Homeward Bound – Tabasco to Sonora

Posted On April 21, 2021

On our reluctant retreat away from the Yucatan, and points south, and starting north due to the heat, we could only manage two highway hours before stopping at a cheap Airbnb in Villahermosa, Tabasco, where we walked about and ate street tacos. Veracruz or thereabouts tomorrow, with few options available if you are as desperate to avoid the Valley of Mexico as we are. Thanks to a tip from a member of On The Road In Mexico, on bookface, we took a chance on Xalapa the next day, 3/25, which has a really cool college-town vibe, and a stop along the beach at a pueblocito called Playa Nautla, where we were certainly the only gringos for miles. Really friendly peeps, for sure. Veracruz might have shitty roads–we’re looking at you Hwy 180–but la gente make up for them. El Golfo de Mexico is rougher here, with coarser, darker, and more volcano-inspired sand than NWFL, but the blue is just as azul.

3/30 finds your heroes high above Zacatecas, the northern-most of New Spain’s silver sources. It’s incredibly beautiful, and we enjoyed touring the mine right under downtown.

But we’re still high from San Miguel del Allende.

As you may recall, we were refused entry on our way south a month or so ago, but by now all the Airbnb’s have re-branded themselves as hotels, and thus we had a certified accommodation to enter the city. The Hotel Huerta served as our base, and as with San Cristobal, we had to park the van across town and forget about it.

One of the highlights of this amazing trip, however, occurred when we got to tour Nick’s parents’ former house in San Miguel del Alende. It all started when we casually asked a cab-driver if he knew of a barrio (neighborhood) called Las Freiles. I explained that my parents had a house built there some twenty-five years ago, but that I couldn’t find it on any map, and given the explosion of the city, I hardly expected to be able to find the actual house they lived in for over ten years. I had last set eyes on the place some twenty years ago, with Hannah, though I had seen it under construction on a prior trip.

On that visit, I recall shopping for tile with mum and dad, and trust me when I say that my mom could shop. We visited many talavera shops in the towns surrounding SMA, before she finally settled on a weird, shit-brown stick-figures of men and animals in various gymnastic-like poses, each one hand-made, each one unique.

Why am I sharing this detail? Because after Ivan, our cabbie, agreed to help track down Nick and Ann’s house, and after a tip from dad on the street address, and only after Ivan persuaded us to ring the bell of a possible match, and finally only after the bell was answered by one Bill, a gringo, who was naturally suspicious, only then could I ask: “does the tile in your downstairs bathroom feature shit-brown animals or humans in animal poses?” Bill looked at us weirdly, but said yeah that’s kinda accurate. The point is: if I hadn’t remembered that detail of my mom’s super-selective behavior, Bill would never had let us tour the house that my parents and family had loved so much.

And by family I mean extended, as my parents hosted many of my aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, as well as Hannah and I, in that house. One year, my brother Pete and his fam rented a place in SMA, and I can’t even relate all the memories of this place.

Long story short: it was beyond strange to re-experience the place in the hands of another, even if it was largely unchanged. Bill was very gracious in explaining what had changed and at whose hands, but I could sense my mom’s presence in every space we entered. That sounds weirder than it is, but I don’t mean it to. I just was kind of overwhelmed by memories, even as Bill droned on of the SMA real-estate market, and I managed to snap a few pics. It was, upon leaving mostly, very emotional, and I just hung out in the memories of my mum.

She died much too young, and I miss her in both the obvious ways–as a loving mum and supportive ally, as an informed critic, and as a wise and knowing advisor–but also as a genuinely interesting person. She was an entrepreneur and very independent, my dad’s career-travels having forced her to be. She was sweet and kind–just ask any of her sisters or their kids–but also somewhat melancholy and deep. Her ambivalence about the Roman Catholic church played a huge role in my own philosophical development. She was a beautiful person.

We then learned of Ivan’s amazing mother, of ten kids, and at 78 is preparing to sell the family home. They have been generations making wool rugs in San Miguel, near Los Freiles, so we swung by the shop and ended up buying a lovely rug for the van.

To get back on track, Zacatecas, the city, was a revelation. We boondocked on a rocky and windy hill outside of town, and toured the fascinating Mina el Eden the next day. It’s located right down town, but you start off on a one-k tram/train ride into the heart of a hill that produced a shit-ton of silver for Spain and Mexico.

Zacatecas, the state, is also que padre and we are, on the last day of Marz, in a national park just south of Durango in the Parque Nacional Sierra des Organos; es muy bonito.

So bonito, in fact, that we decide to spend another day.

Hiked an amazing trail, short but stunning, over the Organos to a dry cave with a small colony of bats, and crossed paths with a family of boar on our way back to camp. They didn’t seem particularly scared of us, just wary of the dogs, who never even smelled them.

We had to run to San Francisco de Organos for agua, but other than that no driving, just chilling and grilling (horrible ground beef from the local tienda). Temps in the 70’s with a few sprinkles of rain. Not bad for a dessert.

We woke up to take some pics of the red hoodoos, como (like) Utah, glorious in the morning rays. Durango is next, then some more canyoneering, then Chihuahua.

This is somewhat what we thought it was going to be like travelling all the time, visiting different countries and seeing what beauty their landscapes have to offer. What we didn’t account for was that hiking is a rich man’s game. So, while there are a multitude of absolutely amazing sights, they don’t normally include much hiking. There aren’t many places to go where you can just spend days upon days walking around without merchants/vendors and connecting with Nature.

So this place was an oasis of connecting for us. We really needed to be out in nature and active with our bodies. I could’ve stayed there for days. It was so quiet and peaceful. It was everything.

Today will go down in infamy as the day K got the van stuck in mud, only to say: at least we have something to do for the evening. Here’s the recount:

Today, the 3rd de Abril, we make it to Parque Estato de Fernandez. Earlier, we read multiple iOverlander reviews about this absolutely gorgeous spot. There’s a lake in the middle of the desert with a river running straight through it. Along the river and surrounding the lake are bushes and small trees, which provide much needed shade. We read that there are multiple site along the river, and that it’s so out in the middle of nowhere that most people had the place completely to themselves. And listen. We were sold.

So, we’re driving through the parque. The first thing that strikes us is this beyond amazing formation of rock. We see how one side of the mountain’s layers are angled upward, while the other side is angled downward. The both of us are stunned.

Eventually I muster the words to describe it to Nick, “It reminds me of a model for what converging plates look like.” Yet here she is, in all her glory, showing us the real life process of forming a mountain. It’s as if Nature is saying to us, “Y’all. Listen. I do this all the timeeee. Why you making a big deal out this? Like, relaxxx. This is literally what happens everyday all overrrrr the place.”

Anyway, after we pass by the mountain, we make note that the sites marked on iOverlander are roped off. We think of it as a disappointment, but no big deal, there are more along the way.

Well. Let. me. tell. you. As we approach the lake, there is car after car after tent after tent packed compactly full. Compaaactly. Literally, there is no ground from one tent to the next. Because, y’all. It’s frigging Easter weekend! Frigging duh!

It’s looking grim. My soul is a little crushed. I’m already planning on alternatives, trying to recall how far the next city is and the likelihood of finding a vacant hotel nearby. But Nick keeps trucking along, undeterred.

A dirt road continues along the lake, and we see other trucks disappearing into the brush. As we pass by, we see the side roads/paths/trails that lead to the lake, and, along the way, campsites. It takes a few minutes before we find a path in which we can’t immediately see other vehicles filling it up. So, we take it.

There are a few sites still open, but, naturally, they’re surrounded by people and litter. Sometimes the litter doesn’t bother us because we just take it as an opportunity to put in some volunteer hours. However, the people thing is an issue. We hate to be “those” people, but we are. When we’re out, trying to enjoy nature, the sound of other people and their music is a kill joy for us. It really destroys the mood. And, we also hate to confirm stereotypes, but Mexicans honestly do blast their music for all to hear. Not to mention, 1) Covid and 2) where the heck are all these people pooping?

So, we move on, driving to the last possible side road we could find that would also lead to the lake/shade. The shrubs and eventual trees slap us all along the way until find our spot. It’s shaded; there’s a view of the lake; and there’s nobody around. We’re pretty damned pleased with ourselves.

We get out of the car to check the spot out and notice in the distance, beyond some more trees, out and to our right, is a group of three jeeps. We figure okay, but we’re still doing pretty good for ourselves.

That’s when I decide, “Imma turn the van around. I want our side door facing away from the jeeps.” For optimal privacy.
I hop back in the car, turn the keys, press the gas, and go nowhere. “Oh, shoot. We’re stuck,” I think. “That’s okay. Perfect opportunity to show off my driving skills.”

Ha! And may I just repeat: HA!

I manage to get us so deep in the mud that I can literally feel when our van falls forward.

Needless to say, Nick is pretty frustrated at this point. But, in my mind, we’d been stuck before and gotten out of it easy – with help from locals. So, if we can’t figure out how to get out ourselves, someone would likely help. Or, worst case scenario, we’ll find a tow truck or get the police.

Honestly, it’s not a big deal. It might be a pain, but it’s nothing to really stress over. Plus, I feel like we’re always wondering what to do when we park, and now we have something! And, most importantly, this is a challenge. I want to find out if we can figure it out ourselves. I want that victory of digging out the tire and making a road of rocks and limbs to get the van out.

Unfortunately, the gods of stuck cars/wit apparently are not smiling upon us. So, before we make an even bigger hole that we really wouldn’t be able to get out of, we ought to go ask for help. Luckily, despite our best efforts, the group of jeeps was not a far walk away.

Through my terribly broken Spanish I say, “Excuse me, but we need help. Our van is stuck.” And y’all. When I say these guys jumped, I mean they jumped up to get their jeeps ready. There was not even a second for them to think on it.

My heart is instantly in my throat at this. I know that I had already assumed they’d either say yes or direct us to someone who could help us, but I still get very emotional when people just care. It’s honestly one of the most beautiful things in the world. And it’s so simple.

I really wish I could explain this better… like… these guys don’t know us. They don’t know if we’re racists against Mexicans, if we think they’re the scum of the earth, if we’re serial killers, or whatever the fuck. They don’t know if we deserve the kindness they’re showering us with.

All they know is that we’re human beings (maybe); we need help; and they can provide that help to us.
People caring about each other; people appreciating one another; and people connecting with each other… all the sunsets in the world can’t compete with that.

So, their whole squad drives over, despite needing only one jeep to pull us out, and we end up hanging out for an hour or two. Before they decide it’s time to bounce, they offer us – numerous times – about 5lbs of bacon (or some kind of meat) and beer, give us a few slang terms in Spanish, and demand to watch us drive to drier ground so as to be assured that we wouldn’t get stuck again.

Just, such a great experience.

Once they leave and we have a few moments to ourselves, Nick looks at me and half-jokingly says, “Now what are we going to do?”
Well, little do we know that soon, we’d be busy with another torment.

The sun starts setting, and I notice the bugs are becoming more and more numerous. So, I put up the mosquito net. The mosquito net, I must explain, is a net for tents, not cars. But, we make do with what we got and use our magnets to pin it along the border of the sliding door. A few bugs occasionally make it in, but it keeps most of them out.

Once I get done with the next, the real challenge is making sure Frida doesn’t destroy it as she jumps in and out of the car. She’s not smart enough to make the connection that once the net goes up, she needs the humans to open up a hole for her to get through, which usually results in her getting tangled up in the next.

We’re pretty good at keeping up with her needs these days, so I make sure to keep an ear out for her while I write my thoughts down on my phone. A half hour or so passes when Nick’s voice barely registers in my consciousness, “These bugs really seem to be getting through this net.”

I find a stopping place in my notes, a little annoyed by the interruption. A few bugs getting through the net is hardly worth my attention, I think arrogantly. But when I turn around to see what he’s talking about, my brain cannot process the information the occipital lobe is providing it with.

My eyes dart from the light above his head that has a good 30 or so bugs competing for chances to be close to it to the net that has hundreds of bugs fucking SWARMING to get inside. I see the gap where they’re shoving each other to get in.

I look at the rest of the van. The other lights. The roof. The walls. The bed. They are all blanketed in these teeny tiny, almost dragonfly-looking bugs. And there are HUNDREDS of them.

It makes me instantly feel like I’m in one of those scary movies in which either the bugs completely envelope the person and eat them alive or they enter the person from whatever orifice and eat them from the inside out (I’m still not convinced the latter hasn’t happened).

I low-key/high-key freak the fuck out and am pacing around in a circle wondering what the fuck to do.
What is the first step? Well, that seems obvious. Shut the fucking sliding door before any more bugs can get in. But then I’ll be trapping the bugs inside with us. Yeah, but at least there won’t be even more coming in? How did this happen without me realizing it?! I don’t know; it doesn’t matter. Focus on the issue at hand.

Okay, I’ll have to take the net and fold it on itself first. Then I can shut the door. Maybe Nick can do it. Do you think Nick will do it? He’s equally clueless. Let’s just do this ourselves. Okay. Okay. We can do this.

They’re attracted to the light. That’s how you didn’t see them. They’re not up in the cabin because there’s no light. Should we turn the lights off and then take the net down so more don’t fly in here? Probably, but I can’t. I’m too scared. Right. So. Let’s just fucking do it.

I take a breath and hold it while I throw down the net and try my damnedest to trap what bugs I can inside it. Meanwhile, so many bugs that weren’t on the net start flooding in before I can slam the sliding door shut. Even so, it’s shut now, so now all we have to deal with is the thousands of bugs inside.

They don’t seem to be biting, so that’s good at least. They’re pretty harmless. If there weren’t so many of them, I wouldn’t mind just leaving them be and saying fuck it.

“What should we do?” I ask Nick for the 100th time.
He’s shaking his head. “I really don’t know.”
Well, we can’t just sit here and do nothing, I think before taking some cleaning spray and spraying the lights. I get a towel and start smashing bugs that are stuck to the lights.

“That’s not going to do anything. There’s too many of them,” Nick’s unfaltering negativity offers its helping hand. “We should drive farther up the road, where it’s drier and likely to be less bugs. Then we can open the doors while we drive and hope they get forced out by the wind.”
“What road are we going to do that on? The dirt road?” The one we can’t go more than 5mph on? I think, cynically/unhelpfully. “And then what? We’re going to stay there? The guys warned us not to sleep on that road, that it’s dangerous.”
“Every Mexican says everywhere is dangerous except their one town. What do you propose?”
“Umm… killing them.”

Getting the bugs out is something I am currently very passionate about. So, I insist that we stay. I keep spraying and swatting and spraying and swatting. It definitely makes a dent. But it’s a small dent. And it’s nearly 10.

In the end, we decide to turn the lights in the back off and turn the lights in the cabin on, hoping to attract the bugs up to the front of the van. I slap the bed everywhere as well as the shelf/lights above our heads, so as to scare them off. And then, we “sleep.” And by sleep, I mean, I listen angrily as Nick snores the night away, and I fret about bugs.

When the sun finally rises the next day, I have the blankets over my head. I’d been waiting for a while for this moment, and I’m scared that when the light hits us, the bugs will be swarming again. However, as I hold my breath and listen, I realize… there aren’t any bugs.

And if you’re to ask me, where the fuck did all those bugs go? I have no idea. There were a few along the windshield. And a couple along the ceiling. But there was no where near the amount there had been the night before. In fact, there were so few, and I was so surprised by it, that, at first, I thought I had hallucinated last night. It took me seeing the net on the ground, all folded in on itself haphazardly, for me to realize that it hadn’t been a psychotic break.

“Where did all the bugs go?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
And I’m low-key still creeped out by it.

4/4 Earlier we went to a small museo–El Museo Arqueologia de Durango “Ganot-Peschard”–in downtown Durango: it featured the deformed skulls of infant Aztatlan…cool, huh? They’d shape their skulls in order to make their foreheads slanted, as that was considered a desirable feature.

Then we drove a few hours north to boondock in the “Zona De Silencio” but we didn’t quite make it, as the woman running a campground in La Flor, the closest “town” to the zona and within the Biosfera Mapimi, discouraged us from driving the last four or five hours on a road that is “muy mal”. Whatever exactly the Zona of Silencio is will remain a mystery, but it’s hard to imagine a quieter place than here, with its own blanket of stars. Chihuahua, the largest and, due to trade with the US, the richest state in Mexico is up next.

That we got a ticket for having a fake “placa,” or rear license plate, on our way into Chihuahua is only half of the story; the other half is that our Airbnb host, upon hearing of our predicament, took a picture of our front plate and had it enlarged and printed on some plastic stock, and thus fabricated a legit-looking fake plate! The sweetheart did this without even asking, and just showed up on his door with a gift for us.

Chihuahua is not the cow town one might expect, and we had really good ramen at a japanese restaurant downtown. Its centro is very clean and pretty, also. We’re moving on to the Copper Canyon area, however, where the road promises to challenge.

Listennnn, Lindaaaa. So, here we are, driving into Chihuahua after hanging out in Durango for half a second, and we see this motorcycle cop on the side of the road finishing up his time with some poor bastard. I fancy myself as being polite and considerate (not when I talk, but in action, okayyy?), so I switch lanes and slow down. As you do. Then, as we’re passing him, he’s about to pass us, but he hits the brakes and gets behind us and pulls us over. The ungrateful wanker (my new fave insult).

Unfortunately, as stated above, my mouth isn’t as kind as my actions are.
I wasn’t rude. But I wasn’t nice either.

He starts in Spanish but soon switches to English, “This license plate. It’s no good.”
“Yeah, we think it got stolen. We’re on our way back to Florida to get a replacement.”
“…Well it still isn’t good here.”
“We know. We’re on our way back to Florida to get a new one.” Nick pulls out a piece of paper. “Look. This is a temporary tag from Puebla. The letters and numbers match. They’re the exact same on the TIP and the registration.”
“Well, that’s Puebla. This is Chihuahua. It’s different.”
“Right. But what else are we supposed to do? This is all we can do until we get back to Florida.”
“This is no good. It’s a different state.”
“I get that.”
“I have to write you a ticket.”
“Fine. Go write the ticket then.”

He hands us the ticket and my license and we get on our merry way.
Nick and I are trying to figure out where we’re supposed to go pay said ticket, when we decide to text the AirBnB host.
“You guys have foreign plates?”
“Yes.”
“And he gave you back all your paperwork?”
“Yes.”
His reply is simple, “Then don’t pay it.”

Nick and I just start cracking up, like, this guy is crazy.
“They don’t have a system that keeps track of foreign plates, so if he didn’t take anything, then he has no way to make you pay it. I wouldn’t pay it.”

Nick was still lulling the idea over, but that was enough of an explanation for me. I was sold. And let me tell you. It felt good.

Well the roads have been fine, but our planning hasn’t, and so we failed in our attempt to make it to the bottom of Copper Canyon today, the 8th of April. We did make it halfway down, however, and given that this canyon is bigger and deeper than the Grand one we all know of, that’s saying something. We’ve had a blast, however, and this place is beautiful, with jaw-dropping views all around.

We paid some $30MX to camp at Lago Arareko just south of Creel, a railroad town named after a buddy of Miguel Hidalgo, hero of the 1810 revolution, and we then explored the Valle de los Monjes, or to give it its Tarahumara name, the valley of the erect penises.

We stopped in at the only eating establishment in Casarere for burritos, and were grateful. Afterwards, we walked a mile or so past vendors to the nearby cascada, which was barely flowing due to the drought. Still, it was pretty, and while our daylight was slipping away, we continued down into the canyon towards Batopilas. But we failed to consider how our gas would last us in these hills, and the roads ahead look almost impassable.

We ended up back at el Lago for a second night, surrounded by a different posse of peros and a cat and definitely closer to the Tarahumara side of the tracks. This indiginous group was largely ignored by the Spanish and Mexicans as they mostly lived, along with the Apache and Comanche, in this impossible country, where somewhere between 50 and 120 thousands live today. They are famous for their long-distance running skills, and were said to run down deer and turkey ’til they, the animals, died of exhaustion!

Some of them live in caves, and why not, in this rocky terrain, for which we need a geologist. The pinks and purples and blacks and whites and greens and silvered rocks are “disfructa” to the point of distraction. We bought a tree hand-made out of grass first thing this morning, from a five-year old Tarahumara (or Ralamuli, or Raramuri, or whatever their real name is, as it’s disputed).

We wouldn’t normally buy from kids, for fear of encouraging their exploitation, but this cutey was walking to their vendor’s stall across the lake with (we guessed) her mom. It’s sad to see so many kids working alongside their parents, but these are indigenous children who weren’t going to be going to school regardless; it’s important to keep in mind that these groups have survived five-hundred years of genocidal assaults and perhaps a little mercantilism isn’t all bad. The Tarahumara live and work communally, and have a very well-developed sense of fairness, for which they are renown, apparently.

Today we visited the highest year-round waterfall in North America, la Cascada de Basaseachi, which falls 250m into an absolutely splendorous and impossibly remote part of Copper Canyon.

Boondocking in an abandoned campground in the Parque Nacional of the same name, alongside the very creek that cascades. To see this place in a couple of months, after the wet season begins, would be a treat, but this decade-long drought, perhaps exascerbated by deforestation due to las minas, might be permanent! Apparently cattle are dying by the hundreds of thousands hereabouts, but not those of the Tarahumara; we got to see some of their famous Criollo cattle on the road; these badasses will walk forever to forage, and hence are being genetically copied to make a more eco-friendly herd.

After trying to befriend the caballos drifting thru our campground, we paid the real entrance fee of Copper Canyon: the drive out! Hwy 16 to Hermosillo was the curviest, most pot-holed, and slowest road we’ve met in Mexico, with two-two-hour shifts required of both of us, crawling along at 30kph. We even got a front-row seat to a logging-truck having flipped on its side being righted by a crew of kids.

An Airbnb on the third floor with the dogs may not have been the best idea since sliced bread, but hey: we cleaned up, and uber eats is incredibly cheap in Mexico, and got a chance to plan a slight detour to San Carlos on the Sea of Cortez–I say a side-trip because we actually have a deadline in front of us: we are heading to Puerto Penasco to meet up with Karyssa’s parents in a couple of days–and here we are, after a short drive down Hwy 15 and a detour to hike up to some tanks in the Biosfera Canon del Diablo. We’re so excited to see fam…in a foriegn land, WHAT??

San Carlos is soo pretty, and while it’s resort-filled and gringofied, the workers at the hotels and resorts have to live somewhere, and we have found where: Magna and Magna 2 just north of town where iOverlander directed us to a beautiful little playa and potential snorkeling spot. Solamente Mexicanos aqui, and everyone is just incredibly welcoming and friendly. I just had the freshest tuna steak I’ve had in a long time and a long walk on the beach at sunset, so it’s a blissful evening here; here’s hoping you can relate.

4/12 finds us in Puerta Libertad, un poquito fishing village on the Sea of Cortez, but only because some promising I-Overlander stes near Bahio Kino didn’t work out. One had been turned into a real estate development, which is understandable enough, but the other was kinda sketch.

It was at the end of a 3-k long dirt road on a totally pristine section of coastline, but we get halfway down (which is the registered trademark name of my next band, btw, so fuck off already) and the road is blocked, twice, by cactus pieces piled up by hand and very quickly. We see two dudes and a pick-up, is all, and they were working in the Sonoran desert scrub ahead of us, but while they waved back to our salud, we chose not to ask WTF, and backed up real quick and in a hurry, while they then proceeded to dismantle the roadblocks behind us as they left also.

The dirt road was so narrow that we had to reverse about 1k before managing to turn about. The dudes were on our tail, but never tried to catch up to us, so yo no se; perhaps they needed privacy for some ecologically-sensitive endeavor down at the shoreline, or perhaps they were farmers doing what farmers do, or whatever and we’re paranoid, but it certainly got our attention.

Still, the sea-glass here is top-notch, and watching the fishermen mend their nets–that is, their holes tied together–is old-school and thus cool, and we had amazing flounder (and chimichangas) in Bahia Kino, and bought some gifts, and best of all we got to talk to Molly, who will graduate from university next month. Me so, we so, proud of her.

The next day we got to talk to Hannah, while with K’s Mum and Dad at their long-time friends (sort of in-laws) Don and Donna, at their beautiful winter-home in La Cholla, just outside of Puerto Penasco near the northern tip of the Sea of Cortez. It’s odd but awesome to be surrounded by loved ones who speak our language!

This area has a pretty neat tide, with the low tide exposing lava rock and making tide pools and the high tide covering everything up again so there’s no beach at all.

• 

• 

We’re just over an hour away from the border at Arizona, and are kinda in shock over the facticity of that. Give us a momentito.

The re-entry at Sonoyta, Sonora and Lukeville, AZ, went smoothly on the 14th of April, even if the aduana (customs) office was only half-staffed, and we lost patience trying to get our TIP cancelled–it’s a vehicular permit that you get for six months, and as we only used ours for four, we were due a partial refund, but while the Aduana people at customs checked over our van, the money desk was empty.

The ides of April, and following up on a tip from Doctor Don, we got our first dose of Covid vaccine, Moderna’s, while visiting K’s Grandma Marge, in Lake Havasu. We also got an oil-change for the long-suffering van. We may take a breather from the blog, as we re-visit some of our favorite BLM land out west and wait for our 2nd shot. But, honestly, who knows with us.

Ciao, and thanks for reading! Until next time!