People: Treasures of Nomadic Life

A series of digressions fondly remembered . . .

From the beginning of my journey through RV life, I have been blessed to meet a number of friends and teachers, those who chat for a while and leave me with useful insights, as well as emotional support. While staying in Utah, when the dogs and I were attacked by a large pit bull, caring souls helped me in my time of difficulty. While visiting numerous other locations, fellow travelers gave me technical advice on RV life, always with cheerfulness and goodwill. With that in mind, we begin our reflection on people, the treasures of nomadic life.

It was an unsettling experience, retiring unexpectedly from my civil service career and charting a new course through middle age. In June of 2022, the City of San Diego invited me to leave after I refused to comply with vaccine and "testing" mandates. And, from that pivotal event, I joined the ranks of the displaced and found a new path.

After a lifetime of living "sticks and bricks," following a set routine, and planning for a future that never happened, I decided to become a nomad. Moreover, I made the decision to write full-time and discover America in the company of my dogs--the start of a grand adventure.

The KOA in Apache Junction, Arizona

After working with a wonderfully helpful sales representative in Mesa, and purchasing my motorhome, I spent the winter season in Apache Junction, Arizona, where I discovered something truly amazing. Whereas San Diego had offered me an isolating suburban existence--quite emblematic of Southern California--life in Apache Junction was markedly different, the KOA providing a true sense of community and togetherness.

While there, I met "snowbirds" from Canada and the Midwest, many of whom shared their stories with me, as we sat by campfires or strolled the park with our dogs. I still recall visiting an Irish neighbor who had served as a police officer in Chicago for many years, an extraordinary woman, indeed. In addition, I became friends with travel nurses and the families of electrical linemen, sharing convivial dinners and a multitude of ideas about life on the road.

Tonto National Forest: Further Digressions

Not surprisingly, RV life is popular among retired law enforcement, many of them speaking freely by the campfire, no longer constrained by the politics of their agencies. While camping in the Tonto National Forest, I conversed with a husband and wife who had both served as police officers back east, sharing impressions as our campfire dwindled into the night and mountain darkness imposed itself.

It was a wonderful excursion. The cold mountain air, as well as the creeping shadows of winter, offered a majestic ambience, as I explored the nearby town and enjoyed afternoons of country music.

A Summer in Flagstaff

As the unbearable temperatures of summer began to loom, I departed Southern Arizona for the towns of Payson and Flagstaff. In the latter, I met a knowledgeable and pleasant manager, who gave me quite a bit of information on full-time RV living. "Remember, you don't live in an apartment or a house. You live in an RV." This is some of the best advice I've received. As for Payson, it served as a reminder of history and hinted at things to come.

Black in Small Towns

There was a time when black people did not wander through the hinterlands of Idaho--or Arizona, or Utah, or Southern Oregon, for that matter. It was understood that larger cities like Phoenix or Portland were safer destinations, even during the 1970s and 80s when I traveled with my parents. So, with this in mind, I was a bit leery of heading for parts unknown in an RV, living permanently on the road, and staying in rural areas. Thankfully, my experiences have been largely positive with only a few reminders of the past.

Visiting the Payson area was interesting. One evening at the Lamplighter RV Resort, I took my border terrier for a walk, enjoying the atmosphere of the place, a land of contrasts where vacation homes and decaying trailers reside alongside class A RVs. As I proceeded, an older woman approached from her yard and appeared to be evaluating me, glancing up and down in assessment of my presence. Then, she spoke.

"We don't have any riffraff here."

I still smile when I recall the encounter. Perhaps she was unaware that a registered sex offender--who had been a rapist in his youth--lived a few rows down from her unit. I think he would qualify as "riffraff." A thin man with flowing gray hair, he and his girlfriend occupied an older trailer and displayed Christmas lights year-round, stone cherubs and flowerpots filling their yard.

For the record, everyone else I met at the Lamplighter was very friendly and helpful, always a joy to chat with during my daily walks. In fact, one of my neighbors was an older woman from Tennessee who taught me about the intricacies of RV sewer systems, arriving at my door with coffee and helpful advice. I also enjoyed conversing with the sales associates of a local gun store, two southern men who were very pleasant and taught me a great deal about elk hunting. In fact, there was only one incident in Payson that felt decidedly unfriendly.

While walking through town one day, I noticed a Dodge Ram truck heading south as I proceeded north, one of the larger models, as I recall. After years of patrol work, my intuition often serves me well on such occasions--when the moment seems ordinary but still exudes an aura of trouble. And, as I watched the truck approaching my position, intuitive alarms sounded.

When the vehicle was directly parallel to me, the passenger leaned out of his open window and yelled, "Hey!" directly in my ear--with an audible growl attached to the word. The level of aggression was palpable and quite jarring. Now, in the grand scheme of things, it was a minor incident that was only scary for the possibilities it entailed.

After worrying that darker moments might follow, with the young men jumping out of their truck to confront me, I took a deep breath. They were just a couple of unruly teens having a laugh at my expense. What concerned me was the thought that everyone else in town might share their sentiments, perhaps feeling resentful that black people were taking up residence. Thankfully, however, it was an isolated incident in a pleasant and, for the most part, welcoming town.

A local merchant smiled when I mentioned that I was staying at the Lamplighter. "Yeah, that's quite an eclectic place." Indeed.

Adventures in Price, Utah

As for Southern Utah, I received a few angry glares.

As I approached the entrance of Smith's Grocery Store one morning, a large fellow in his fifties stopped in his tracks upon seeing me, a look of anger on his face, his fists clenched as if prepared for a brawl. I was startled. Based on his proximity to me, the man's refusal to move appeared to be a challenge, like he was standing his ground for reasons unknown. As I closed the distance between us, I was able to avoid him, quickly darting by before he could say anything or claim additional space. Although a bit startling and socially awkward, the moment passed, and we both began our shopping. Whatever his mindscape or reasoning, I wanted no part of this stranger who seemed so very displeased to see me. A similar adventure took place in a local restaurant.

While eating my breakfast one morning, I noticed an older man glaring in my direction, looking decidedly confrontational from a distance. I took note of him immediately, because he had to turn sideways, shifting in his seat in order to glare effectively across the dining room. I looked back in the direction of my meal--which was outstanding--and continued to enjoy the morning. Of course, I eventually glanced in the man's direction, once again, and noticed that he was continuing to glare, as if he actually wanted to fight. Based on his age and very thin stature, I might have won.

It almost felt like a movie. I might have walked over and asked, "You got a problem with me, buddy?" "Yeah, (insert N word)," at which point we would have started throwing items from the breakfast bar at each other--since neither one of us was in any condition to fight. But I digress.

Again, my stay in Utah was delightful--apart from a pit bull attack at the RV park--and remains one of my favorite destinations. The landscape and weather were glorious, with late winter snows cooling the afternoons, the Price River swollen with the change of seasons. Across from the RV park, an alfalfa farm awaited planting with its neat rows of soil unfolding in the sun. Thinking back on my favorite aspects of Utah, such scenes come quickly to mind. And I recall my neighbors, as well, the people who enriched my experiences profoundly.

Often, in the early moments of evening, I would chat with two of my neighbors, one of whom was a former Mormon with fascinating insights, the other having taught me to make a wonderful condiment called "slop sauce," a combination of stewed tomatoes, chili peppers, onion, and sausage. And I should note that the neighbor who invited me into her kitchen was very kind and generous, having wrapped my dog in a blanket and taken her to the vet after the pit bull attack. After that, the owners of the park handled all expenses related to the incident, an act of kindness for which I am grateful.

As for the owner of the pit bull, and his questionable companions, I credit them with having taught me a great deal, lessons related to dog safety and the strange contradictions of human nature. However, more than anything, they reminded me to stay vigilant as I move through new environments, the perils of which can easily remain hidden. Nomadic life is both inherently delightful and dangerous.

And, finally, I must comment on the art community of Helper, Utah, the neighboring town where I spent much time sipping coffee and conversing with locals. In particular, I recall meeting an outstanding photographer, an artist who shared her experience of departing the Mormon Church and, in no small way, encouraged me to continue my work as a pen & ink illustrator.

And what do the coming years hold for this community, as developers advance on the region and exploit its heritage for their marketing campaigns?

As for the future of real estate in Southern Utah, we can only speculate. However, we can say with confidence that the gallery scene of Helper is making a name for itself and delighting visitors. The pieces I saw were deeply innovative, reflecting the character of the land, while speaking to the history of its inhabitants. Now, let's revisit Arizona for another trip through landscapes of memory.

Mogollon Rim, Arizona

During my inaugural year on the road, I discovered the true glory of rim country as I drove into the mountains, enjoying a reprieve from RV parks and "established campgrounds." Granted, the benefits of electricity on hot days can't be overstated, but venturing down forest roads is exciting, bringing to mind those epic sunsets so often celebrated on YouTube. As monsoon season drenched us with massive showers of rain and hail, few people made the trek from Phoenix to the forestlands of the rim, leaving me with a wonderful opportunity.

One afternoon, I found an ideal campsite that was sheltered from the wind. It was nestled amid trees, sitting in comfortable proximity to my fellow campers, some of whom appeared to be permanent nomads. After speaking with local rangers about the finer points of bear safety, and the ecology of old growth forests, I decided to visit my closest neighbors, a group of women traveling in an older class A motorhome. And I was in for a surprise.

As usual, I was able to learn from my new acquaintances, the leader of the group teaching me about heating options for older RVs. However, it was one of her friends who granted me a true education, sharing the sorrows of her journey with openness. On our second meeting, she told her story and wiped tears from her eyes, the mood transforming from a joyful occasion into one of deep reflection.

The woman said that her daughter had recently been murdered, succumbing to injuries inflicted by a stalker. Her child had been a news anchor in San Diego, and the investigation had reached a standstill, with the family's messages and emails being ignored. Although compelling, I felt that her story required a bit of research on my part, an effort to establish the timeline of events and find some level of documentation.

Curiously, I found no evidence of the case online, nothing from media outlets or public records. However, it sometimes happens that cases deemed inconvenient to the power structure are cast into the shadows, either disappearing from news stations quickly or never being mentioned at all. In any event, the woman's pain seemed genuine, and I did my best to provide comfort.

Game Wardens and Rodeo Cowboys

Despite the fires of 2024, July was glorious in Grants Pass and Bend, the Deschutes National Forest being a highlight of my trip, its groves serving as my summer office space. And, as I'm sure you've guessed, I met a host of fascinating people during the latter portion of my journey, neighbors who shared a wealth of stories with me as we anticipated the arrival of fall.

While staying at a resort on the Rogue River, I chatted with a retired game warden about RV electrical systems and their peculiarities. He provided me with outstanding insights and information. On a few evenings, we compared notes on our respective patrol environments, as the river carried Canada geese into the distance. Most exciting of all, however, I heard marvelous stories of rodeo life from a neighbor in Silver Lake.

It was like theatre, hearing him recount the old days; being taken to the doctor's house--often late at night--and treated on the front porch, lacerations stitched with a needle and thread as tobacco juice dripped from the doctor's chin into the wound--ample whiskey consumed by all. "It was the way we lived."

Concluding Thoughts

Yes, people are the genuine treasures of nomadic life, sharing their stories and wisdom with me, day by day as I continue my journey. And the lessons are no less valuable when coming from difficult folks, those I prefer not to meet again; judgmental old ladies in dressing gowns, convicted felons with vicious pit bulls, and glaring old-timers (who aren't quite up for a fight) coming to mind. They are all a part of the journey, and I'd have it no other way. As for the lovely and gracious people I meet during my travels, I look forward to future conversations.

And the Journey Continues . . .