Florida and Orlando have been in the international headlines for major hurricane events in the past few weeks, but that shouldn’t be a major deterrent for our visitors. We discuss why in our latest blog for AttractionTickets.com:
https://www.attractiontickets.com/en/latest-news/orlando/being-hurricane-savvy
It’s been a while since we posted one of our snapshot videos from the big Year On The Road RV adventure, but here’s one that picks up the story along the Texas Coast, and the surprising, idyllic beach at Port Lavaca.
We were only here a few days, but the Lighthouse Beach RV Park proved a gorgeous place to stay, practically right on the city beach and with great views in each direction.
Here’s the video: https://youtu.be/8zABEpQEwb8
(RIP Ruthie the Rescue, 2008-2024)
Now that we’re home again, we can finally pay a fitting farewell to our canine companion of the past 10 years. Here are Simon’s words…
I’ve never been lost for words before. You know, spoken, articulated words said out loud, to people. But that’s not it. I can still talk about many things, the important and the mundane. But not about our dog, and the grief it has generated having had to ask the vet to euthanize her.
OK, those are the words I can’t say. I cannot, under any circumstances, in the days and weeks following the act of taking another creature’s life, try to articulate anything about our Ruthie that doesn’t end in tears. And tissues. Lots of tissues. And eyes that feel like they’re full of sand and ash. And a heart that feels like it has a lead weight inside.
“It’s just a dog,” some might say and, in many ways, they are right. It is, or was, just a common or garden household pet. There are hundreds of them in the streets around us, every day, everywhere.
But it was a living, breathing, reactive pet who had been part of our household for nearly 10 years, claimed from a dog rescue center in 2015 and a permanent fixture with Susan and myself ever since.
At 4am on May 26 we had to end that life, that lovely canine companion, in the face of a growing distress that seemed to be escalating quickly and inexorably with no effective cure or palliative measure at hand. The vet agreed with us, but it was still our essential decision, our fateful, conscious act to end a life that had become a tale of torment. It was our call.
But that’s not the issue. Our Ruthie was 15 or 16 – no-one could be really sure; she had been a stray, and the vet’s best guess, from looking at X-rays that showed a fair bit of arthritic build-up, was that she was around six or seven when we adopted her – and that’s a pretty decent age for a labrador, a breed that is often ‘elderly’ by 10 and straight up old by 12. She had already beaten the odds and survived to an age where humans would be gasping for breath.
And that was the issue. She was gasping for breath, not constantly but regularly, and often at night, when everything sounds and feels worse amid the darkness that closes in and amplifies all your fears and concerns. It was a condition called laryngeal paralysis, something quite common in labradors, especially at such an advanced age. We knew it and had been aware of it for at least a year; Susan thinks a bit longer than that.
Either way, it had become a daily reality in recent months, not always obvious but a serious background issue to a dog that was still always up and about, ready for the next adventure, the next place to sniff. And oh, she loved to sniff. She lived to sniff. She spent much of her days sniffing anything and everything that didn’t move, and some that did. She would have been the ideal sniffer dog for the authorities, a regular bloodhound in labrador clothing.
She especially seemed to thrive on our travels, both in and around Florida and further afield on trips to Michigan and North Carolina. One of the reasons we decided to take off on our “A Year On The Road” RV escapade in the first place was so we could take Ruthie on the biggest adventure of her life, a chance to really sniff the open road and the vast array of olfactory delights to be had along the way.
In the multi-year planning of the trip, we weren’t sure she would even make it to the start line. Her vet was happy enough for us to take her, but we would need to see other vets along the way, keep her essential medications and vaccinations up to date, and seek out urgent medical advance if she showed major signs of distress.
She did, on two occasions, but both were related to upset stomachs, probably related to too many sniffs in transient dog parks where another dog had probably left trace contamination. On both occasions, she bounced back immediately with the aid of antibiotics, and she was soon ready for the next location, the next new set of sniffs.
But the laryngeal condition was still there, a background menace that occasionally flared into open distress in the form of a coughing fit or heavy panting. One vet described it as “like trying to breath through a straw.” But labs are tough old birds of a furry feather; they are masters at disguising their symptoms and hiding the underlying distress. And Ruthie rarely let her symptomatic guard down. She was a total trooper. To my eye, she had a few moments of concern but then bounced back to her normal nose-dependent best, an elderly example of her breed, sure, but still largely a fully functioning one.
OK, we’d had to compromise. Ruthie was no longer able to undergo any real workout, no more scenic walks and hikes. “Do not exercise this dog,” was the stern warning from her vet back in Orlando, so we had invested in a doggie cart from Petsmart, an $80 adjunct to outdoor adventuring without the strain. We could pull her along, get our own level of exercise, and still stop for plenty of sniffs along the way. On the beaches of Texas and the state park trails of Louisiana and Alabama, she got to admire the scenery while putting in zero effort. Reluctantly, of course, because no dog truly wants to travel without their paws on the ground, but orders were definitely orders, and exercise was strictly off the daily menu.
However, as the final few months of our extended road trip ticked away, Ruthie had trouble sleeping through the night. She developed moments of incontinence, which instigated the indignity of having to wear a doggy diaper when inside the RV, while her ability to shed great clumps of fur – her enduring canine super-power – seemed to increase. Her age was finally showing, but still she soldiered on, unwilling to sit things out when we reached a new campground and she could at least take her nose on new investigations of the immediate surroundings.
By the last week of our epic 12-month voyage around the country, we had reached the grand finale of a stay in Disney’s Fort Wilderness campground, a fitting exclamation point on our year-long adventure as well as a quiet celebratory moment in a 20-year journey for Susan and I in our Disney/Orlando writing career together. Ruthie met an armadillo and two extra-large chipmunks while also trundling around the extensive grounds in her wagon. Everything came together in one glorious Florida sunset.
Sadly, that sunset was also for Ruthie. Within a week of being home, the laryngeal paralysis was staking an ever-larger claim on our dog. The breathing issue was now flaring up significantly several times a day. Worse, the nerves in her back legs were inducing clear and distressing physical discomfort. The lack of any real exercise had caused her muscles to atrophy to the point where her hips were clearly visible through her fur. We took her to see her regular vet, who prescribed a strong pain-killer but also furnished us with a slightly chilling prognosis. The medication would help, she explained, but we were definitely on a final count-down. It might be two weeks, it might be as much as a year, but we needed to be alert to a point of no return.
As it turned out, she had two weeks.
After the long haul around the U.S., we had to take another long journey almost immediately up to Michigan on family business, something we had postponed in order to take our RV on the road but which was now a pressing concern. We packed a (small) bag and set off for the two-day journey, stopping off in Knoxville, Tennessee, overnight and completing the drive on a late Wednesday afternoon. To our relief, Ruthie slept most of the way, then was awake to some serious front-yard sniffing on reaching our destination. Equilibrium restored, we thought.
Thursday night told us otherwise. Awake and fussing to go out at 3am, Ruthie relieved herself but then struggled to get back to sleep, turning around in her bed multiple times in clear discomfort, and not the usual I’m-not-quite-sure-how-to-get-comfortable routine that most dogs do from time to time. This was the nerve problem writ large and unmistakable, a cry for help I still didn’t fully recognize. Susan was more alert to the issue but, with all the work we had to do on the house, Friday passed without either of us thinking another vet visit would probably be wise.
Friday night was worse. Again she needed to go out in the early hours, but the nerve issue wouldn’t abate for more than an hour, her back left leg twitching in involuntary spasms.
We, or I should say, I, still didn’t read the signs properly. It was the Memorial Day holiday weekend and there was more work to do. We could wait until Tuesday and go and see the vet then, avoiding the ‘emergency’ fees and, perhaps, getting stronger medication that would ease the nerve problem.
At 3am on Sunday that lack of foresight was shown up for the folly it was. Our dog was awake and in unmistakable distress bordering on agony. Even her labrador sensibilities of not showing any pain were wiped away in a clear message. Her twitching and breathing issues were at a head. Even though she couldn’t speak, the look in her eyes said everything. Help me, she articulated. Please help me.
It was a look that ripped at the shreds of our hearts, an urgent message of misery we could no longer ignore. We needed to find a vet, emergency hours or not, and it had to be now. I could curse myself later, but now I had to initiate a solution, the one I had ignored for much of the past week. Susan was readily in agreement.
Thankfully – and I do give thanks for this one piece of cold comfort – the attendant small animal clinic of Michigan State University was only 10 minutes away and fully staffed for just such a situation. We were in the car and on the way within a matter of moments (forgetting even to remove my retainer in a rush for the car keys).
Within five minutes we were checked in and awaiting the duty vet’s consultation, our Ruthie showing few signs of her immediate discomfort but agitated all the same (she hates the vet’s and can recognize one straight away). We knew what we had to say to the vet, but it’s the message that all dog owners fear to deliver. Should we or shouldn’t we? Are we reading the signs right? Do we ask the vet to take her life? Do we make The Decision?
The vet was calm and understanding personified. More medications might help, she said, but the fact the previous pain meds hadn’t worked was a clear sign that we had probably passed the point of no return. If that’s what we saw and thought, she would support our decision. We would euthanize.
Now comes the point where it’s hard even to type, let alone talk about it. I had gone through this routine with another dog, some 30 years previous, and it had been a terrible moment, a heart-crushing resolution. This was worse. Much worse. Were we, truly, correct in what we were seeing? Most of the symptoms Ruthie had been displaying had flickered off. There was no clear sign of what we had witnessed just half an hour earlier. Were we sure?
The vet then gave us the one, vital, piece of the puzzle we had been lacking. The laryngeal paralysis was primarily a nerve condition, she explained, and it affected both her breathing and her spine/hip issues, which accounted for the uncontrolled twitching and muscular spasms which made it look like she was trying to run away from her own body. This was the symptom that most alarmed us and which had brought us to the emergency moment.
And then there was The Look. The one that said ‘Help me’ in no uncertain terms. In this final, fateful moment, we had to decide that ‘help’ meant ending her life, not prolonging it. That level of distress was desperately real and desperately unavoidable. The Decision had to be acted upon.
While Susan and I were led to a “comfort” room where we could be with our pet for her final moments, Ruthie was led away to be prepped for the process. There, on a soft blanket printed with cuddly pandas, we communed with our pet. Petting and patting, stroking and soothing, we said our silent goodbye.
And then she licked my face.
Ruthie never licked us. That had never been part of her – many – charms. She could be affectionate in her own way, a kind of stand-offish sociability that never broke out into open affability. We called her The Moody Intellectual for this notable demeanor, a character trait we had grown to love and admire, and which, somehow, perfectly suited our relationship; a partnership in exploration and adventure.
Now she was indisputably saying goodbye with a gesture of pure love and affection that totally melted my heart and remains my abiding memory of a household pet that totally crossed the line from “just a dog” to a genuine family member, a being of real humanity. In the finality of her life, she simply laid down between us and let the life force leave her body, finally at peace with the awful condition that brought us to this terrible fate.
And that’s why I can’t even start to form the words about it without dissolving into more tears and inarticulate sobs – deep, racking sobs – that are my only defense against that terrible decision to take another creature’s life, whatever the evidence to justify it.
Fortunately, we have many, many friends and family members who have rallied around at our distress with an outpouring of love and understanding.
To them, I say a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, along with this (long) message of explanation why I can’t just talk about it. From The Look to The Lick, I was fortunate to have known our Ruthie, but that feeling of having a hole torn in my heart will be a long time in passing.
The journey itself might be over, and our “A Year On The Road” RV adventure is officially in the books, but you can still catch up with all the excitement and intrigue on our YouTube channel, which now has almost 100 snapshot videos of different aspects of the trip in the bag.
From Pictured Rocks National Seashore in Michigan to Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon, plus dozens of fascinating places and experiences in between, this is our chance to wow you with the visuals of this epic RV journey across 23 states.
Our latest contribution is all about those elusive Javelinas in Texas, but you’ll also find recent videos that highlight the vibrant Historic Market Square in San Antonio, Big Bend National Park and a stunning tequila sunset in New Mexico.
Check it all out on this link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCP5dY0TcznDGkOY8BQUkpQg
Back in Orlando again, it’s time to tot up the final mileage and trace our entire route (in 2 maps) around the US. We reached West Glacier, Montana, at our furthest distance from Orlando at almost 2,700 miles away, albeit we reached there via a distinctly circuitous route that involved fully 12 states!
The “return journey” from there was also far from a straight line, taking in another 10 states before completing what was essentially a giant circle of the Midwest, the North, South West and Southern states. For much of the last 5 months we were close to the Gulf of Mexico before coming back into Florida via Pensacola and the Panhandle area, where we were definitely able to relax a bit (albeit keeping more than one eye on staying out of the way of some seriously stormy weather).
So, with no further ado and a bit of a fanfare – “Ta RA!!!!!” – our final mileage comes to, wait for it…35,186 miles since we left home on May 14, 2023. In our RV, Fati, we traveled a total distance of 9,846 miles, while in our trusty little Ford Fiesta, Nippy, we added a whopping additional 25,840.
Somehow, we’re all still in one piece, albeit Fati has been in for several repairs and 2 full services, while Nippy is heading for a fourth service today and has needed new tires, windshield wipers and two air filters (!). Needless to say, we are immensely proud of our Ford-engined Winnebago RV, as well as our little Fiesta, and they both now deserve a good rest.
Will we have more travels to report anytime soon? The debate is now on at Chez Veness! We DO have a fair bit of work to catch up on first, but there is already talk of an East Coast RV tour, as well as a possible trip out West to the areas we missed this time, namely Washington, Oregon and Northern California, as well as more of Colorado.
So, stay tuned for further travel bulletins, and, if you have liked and enjoyed our blogs, please leave us a comment and be sure to check out our YouTube channel for a series of snapshot videos of the trip on this link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCP5dY0TcznDGkOY8BQUkpQg
Bye for now…!
Today marks one full year (plus two days) since we locked the door to our house in Florida for a year-long adventure in an RV. Here’s what we learned during the past month:
Humidity = sweat, and when you’re covered in sweat for three days because you don’t have sewer hookups so you can’t dump a gray tank full of shower water, air conditioning cannot penetrate the sweaty build-up. When you do have full hookups again and you take a shower, that layer of pure, unadulterated evil is wiped away, and you are once again kissed by the cooling breath of your sweet, sweet A/C. This is what bliss is made of.
But you’re in Florida now, so that feeling doesn’t last long.
At 50 weeks into a 52-week trip, Simon JUST discovered his laptop has a built-in editing program. All those videos he’s done that could use editing, but our expensive editing program is back on his computer at home? They could have been glorious viewing comparable to the stuff of Spielberg and Scorsese.
To be fair, he’s only had the laptop for a few months, but still.
We prefer not to be camped near unhappy tiny-humans who wile away their entire three-day vacation screaming things like, “I don’t WANT the sand washed off my feet!” and “I don’t WANT to go inside now!” Usually,we love kids. Adore them, even. We have discovered, however, we always love 55+ campgrounds where the only whines are spelled “wine,” and it’s a pleasure to hear your neighbors suggest you join them for some.
When you hit I-75, an interstate you know so well you could drive it blind, tears will flow. When you remember your final four days of this grand, exciting, confounding, eye-opening adventure will be spent at Walt Disney World’s Fort Wilderness Campground, happiness will be restored.
We’ve learned we could happily live in the mountains if not for the snow. We could happily live in the desert if not for the sand storms. We would be thrilled to live along the Gulf coast if not for the hurricanes. There is so much we love about each state we’ve visited, but always there is “one thing” that doesn’t make them a strong contender for a move away from Florida. Florida has that “one thing” (two really; horrible humidity and…well…politics) that makes us want to move. Everything else – literally everything else – makes us want to stay. And we didn’t know that before this month, and this trip.
It’s true. Home is where the heart is. Over the course of a year, we came to feel that Fati is our home, and everywhere we have visited now holds a special place in our hearts. Connection, appreciation of differences, and a deeper understanding of yourself; these are the priceless gift of travel. We will treasure these lessons forever.
Thank you for making this journey with us!
There are times when getting from Point A to Point B is a functional undertaking, and the Interstate gets you there quickly. Then there are times when the scenery is so appealing, the slow roll along a small road is worth the effort. Our trip from Waveland to Biloxi was one such drive, and we ended up taking the road less traveled three times during our stay, twice with great pleasure and once as a torturous, screaming nightmare.
Highway 90, our old friend from previous drives, gave us a non-stop view of the Gulf of Mexico as we made our way to Biloxi in Fati, and, for a change, we planned ahead and had sandwiches ready for a beachside lunch.
With our windows open and a glorious sea-salt breeze blowing through the rig, we soaked up the bliss even as we ruled the Gulf coast out as a place we could live. One thing we’d hoped to discover during our Year on the Road was a place we could be happy settling down when we’re ready to leave Florida. We’d come so close a few times, but hadn’t yet found just the right fit.
Biloxi Bay RV Resort and Marina was certainly the right fit for the next week, situated right on the bay, with mature pine trees that give it the feel of a genuine “camping” experience. There’s something about pine trees that makes a campground feel…I dunno…cozy, I guess.
Our first day trip took us out to Davis Bayou for a hike along the trails, and while the man at the Visitor Center recommended two trails we could take Ruthie on, they proved to be hard going and didn’t lead to a big pay-off at the end (like a lake, or some other scenic “Wow!”).
As we were heading out of the park in Nippy after our walk, we detoured down a small road just beyond the Visitor Center and found a big inlet with kayakers and boats and guys fishing with rods and with nets, and a Blue Heron named Reggie. Score!
We chatted with the fishermen about their catches, how long they’d been fishing the inlet (forever), and any dining we shouldn’t miss while we were in the area. One of them mentioned TatoNuts, and the exchange between him and his cousin went like this:
Him: TatoNuts has the best donuts. They’re like no other donuts.
Cousin: That’s because they’re made with potatoes.
Him: No, they’re not.
Cousin: Yes, they are. That’s why they’re TatoNuts. It’s the “tato” part of TatoNuts.
So, of course, we got some. The line to get in was out the door, and while only a few of their donuts were made with ‘tatoes, we couldn’t taste the ‘tato in the nuts we bought, but still agreed they were yummy, made even better by the fact the owners seem to be Disney fans, if the photos on the wall were anything to go by.
We spent the next day at home, eager to see the event the whole country was talking about. We were forecast to have an 89% solar eclipse view, with just 3% cloud cover. What we got was a zero percent view with 100% cloud cover and pouring-down rain.
But it didn’t dampen our spirits. We turned on the TV and watched the coverage from all over the country, and were thrilled each time a massive cheer went up from those who did get a great view. We take our joy where we can find it!
But the weather wasn’t done with us yet. A massive, dangerous storm was rolling our way, with a forecast of tornadoes, golf-ball sized hail, and wind gusts up to 40 miles per hour or more. We’ve ridden out big storms before, but with the threat of flooding and tornadoes, we made a snap decision to get out of harm’s way, which was 300 miles and two states east, in Tallahassee, Florida.
The extent of the storm’s reach meant we couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough in Fati. We’ve already described on our Facebook page the awfulness of leaving her – our home and our friend – so I won’t go over it again. We spent two nights in a hotel, got sandwiches and salads at Buc-Ee’s twice, and the reunion with Fati was sweet when we returned and found her totally undamaged.
The next day dawned bright, so we visited Mississippi State Sandhill Crane Wildlife Preserve and did a one-mile hike. We didn’t see any Sandhill Cranes, but we have them in our yard in Orlando, so it wasn’t a loss. We did see tiny Spring flowers starting to bloom, and were reminded of the start of this big adventure, when those same flowers were our roadside companions.
As we drove back along Highway 90 toward Biloxi, the eastbound lane was funneled down to one lane with traffic cones, and every turn-off for several miles was blocked by police cars and barriers. Police and sheriffs from neighboring towns drove up and down the cordoned-off lanes. No one was getting off that road, and traffic was slowed to a crawl or less. What in the living hell was going on?
Our hour-long conversation progressed along the lines of A) This looks like they’re trying to find someone. Human trafficking, maybe? Or drug dealers? B) Is there a terrible accident ahead? Can’t be that, since the traffic cones and barriers were set up well in advance, and there are miles of it. C) Is this…an event? Why all the firetrucks and ambulances and police? Maybe a protest? What day is this? It is an anniversary of some terrible thing? D) It’s got to be a protest of some kind. Every single person we’ve seen for miles has been Black, and roughly the same age. What the hell has Biloxi done to them?
It was none of that. When we returned to Fati and looked it up on the news, we discovered it was Black Spring Break. Black Spring Break (a.k.a. Black Beach) draws Black college students from all over Mississippi to the Gulfport/Biloxi area, for the chance to have a fabulous few days of fun while also remembering the state’s dark days of segregation, and subsequent desegregation of Harrison County’s beaches spurred by the 1959-1963 “wade-ins” that took place right where Black Spring Break unfolded in front of us.
Why the massive amount of law enforcement and emergency medical services? In 2023, a shooter injured five people during the event, including a police officer. This year was not going to see a repeat of that violence. What we saw was thousands of college kids enjoying a gorgeous day at the beach. And while the roadblocks slowed us down immensely, we were thrilled to have seen it once we knew what it was, and what it meant.
During the rest of our stay in Biloxi, we poodled around with no particular plan, other than paying a visit to the local institution where everyone goes for barbeque, even though it’s freaky and jam-packed and it looks like it hasn’t had a good clean since Hector was a pup. Longer, even. Like, maybe, never.
The Shed is the sort of place Susan doesn’t even want to drive past. The kind of place where the likelihood of food poisoning appears to be high. But travel makes people brave, so in we went.
We were the only ones wearing masks (of course we were!), so we got suspicious looks, but who were these people to judge us? They stuck dollar bills to the ceiling with plastic forks, and most of the floor inside is just gravel, so nuh-uh! They don’t get to judge!
We split half of a Combo Platter of smoked turkey, bbq ribs, sweet potato casserole, and collard greens (with the odd but apparently obligatory slices of thick white bread on the side), and saved the rest for later. Every single bit was fantastic. Fall-off-the-bone ribs, moist and meaty turkey, the kind of sweet potato deliciousness you wish you could recreate at home, and collard greens that make your eyes roll back in your head and your mouth make “yummy” sounds.
It was all going so well until an employee brought out the bread pudding Simon forgot to grab at the pick-up window, and when we said how scrummy it all was, she said, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never eaten here.”
It’s not what you want to hear when you’re sitting at a restaurant that appears not to put the slightest emphasis on hygiene, but since the number of days it takes to suffer from food poisoning has already passed as I type this, I’m just going to say she’s really missing out.
We’ve had several questions from readers about our trip, this lifestyle, and more, so we’ve put together a little FAQ, in case you’ve been wondering.
I love Ruthie! What’s her story?
We wanted to bring an older rescue dog into our family to give him or her the best final years possible, and Houndhaven had just the right girl for us. It was taking some time for her to get adopted, partly because, according to a Houndhaven volunteer, she “didn’t show well,” (she’s was not overly affectionate to people she didn’t know, at least to start with) but she fit into our family right from the start.
She went through a period of extreme illness shortly after we got her, and during the process of trying to figure out what was going on, the specialist vet told us she appeared to be between the ages of seven and nine, which puts her between 16 and 18 now (we’re pretty sure she’s 16; there’s no way she’s 18). She’s 60% a sweetheart, 30% moody intellectual, 10% diva, and she makes us laugh a lot. Mostly.
Why are you doing a year on the road in an RV?
We’re at an age where, if we don’t see this wonderful country now, we’re not likely to ever see it. We’ve done most of Europe, we’ve been to Africa and South America, and while Asia and other locations are on our list, now was the time for the U.S.
We’ve also spent a lot of time on “other people’s schedule” for our work and in our personal lives, so this was a chance to decide where we wanted to go, when, and for how long.
How can you stand being together all the time in such a small space?
We’re used to it, and we thrive on it. We’re one of those couples who loves being together, and we feel “half-alive” when we’re apart. We have our moments, but they’re rare, and they’re moments. Not only do we love each other, we’re also best friends. It’s a pretty good combination.
How did you come up with those ridiculous names for your vehicles?
It’s a gift! Well, maybe not a gift, but the names did just come to us. Our RV got her name before we bought her, when we were talking about names other RVers have given their rigs, and Susan mentioned a couple and their young son who are doing 15 years traveling around the world in a small jeep they named Dauntless (check them out on YouTube under Hourless Life. They’re incredible!). Simon said, “Let’s call ours Indefatigable.” Susan said, “Yes! And we can call her Fati for short! Hahahahaha!” Perfection, isn’t it?
Nippy got her name when our next-door neighbors in Florida were telling us how much they liked their Ford Fiesta. They named theirs Zippy, and when we bought ours (because our Mazda can’t be flat-towed, and that was important to us), we named her Nippy in their honor. The comedic value of that moniker has been priceless (at least for us; we think we’re hilarious).
How do you choose where you’re going?
We had a “blue sky” itinerary when we started, the result of about four years of research. It covered most of the major highlights west of Florida and Michigan, such as National Parks, scenic spots, oddities, and fabulous cities. Part of our goal was to see how people really live across the country, and part was just to immerse in the areas we were traveling, to see what made them special.
We knew our blue-sky itinerary would change at some point, and when it did, we dropped Oregon and Washington and re-considered how we’d visit California. We referenced the original itinerary document, and re-worked that itinerary to keep the rest of the highlights we didn’t want to miss.
We also agreed at the start of this journey that, if either of us doesn’t want to do something, we won’t do it, no excuses or arguments needed. There is no pressure on either of us to be uncomfortable. Simon was happy to do Going-To-The-Sun Road on his own, and Susan was happy to let him do it alone. We skipped a place Susan really wanted to see because Simon wasn’t comfortable with the gravel road in Nippy. We did Chief Joseph Scenic Byway as a compromise for Simon’s desire to do Beartooth Highway and Susan’s desire not to do it. So far, we’ve found ways to work it out.
What’s it like to drive that big RV?
Simon says: It’s a challenging proposition, especially towing a car. We felt it was essential to take RV driving lessons right after we bought Fati, even though it’s not strictly necessary. You have to maintain 100% concentration at all times, but the view you get from the cab driving through the sites we’re seeing is just superlative. It’s not the most maneuverable vehicle you’ll ever drive, but, on the highway, it drives really well, and you just need to be aware not to get yourself into any places you can’t get out of, gas stations being the biggest case in point. If you aren’t positive about the route out, don’t go in.
What’s it like being a passenger in that big RV?
Susan says: Honestly? It can be magnificent and it can be terrifying. As the passenger, I have no steering wheel, no brakes, and zero control. My job is to be the co-pilot, and there are certainly times when those co-pilot eyes have been extremely useful. I keep constant watch on the GPS info and warnings, on the tire pressure monitoring system, and on Nippy, who I can see on our rear-view camera, and I report them to Simon. That leaves him free to concentrate solely on the road. We both watch the road conditions, such as rises, descents, and camber, like hawks. Simon has the final say in where he’s comfortable driving and turning around, and I have a say on the smaller things, like “Slow the hell down,” and “Keep her between the lines!” But, ultimately, how the rig is driven is totally his call.
How do you do the basics, like laundry, getting prescriptions, and getting your mail?
Laundry is relatively easy. We have a washer/dryer combo in the rig, and for heavy things like rugs and Ruthie’s bedding, we use campground laundry facilities.
Our prescriptions are through Walgreens, so we call our refills in at the closest one to our location. It’s proven difficult at times, since it has to be done quite a while in advance, and sometimes the refill order doesn’t get confirmed by the doctor until after we’ve left an area, or, in the most recent example, the pharmacist was “overwhelmed” and couldn’t “review it” (whatever the hell that means) even though he’d already filled it, it was just cholesterol medication, and all they had to do was hand it to us. We left town before he could be bothered to “review it.” It then took two weeks to be in a place long enough to call it in to another Walgreens and have a chance of getting it filled.
Ruthie’s medications are even more difficult. Sometimes it takes weeks to find a vet or a pet store that will honor her vet’s refill prescriptions. Thank goodness we discovered Costco pharmacy carries some pet meds!
Young Son deals with all our mail, but there are mail services full-time RVers use, too. We just didn’t need to go that route.
What is this “Wallydocking” you speak of?
It’s when you “boondock” (park your RV overnight on wherever land you can find that’s legal to park on), but in a Walmart parking lot. Entertainment value? Priceless!
Why are some of the photos in your blogs so wonky?
If we knew, we’d fix them! We do know the photos are formatted differently by WordPress, depending on whether you reach the blog from a link on Facebook, or have the blog delivered directly to your email (by being a subscriber, which we highly recommend), or by going directly to our website. We can only apologize!
Your trip is almost over. Are you going to keep going?
Yes! We’re both ready for a break, but we love this kind of travel so much, we’re going to find a way to keep doing it. But for a few months at a time rather than a full year!
Have a question for us? Leave it in the Comments and we’ll do our best to give you an answer!
As keen-eyed blog readers will know, we have just hit the 11 month mark in our grand “A Year On The Road” RV trek across the US. After Louisiana, we arrived in coastal Mississippi, our 23rd state in this epic voyage.
Since our last monthly update, we have covered another 181 miles – a totally sedate travel distance at this stage of our journey (especially when we covered more than 2,200 in the first month!).
In the last month we have moved from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to Biloxi, Mississippi, and our traveling has been a lot more focused on the areas close by, rather than trying to cover vast distances quickly. Even including the last two months, we have only gone a total of 672 miles in our trusty Winnebago, Indefatigable (or Fati for short).
Mind you, we have still covered some territory in our trusty tow car, Nippy, putting an additional 2,534 miles on our little Ford Fiesta (and 3,991 in the past two months), which shows that we’ve completely changed the balance of our touring – going shorter distances in Fati but doing more exploration in Nippy.
Now, with just a month left of our travels (but still more than 550 miles from home), it definitely feels like the end of our grand adventure is firmly in sight, which is very hard to contemplate after such a prolonged – and intense – period of traveling.
In total, we have come 9,225 miles in Fati since leaving home, and another 24,604 in Nippy, for a grand total of 33,829 around this amazing country. Eat your heart out, Hardest Geezer!
Today marks eleven months since we locked the door to our house in Florida and set off for a year-long adventure in an RV. Here’s what we learned during the past month:
When you’re crouched down in front of the outdoor water spigot getting ready to do your final hand-wash, make sure you know whether the lever goes up or down to turn it on. If you get that wrong, you’re going to walk away with your shoes, your T-shirt, and the crotch of your jeans soaking wet. It’s way worse, too, when your neighbors are out there watching you.
There are times when the weather is forecast to be so dangerous that your only smart choice is to bug out and stay in a hotel until the threat passes. Sometimes, that means driving 300 miles to get past the storm’s reach, which is too far to get an RV out of the way in time. When that happens, you’ll get all teary as you say goodbye – out loud – to your rig, and assure her you’ll be back. It’s truly like leaving a friend, and you’ll worry about her until you get back and know she’s okay. It’s an awful feeling.
When you’re staying in that hotel overnight to ride out the storm in safety, don’t freak out the first time you turn on a water faucet. You haven’t seen that much water come out of a faucet for a long, long time, and it’ll look and sound like a fire hose in action. Remind yourself this is normal.
When you return to your rig after the storm passes, and you find she’s okay, there is a sense of euphoria that reminds you how precious your traveling home and this lifestyle really are.
PJ’s Coffee. Specifically, their Strawberry Rose White Chocolate Latte. This is what coffee should be, and from this moment on Starbucks should be ashamed of themselves.
There are towns where some roads are called “historic,” but what it really means is, the road itself is history. Drive it at your peril.
If there’s a beach road you can take instead of an interstate, and your GPS doesn’t have an almighty conniption about some terrible fate that will befall you if you take it, take it (we’re looking at you, glorious Highway 90 between Waveland and Biloxi!).
We’ve reached the point in our adventure where our Florida license plate isn’t the furthest state away. It feels weird and sad and just a little bit exciting to realize we’re getting so close to home.
Equally, it is impossible to believe we have one month left in this incredible journey. How? How is that possible? (Insert loud crying here.)
The moment may come when you meet brand-new RVers who are trying to find their way back to sanity, having endured one setback after another. Now is your moment. You’ve been there, you understand, you got through it, and you can talk them off the ledge and assure them it’s normal and it’s going to get so much better. Your reward is the relief on their faces. Their reward is, they don’t feel so alone anymore. How perfect is that?
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