Day 1 was a 9-hour migration from our home in Texas to my childhood stomping grounds in Aberdeen, MS.
Along the way, we decided to make a stop in Vicksburg. The tour was free. Plus, for Memorial Day, they provided live musket demonstrations. The girls were amused as the host attempted to load and fire 3 shots in under a minute. He failed.
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In 2017, we were north of San Francisco, where we had just seen an old farmhouse that was used in WWII to watch the coast for enemy ships. The gem of history was amazing.
Then, we decided to continue further up to an overlook that supposedly had amazing views of the ocean. So, we meandered up the curved highway.
As we drove, my mind wandered. I felt my leg itch, so I reached down and scratched the scrapes I’d gained so far on the trip. As we neared the area of the overlook, we entered a heavily treed area — normally a source of comfort. But, at the start of the woods, there was a disassembled van. The engine was removed and tilted against the car like a lazy thief decided it was too much work. It had clearly been there for some time. Clearly cleanup crews didn’t often this way come.
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The first time someone suggested we get a camper, I scoffed. In all fairness, it was my in-laws. They suggested we get a camper and join them each summer in Fun Valley, Colorado. Not that I have any problem with fun or valleys—but that place wasn’t the idyllic picture of camping I saw in my head.
Ever since my first child was born, we had been tent campers. We found it mesmerizing to awaken under the canvas with birds chirping, or even hearing those pesky raccoon bandits make off with food in the middle of the night. (We shined a flashlight on their bums through the open tent flap as they gimped into the woods, a full package of lunch meat in their grubby paws.)Read More »
#macbetrippin 