their mission for authenticity while still being successful and popular? I hope so.
Cuba is a tough nut to crack if you only have a short time to visit. I know the next time I go, I’ll be able to dive deeper into a non-tourist experience. We found authenticity in unexpected places. I feel like we paid our “tourist” dues to get to that point, though. Next time, dear Cuba, we won’t play that game. We know how to seek out the places Hemingway never saw.
The line outside El ChanchulleroConnecting over laughs, drinks, and food.
The cab driver waved up at us from the busy Havana sidewalk and called out “¿Viñales?”
From our perch on the balcony of our casa particular overlooking La Fuente de India and El Capitolio, we called back “¡Si!”
He urged us to hurry down so we grabbed our bags and hastily descended the narrow, convoluted staircase to the ground floor. We jogged behind him, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace as we toted our luggage to the car.
He grabbed our bags and began strapping them on the car roof as we gave quick goodbye hugs to our travel companions; they wouldn’t be joining us for this leg of the trip.
The view of La Fuente de India from the balcony of our casa particular in Havana.
To Viñales
He motioned us towards the front seat of our taxi, a 1954 Ford Country Sedan station wagon. I slid into the center and my dear man took the passenger side. We said a quick hello to the two Finnish passengers in the back seat. Then the driver was off, navigating the cluttered, narrow streets of Havana in the huge station wagon. He deftly skirted the bicyclists, pedestrians, motorcycles, potholes, trucks, and everything else imaginable that are typical in the city.
We made two more stops to pick up passengers before exiting the urban bustle. Eventually nine of us, including the driver, were pressed bum-to-bum for the 2-1/2 hour drive into the Cuban countryside. It didn’t take long to accept we’d be nestled together for the duration, our legs sweating against complete strangers.
Setting aside our American sensibilities about personal space and auto safety, we embraced the journey. No seatbelts in this old car. And slaloming at high speeds along the highway around everything from tour busses and farm tractors to oxcarts and bicycles is perfectly normal.
Before we left that morning we knew we’d be in a group taxi. We just didn’t know exactly what that meant. Our Cuban host had arranged it for us. All we knew is that we’d get to Viñales.
So we bombed along in the vintage car, our heads waggling like bobble-head dolls as we bounced our way towards tobacco country.
Our 1954 Ford Country Sedan station wagon group taxi.
Back in the saddle
We wanted to visit a tobacco plantation while in Viñales. And we thought maybe we’d like to take a horseback ride through the nearby national park at some point as well. Through my middling Spanish, we put together that our gracious host would arrange it for us. We would leave at nine o’clock the next morning.
The horse-drawn cab arrived promptly and we climbed aboard. We took our spots on the wooden bench and quickly learned that keeping our bodies loose and relaxed to absorb the jolts and bumps was the way to go.
The cart stopped in front of a house and a sturdy, older cowboy walked out leading three horses. My dear man and I looked at each other in surprise. We didn’t realize we’d be riding horses today. I was suddenly very glad I wore pants and boots that day instead of shorts and sandals!
My camera gear required adjustment, though. I haven’t been on a horse in more than 20 years but I knew my dual-camera system wasn’t going to hack it in the saddle. I quickly rearranged my camera body and lens setup for this unexpected adventure.
Riding in a horse-drawn cab in Viñales.
Riding into the Parque de Viñales.
Horse cab ride in Viñales.
All-in-one adventure
Our guide introduced us to our mounts—Tornado and Inferno. We laughed at the joke. Trail horses aren’t prone to such dynamic tendencies but we could tell our guide’s sense of humor would make for a fun day.
And we set off, having no idea where we were going or how long the trip would be. All we knew is that we’ll be exploring the Parque de Viñales.
“¡Cabaaaalloooooo!” our guide called out melodically throughout the ride. I can still hear his voice urging the horses on when they slowed their pace.
It turns out our hosts set us up for a full experience that day. The horseback ride included stops at various coffee and tobacco plantations as well as little open-air cafes with spectacular views. We strolled through farmland and quiet riverbeds.
Our charming guide was patient with my broken Spanish as he explained some of what we were seeing. We talked about life, families, and the differences between Cuba and our home in Nevada. He wanted to know as much about our world as we wanted to know about his.
Our last stop of the day was at an organic tobacco farm in the park. With our cigars unfinished when it was time to leave the plantation, we mounted our horses and continued on our way—smoking cigars on horseback in the Valle de Viñales of Cuba, talking with our new friend as we rode back towards town.
Riding in the Parque de Viñales.
The view over the valley.
Farmer tending tobacco plants.
Vulture soaring over the valley below.
Our guide and his buddies.
Riders in the Valle de Silencio.
Lush forests of Parque de Viñales.
Farm bull hanging out.
Bundle of cigars at tobacco farm.
Breaking Routine
At a tiny little cafe on a side street in Viñales, we sat with our Cuban coffees, watching people go by. The tourists had yet to fill the streets so we watched as the locals began their days. Just Cuban people living their lives — walking to school and work, pushing wheelbarrows, hauling loads in ox-drawn carts. We sat peacefully, enjoying the sounds and sights of a place entirely new to us.
Quite poetically, our cafe was named “Rompiendo Rutina,” Breaking Routine.
Breaking routine in Viñales with Cuban coffee and a morning cigar.
Cuba proved to be a very different style of travel for us. Even as open as we are to new experiences and adventures, we are typically far more in control of when, where, and how we go about our travel. We make our own arrangements, choices, and schedules.
Sometimes making that leap means accepting some discomfort, inconvenience, or unknown outcomes. But rich travel isn’t about everything being luxurious, perfect, and predictable. I suppose that’s the difference between a vacation and an adventure.
And travel in Cuba is as rich as it gets if you’re willing to surrender to adventure.
Adventure on, friends!
As always, prints and products of Cuba (and more!) are available in my Zenfolio and Society6 online stores.
How does a travel blogger take a vacation? Apparently we don’t!
Earlier this month I took a weeklong trip to Cuba for the first time. I went into that adventure looking to be largely off-duty. I wanted to celebrate my dear man’s birthday and his long-desired wish to visit Cuba without the pressure of needing to produce content. But as you can imagine, the concept of relaxing and taking a true vacation with family and friends is a tall order for a travel blogger.
So I deliberately went to Cuba with no agenda of coming back with tons of images, thoughts, and stories. My goal was to take shots when it felt right yet have enough images to enjoy looking back down the road. As a result, I took pictures here and there but I wasn’t behind the lens the entire time. I took a step back to absorb the details of everything around me. It was really quite lovely.
The quintessential Havana scene
Regrets?
With that approach though, I certainly missed a lot of things I wish I had shots of. But the hard truth is that I always feel that way, even when I work hard at trying to capture the images that fill out the story. So really I’m not any more disappointed in my collection of images than usual!
The glaring exception being that I wish I had more people shots. Again, that’s not a new struggle for me but given the great people I was traveling with and those I met along the way, it stings a little more than normal. Because so much of what is amazing about Cuba is the people.
So stay tuned for a handful of vignettes about Cuba. In the meantime, here are links to the images on my Facebook page and my Cuba travel collections in my online stores at Zenfolio and Society6.
It’s a strange feeling to visit somewhere I called home for so long. There’s a freedom, though. I know enough about the places and people to slip in without the uncertainties of traveling to an unfamiliar place.
Playing tourist in Fred’s new college town, Lagrange.
Off to college
As is typical for my time in Georgia, I hit the ground running. The first few days were a gauntlet of jeg-lagged chasing about. Shuttling Fred and George to various appointments and having quick meals with friends that felt like speed dating. Without a moment to spare, I grabbed George and set off to Lagrange to help get Fred set up at school and check out his new stomping grounds .
It may sound like I was on track to match the FrankenTravel experience of this past spring but I was actually quite successful in ramping the chaos down once Fred was ensconced at school. Call it a travel lesson well-learned. My solution to several days of hectic activity? Retreating with George to a secluded cabin getaway.
Fred listens attentively to George’s advice about college.
George tidying up the flags in downtown Lagrange.
A silly farewell to my college kid.
Catching our breath at Chattahoochee Bend
Over the course of the twenty-plus years I lived in Georgia, I spent a lot of time in the state parks. I mean a LOT. Camping, hiking, and geocaching. In cabins, yurts, and tents. We’ve done just about everything, in every park and historic site the state has to offer. So when the plans for this visit began to take form, my first resource was my beloved Georgia State Parks.
Not far from Fred’s college is the nearly 3,000-acre Chattahoochee Bend State Park. The park recently added a few cabins to the amenities and I was all over it as the solution to outdoor fun before the urban adventure of Dragon Con. The brand-spankin’-new cabins are simply marvelous. Our little home-away-from-home was perfect for decompressing and as a base for some light outdoor adventuring.
Catching up in the peace and quiet of Chattahoochee Bend.
Enlisting George’s help with dinner in our cozy cabin.
Our slick loaner for the trip, a convertible Mini Cooper.
Our little home away from home.
Our cabin at Chattahoochee Bend.
The sanctuary of the back porch.
Cozy little cabin.
Paddling the Hooch
One of the draws of a visit to Chattahoochee Bend over other nearby parks is the paddling opportunities, including kayak rentals. I enlisted the help of one of my Georgia besties and her daughter to help shuttle boats between the put in and take out and paddle with us for pure entertainment value. It’s never a boring day with Amy and Piper on board for the adventure.
Paddling the Chattahoochee River is fairly easy going. There are a couple of “rapids” to break up the stretches of smooth, turbid water but it’s largely peaceful. The temperate forest hugs the banks in its lush green arms. Countless turtles bask in the sun on the exposed bits of submerged logs. Birds swoop and hunt overhead.
Sadly, George was not impressed. Compared to paddling the crystal clear blue waters of Lake Tahoe surrounded by jaw-dropping mountain views, and having lived his entire 15 years in Georgia, the subtle beauty of the Chattahoochee River doesn’t light his outdoor fire. He enjoyed the trip, but isn’t exactly excited about a repeat adventure on the Hooch.
Braving the Chattahoochee River rapids.
A friendly race with Piper.
Georgia is really muddy, in case you didn’t know.
Let the paddling begin!
Geocaching
George doesn’t do much geocaching these days but he’s happy to come along and help me. My visit to Chattahoochee Bend was over five years ago and quite a few caches have been added to the park since then. Nabbing some seemed a good reason to get us out of our ever-so-comfortable cabin and stomping about in the woods.
Here’s where the feeling-like-a-tourist part really sets in, though. For crying out loud, y’all, I lived in Georgia for a long time but I am decidedly NOT acclimated to the southeast anymore. First, I forgot how many ticks and spiders there are. I picked up quite a few invertebrate companions in our short time in the woods. For about a week after, I had the ongoing twitchiness of feeling like bugs were crawling on me constantly.
And the humidity? It’s crushing. Apparently you can actually take the southern out of someone because I have can no longer tolerate it.
George on the hunt for geocaches.
Georgia’s lush forests support gorgeous fungi and lots and lots of insects.
The cool tower along the river in the park.
Vandalism in the park is always disheartening.
Off to Dragon Con
Our brief respite at Chattahoochee Bend was the vaccine to manage the coming challenges of Dragon Con. Jumping suddenly from a peaceful park to urban sci-fi/fantasy chaos is like teleporting to another planet . I’m seasoned in travel whiplash so I dance from one to the other reasonably well.
Sunrise in downtown Atlanta before Dragon Con.
For all of the fun, time with great people, and oddities of trips like this one, flying home always puts everything right again.
A few weeks ago, my pal John Cloonan wrote a nice post about travel. It wasn’t about far-flung, exotic adventures but the value of what can be discovered nearer to home. I was shocked to learn his young colleagues didn’t know what lay outside of their small urban-Atlanta bubble.
International travel has its benefits and thrills, no doubt about that. As a blogger in the adventure travel niche I spend a lot of time in contact with travelers who have lived as nomads, overlanded around the world, and have had “epic” adventures by today’s social-media standards. However, what I do is small beans compared to all that. Being a small fish in a big pond doesn’t bother me, though. I do what I can, when I can, and on my terms. That’s all any of us can do, right?
The point is, I’m doing it. And it doesn’t take epic, travel-magazine worthy adventures to bust you out of your silo. Just embracing the unfamiliar is enough. And more diversity exists within a half-day’s drive of wherever you are than you might imagine. If you open your eyes. Leave judgment and expectation at home. Explore.
It’s why I continue to explore the intricacies of the area surrounding my home base. It’s accessible in short stints and on short notice. Oftentimes, I can travel inexpensively. It ties me to this area that is my home in a bigger way because I can dig deeper. I always find something new and surprising in every direction.
Get out there
You know I’m not going to simply wave the travel banner and send you on your way if you’ve followed me for any length of time. I’m going to give you a kick in the ass as I shove you out the door. You live in a world of incredible technology. Use it. If just wandering out of the door with no idea where you’re going isn’t your style, find one of the gazillion apps that can help you pick a destination. If that’s a roadside guide that takes you to the world’s biggest ball of twine and you find other cool stuff along the way, so be it.
Try geocaching, go catch Pokemon, seek out a festival in a small town—whatever it takes to excite you and give you a goal. Just get out the fucking door somewhere beyond your daily bubble. Do something new. Go someplace new. One of my favorite new rules of thumb is the 50 miles rule. It’s brilliant. You’ll be surprised how many times you say to yourself “I had no idea this was here!” once you get out there and open your eyes.
Step out of the pre-conceived notions that broadening your life experience can only happen in seductive far-flung locales. Resist the illusion that you’ve experienced something or know what a place is about because you’ve seen Instagrams about it. Stop making excuses. Pushing the edges of your comfort zone, even little by little, has tremendous value. There are cool places within reach on a weekend. Adventure is out your back door.
Building a better world
Sometimes what you see will be dismaying. Most of the time it’s delightful. It’s always educational. You’ll notice the differences from what you’re familiar with. Above all, you’ll also notice how much is the same about the basic human condition. That’s what creates understanding and kindness in the world. And don’t we need that now more than ever?
So I hope you’ll forgive me for including this overused quote from Mark Twain. It’s typically truncated to the first portion of the first sentence but it’s the second line I find more compelling.
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.
Now get out there and adventure on, friends! I’m waiting to hear what you discover.
The rider passes under the streetlight, her mount trotting purposefully. It’s the last street light for fifteen miles. Beyond it lies rough dirt road. Yet she’s dedicated to preserving history. The history of the Pony Express.
History at my back door
The Pony Express Reride happens literally on the other side of the back wall of my yard, where my dog plays and I enjoy cocktails in the evening. Little more than a modern decorative concrete barrier separates my property from Fort Churchill Road. That road is the former path of the historic mail route that led the way in changing how information was transferred in the United States.
In my quest to become immersed in my adopted home state of Nevada this fact still blows my mind. To think of the Pony Express riders galloping headlong Fort Churchill Road in pursuit of their purpose over 150 years ago. This is the road that I come and go from daily now in my car and on my motorcycles. It seems incongruous, my easy comings and goings compared to the effort it once took to send documents across the country.
But I love that this history lies just a few yards outside my back door. I embrace the nostalgia of what the Pony Express represents and the progress we’ve made to the modern world we live in. A foot in both worlds, if you will.
The place I call home—northern Nevada—is also Pony Express Territory.
Mistakes
This is not my first encounter with the Pony Express Reride.
Last year I was in the home stretch of driving across the country with George, soaking up Nevada’s Highway 50 at dusk, just east of Austin. We had just stopped off at Spencer Hot Springs for a soak before a last push home. We came across a rider on the highway surrounded by horse trailers and other components of an entourage. Having been on the road all day, coming upon this odd scene didn’t trigger the appropriate connection in my fatigued road-tripping brain.
When I got home and told my dear man about it—wondering what was happening out on desolate Highway 50, he laughed. “Sweetie, that was the Pony Express Reride. They’re due to pass by here tomorrow morning.”
Cue facepalm. And that was only the first of my foibles. By the time they passed along my back wall the following morning, I was so wiped out from the trip, I couldn’t muster the gumption to get up to see them.
A tailgate party Nevada style!
Penance
So this year was about righting those wrongs. We watched the riders’ positions on an interactive map as they approached. Since our back wall prevents us from seeing the road, we packed up the truck with chairs, beverages, and cigars and set out to await the rider’s arrival at the pavement’s end a block away on Fort Churchill Road.
It may be silly to be so excited to see this event. But I love it. I love Nevada. Making the effort to take part in it means a lot to me. There were no bands or fireworks or fanfare. No cheering crowds. Just folks doing something cool because they love it. I dig that.
