When this sort of thing happens to humans, any decent person would be outraged. But when it happens to animals, even supremely intelligent ones like the Scarlet Macaw, we don’t seem to bat an eyelid. Is this morally consistent?

I’ll conclude the story of the two fledglings in a minute, but it's pretty fair to say that this story did not make the front page of any newspaper or make a meaningful dent in the algorithm. There is simply too much going on. The world seems particularly violent lately. The news hard to watch. Cluster bombs were dropped on an elderly couple’s home in Israel, who were unable to get to the shelter on time, murdering them as they slept. Tomahawk missiles were launched at girls’ schools in Iran, murdering children as they studied. Social media platforms are being prosecuted (finally) for harming children. The list goes on and on. It’s hard to make sense of it all.

And as we continued our journey with our kids in the seemingly distant planet of the Costa Rican jungle, I tried to. I began thinking about these news events, prologues for the stories that defined my professional life for decades. My past life as a war correspondent covering the Middle East, on the face of it, draws a sharp contrast with what I’m doing now with my family in Earth Parade. In terms of personal safety, there is no doubt that I’m far safer in the jungles of Costa Rica, surrounded by jaguars, caiman, and pit vipers, than I was in the Middle East, surrounded by rockets, gunfire, and terrorists.

But upon reflection, I’ve come to understand that there is an overarching theme that spans both of these seemingly disparate chapters of my life, one that concerns a value I hold dear to my heart. It’s the idea of “sanctifying life”. It is why I needed to observe the Middle East up close, and why my family and I chose to visit the less newsworthy frontline between “civilization” and the wild.

Pay attention to the world around you. Are decisionmakers harming or sanctifying life, whether it’s human, flora, or fauna? Are your own personal decisions harming or sanctifying life? I’ve found these questions to be a very simple and useful ethical framework to carry with me as I try to make sense of a complex world. Is the invasion of Iran harming or sanctifying life? Is the proposed Port Everglades expansion harming or sanctifying life? Is abortion harming or sanctifying life? The answers are not always simple.

But I’ve come to realize in life that asking the right questions is more important than knowing all the answers. And while my family and I have been navigating so much personal uncertainty, I take some comfort in the knowledge that, despite the terrain being different, my most fundamental set of questions hasn’t changed much. We shlep our family to jungles, rainforests, and ocean passages to learn about and I take some solace in the fact that I’m asking the same question I’ve been asking since I started my career in journalism in Gaza 21 years ago.

The question touches on an ancient ethic, dating back 3,000 years, central to the moral and spiritual teachings of Hinduism, Jainism, and Buddhism, that teaches compassion, respect, and reverence for all life forms through the concept of Ahimsa. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, only humans are made in the image of God, but I was taught in my yeshiva that animals and plants are also part of God’s creation. Noah famously saved them 2 by 2 in his ark. And I always found it particularly godly that animals were supposed to rest on the Sabbath, too.

So when it comes to wiping out thousands of acres of primary rainforest for agriculture or development, how is it that we have strayed so far from this basic ethic? Yes, some humans gain wealth or greater access to food, but in the long run, we’ve seen that, aside from the moral question, destroying the countless lives and resources embedded in just one acre of primary rainforest is a net loss. Development and farming can happen elsewhere, but if we decimate these hubs of life, it’s very difficult to get back, and the losses are profound, sometimes eternalEarthre is possibly no more vivid example than one of the most strikingly beautiful and recognizable creatures on Earth. A bird known for its radiant color and intelligence. A flamboyant, raucous, and too noisy for their own good type. We all know one of them :).

The species I’m referring to is, of course, none other than the Scarlet macaw (Ara macao). When I learned that human beings nearly wipeEarth this iconic species throughout its endemic range in Central America, I realized that there is no species on earth that is truly safe, including our own.

Take a look at the map below, which illustrates how the illegal pet trade, along with development, led to the near extinction of these majestic birds in Costa Rica, where they remain vulnerable to this day. The map above shows their range roughly 100 years ago, and the map below shows their far more limited range today.

On the less scarlet map below, you can see that the still-red peninsula jutting out from the mainland. This is the Osa Peninsula which contains Costa Rica’s largest national park, Corcovado. Had they not conserved this territory in the 1980’s, there is a good chance these birds would have vanished from Costa Rica. In many other parts of Central America, including Southern Mexico and Northern Guatemala, where the two bald hathclings came from, they were nearly wiped out entirely.

How did this happen?

Poverty and lack of protection in resource-rich areas will always lead to a tragedy of the commons. Because of their dashing looks, intelligence, and the fact that they can live for 75 years, a single chick can fetch up to 15,000 dollars for the final purchase of one by a pet owner, often enabled by social media, in Europe or North America. They are among the most expensive birds in the $20B illegal wildlife trade.

And tragically, they are relatively simple to track. Despite their radiant looks, it’s often their noises that give them away. They make this terrifyingly loud “RAAAAK”! sound designed to keep them in contact with their mates over long distances as they fly through the rainforest. It’s unmistakable. They can be heard from kilometers away. If you hear the sound, look up, and you may see a pair of them flying together like a double streak of red light across the sky.

But what was an advantage for scarlet macaws’ survival became a disadvantage in the 20th century, as agricultural and development projects took over more and more primary rainforests in Central America. Due to their general noisiness and bright colors, and their propensity for nesting in the same large, old Mountain Almond (dipteryx panamensis) trees every year, scarlet macaw nests became easy targets for poachers, who were able to command high prices for chicks, often hundreds of dollars each for the local poacher who transacts with middle men who have access to trading networks and can smuggle them abroad.

Costa Rica is fortunately doing better than its Central American neighbors in this regard. The strong eco-tourism industry keeps land protection strong and smuggling operations mostly out of business. The number of scarlet macaws appears to be rebounding in the Pacific side of Costa Rica. ornithologists in La Cangreja national park counted 2121 macaws in 2023, up from prior years. Their range has expanded since the 1990’s when they feared local extinction.

If you go close to the Osa peninsula, or spend some time on the beaches near Ojochal, there is a decent chance you will see them, or hear them at some point. We managed to see them in flight several times, but they’re gone in an instant like parallel sqwaking red laser beams streaking across the blue sky.

We were so fortunate to have one special encounter in which we got to observe them up close for a while, watching them feast and interact with each other. It was New Year's Eve, and we had just come back from a ziplining trip with some friends who were visiting from out of town. We were stuck in traffic after a big truck was immobilized and blocking the one lane on a bridge on the coastal highway just outside of the Osa. I put the windows down to let in some fresh air and my kids heard them first. You usually hear them before you see them. They sound like the raptors in Jurassic Park. “Look, Dad, Macaws!,” they screamed.

Sure enough, there were four of them in a single tree, two couples on a double date, eating the wild figs of the ficus tree. Nobody else stopped to notice them, but we sure did. We were so lucky to be stuck in traffic right next to the tree, so I gave my kids my iphone to start snapping photos from the backseat passenger side of the car. It was the best traffic jam of our lives, and we didn’t want it to end. We got to observe them for a full 15 minutes until the road cleared. We observed their neck strength and acrobatics, how they use their beaks to climb and crack things open. Their loud vocalizations. Their playfulness. Their personalities. Their brain power. And their wild color palette up close.

Seeing these four macaws doing their thing lifted our spirits and gave us tremendous hope for their future in Costa Rica. And I couldn’t help but think back to a book I read in high school, which I tried to recall and summarize in an age appropriate way for my kids on the way back. For you American Literature nerds out there, or just the slackers who read the cliff notes of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s famed 18th century novel (not saying im guilty) to pass Engligh class in high school, I’m referring of course to “The Scarlet Letter.” In the same way that the novel The Scarlet Letter came to critique the dominant Puritan morality of its time, my hope is that these birds will become a modern day scarlet symbol, raising questions about the dangers of neo-liberalism run amok. If anything can be gained from their near extinction here, may it be that we remember to ask ourselves the critical question of our time. Do our actions harm or sanctify life?

So what happened to those two devilishly cute hatchlings you may be wondering in the photo at the top? These two chicks were very, very lucky. Guatemalan officials somehow managed to rescue 19 scarlet macaws, including that featherless duo, from poachers and cared for the them until they were ready to be released them back into the wild. Watch the video below. It will be the best thing you watch this week.

Ok, deep breath, here goes.

I was 16 years old on an upcoast surf trip with two buddies over spring break in South Florida (Yes, I know another regrettable Florida spring break story, quite the cliche). We had all just gotten our driver’s licenses and were still very much excited just to be driving anywhere. After a disappointing surf session near Fort Pierce, we were headed back to Miami in my friend’s brand-new, army-green 4X4 SUV. I’m not a car person, but I’m pretty sure it was a Mitsubishi Montero. At some point while driving south on A1A, near one of West Palm Beach’s wealthier areas, I took over the wheel from my friend. I’m not sure why we switched drivers. It’s highly possible that I convinced my friend, or that he got tired. I do remember him being asleep in the back when I made the unilateral decision to test out this new truck’s capabilities by driving it through the backyard of some coastal mansion, straight onto the beach.

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I don’t remember seeing any signs warning against trespassing. I do remember my friends being very excited and slightly terrified as I carved figure eights in the moist sand at high speed, switching back and forth between two- and Four Wheel Drive and flirting dangerously with the incoming shore break, only to turn away at the last second. After a very brief and exhilarating joyride, I got the SUV stuck worse than I’ve ever gotten a car stuck in my lifetime. All 4 tires were suddenly and unceremoniously buried deeply in the softest, hottest possible Florida sand.

We looked for a 2x4 piece of wood or anything that could serve as a plank to miraculously catch the tread on the tires and pull us out, but there was nothing in sight. We considered using our surfboards, and maybe in hindsight we should have tried that. Instead, we kept trying to throw it in reverse and then forward again. The goal was to get some traction, but in fact, we were digging out more sand, achieving the exact opposite. We managed to bury the tires completely in the sand. The car’s chassis rested flush on the sand like a sunbather. To make matters much, much worse, the tide was coming in.

Someone must have seen a few young long-haired maniacs driving on the beach and reported us. I recall a policeman trudging a great distance over difficult terrain. I wasn’t sure if we were about to be rescued or arrested. He trudged awkwardly down some dunes and tall grasses, in the blazing Florida sun during the vernal equinox. I don’t remember much of the interaction, but I do remember he was equal parts pissed off and perplexed. He subsequently informed us that this was a turtle hatchery and that driving here was strictly prohibited.

I remember my heart sinking a bit when I heard that news. But this was a fight-or-flight moment, not the moment to sulk. As teenagers, our primary goal was not to get in trouble with our parents, which I believe is why my friend claimed to be the driver in the police report. He thought his parents would be more upset that he let me drive his car than potential criminal or civil charges. After some time, we couldn’t help but notice that the tide was indeed rising, and no tow vehicle could physically get us out. Because there was no road in, or possibly because of turtle nests, we had to bring in a specialized helicopter to tow my friend’s SUV out. Yes, you read that correctly. We would somehow need to airlift the SUV out of there. After the police man wrote up the report, he said that we had better disappear or he’d take us to jail. So we grabbed our surfboards and hiked to the main road. We found someone to help us call a taxi, since this was the pre-cellphone era. It was a long, nervous, and expensive taxi ride.

I will get to the crazy conclusion of this story in a minute, but first, I want to discuss the lessons from this adolescent misadventure.

Lesson 1: For the lucky among us, life is long. It’s highly possible that in one lifetime, a person can go from potentially mass murdering sea turtles to forming a deep desire to protect them. Maturation and change can and certainly should happen as boys become men.

Lesson 2: As a father now to some wild young kiddos who, for better or worse, share my genetics, I’m often tempted to scold them for pushing the envelope or taking unnecessary risks. Remembering stories like this from my own childhood helps calibrate my response.

Lesson 3: Kids will always try to go past the “No trespassing” sign. Pushing the limits is normal and healthy, and in fact, how they learn. It’s our job as parents to be vigilant and notice, and instead of getting angry about their innate curiosities, explain the risks as calmly as possible. And sometimes, when appropriate, walk them to the edge of danger so they can see for themselves why a certain boundary exists. Showing is more powerful didactically than telling.

Lesson 4: As you try to grow into the best possible version of yourself, think back to the greatest mistakes or challenges you’ve had in your life. I don’t know and will never know if we hurt any sea turtles that day, but what is certain is that I never thought about sea turtles the same way ever again. Your new purpose or mission can sometimes be embedded deeply in them. It does feel like the opportunity for karmic correction or trauma resolution is an inherent human desire. Or possibly there is a puppetmaster in the sky providing symbols and themes that serve as clues or breadcrumbs to help us navigate our own unique spiritual journey. My personal application for this lesson is that whenever there is an opportunity to help or raise awareness for sea turtles, I seize it with gusto.

Lesson 5: Don’t drive on a barren, sandy beach during low tide unless you have some planks lying around!

As I think back on this episode, I do now have some solace in the fact that it was March and likely too early for Loggerhead and Green Sea turtles to lay their nests. And even if I did inadvertently drive over an active nest, Florida’s sea turtle populations have increased over the last 50 years. In fact, Florida rookeries boasted a new state record in 2023, with more than 70,000 unique green sea turtle nests counted on Florida beaches.

In even better news, possibly one of the most positive conservation news stories ever, which the news media has buried like a turtle egg, thanks to conservation efforts worldwide, the green sea turtle (Chelonia mydas) has rebounded to the point that it has recently been upgraded from Endangered to Least Concern status by the IUCN, with a reported 28% growth since the 70’s. It’s because of their protected status and the efforts of so many people around the world that this amazing and ancient species is making a comeback. It’s a huge and rare win for planet Earth.

Unfortunately, many other turtle species remain vulnerable, including the Olive Ridley sea turtle (Lepidochelys olivacea), which is actually the most abundant sea turtle in the ocean. But because they concentrate in certain typically poorer countries (like Mexico, Costa Rica, and India), with their mass nesting events called Arribadas (Spanish for “arrivals”), they are more vulnerable and have faced precipitous declines. Olive ridleys were once common in Myanmar, Thailand, and Peninsular Malaysia. Still, decades of intensive egg harvesting have reduced, and in some cases tragically, depleted populations in these countries. The main risks to them are bycatch from longlines and gillnets, poaching, and egg harvesting. Secondary risk factors include habitat loss, marine pollution, and climate change.

Here in Costa Rica, the Olive Ridley is protected and is doing ok relative to the 70’s. That said, hunting and egg poaching do still exist. The Ostional wildlife refuge was established in 1984 on the Nicoya Peninsula to protect turtles. As a result, the numbers have rebounded to over 1 million nests, making it the largest arribada in the world. In a controversial practice, Costa Rican authorities allow locals to harvest eggs from some early nests because they are likely to be trampled by subsequent nests. This place is fairly regulated, but in less monitored areas, egg harvesting is difficult to monitor. And in certain beaches like Playa Nancite, we’ve seen a massive population decline of roughly 90% since the 1970’s

We were happy to learn that fantastic NGO’s like the Reserva Playa Tortuga, here in the South Pacific coast of Costa Rica near Ojochal, are protecting and monitoring olive ridley nests. When they called us to invite us to see these vulnerable Olive Ridley sea turtle hatchlings off to a new life at sea, we jumped on the opportunity. We drove an hour from our rental property to the beach just as the sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean. Whenever we have an encounter in the wild, we don’t expect actually to get physical with the creatures. Still, as you’ll see in the photos (and in the video we hope to edit and post soon), the baby sea turtles do climb all over my children’s feet. We were told not to move, for fear of accidentally stomping on one of them. What transpired was a beautiful moment of connection with a 20-million-year-old species, which brought me right back to a memory from my past. We learned that they have a low survival rate, estimated by scientists to be 1 in 1,000. Despite these odds, and perhaps because of them, it filled us with so much hope to see them off. If you ever have a chance to witness a turtle release, it’s a must, especially with young kids.

Special thanks to Cici, one of the marine biologists who facilitated it for us. If you’re looking to help olive ridley sea turtles in Costa Rica, Reserva Playa Tortuga needs volunteers to lead night beach patrols to find and protect nests, relocate eggs to a protected hatchery, and collect data on nests. The extra perk is that you will also get to attend many releases! You can also visit or donate to the one-of-a-kind Florida Keys turtle sanctuary, a former brothel turned turtle hospital and rehab center that flies in doctors from the mainland to operate on sea turtles and save their lives. If you’re in West Palm Beach, visit or donate to the Loggerhead Marine Life Center in Palm Beach, which is doing some amazing conservation and turtle rehab work of their own. Reducing ocean plastic pollution, eating responsibly, and supporting laws to protect marine life are other ways we can all help ensure a future for these creatures.

As for how my wild Florida spring break story ended, unfortunately, we never got to see the SUV flying through the air. I cleaned out most of my measly savings from odd jobs and my allowance to pay the helicopter towing bill and chip in on legal bills. There were also legal proceedings with the property owners, and before a potential trial, my friend changed his testimony, confessing that he was not the actual driver and that, in fact, I was. I remember getting a call from him one day, asking me to claim responsibility for driving that day. I said, "Sure, of course I would. And so when his lawyer called me to ask me what happened, I told him the truth. A while later, I got a jubilant call from my friend, saying that they were dropping all charges against us and declaring it a mistrial because they had the wrong defendant. We were not innocent, but we still won the case. I’m not sure my two friends ever think about this episode. But I do, because, in some fundamental ways, it made me the person I am today. I guess that’s what childhood is all about.

(“Hi, my name is Jaron, and I’m a father to 3 small kids in a family of 5. We would like to go on a trek to find rare, poison frogs in the Costa Rican rainforest. Can you help us?”)

That was the question I asked an expedition guide I’d never met on a WhatsApp audio call.

(For those Spanish readers out there, Jerónimo has been my adopted Spanish name since I was a pre-teenager growing up in Miami, a survival tactic that made it a lot easier to order a Publix sub in Hialeah.)

“Si, claro’”

(“Yes, of course.”)

Hearing that it was possible, a rush of excitement flowed into my brain, but at the same time, my paternal heart sank a bit. My subconscious mind began churning for the next question to ask this perfect stranger to trust him enough to introduce my most precious loves on planet Earth to toxic amphibians. I needed a bit more reassurance.

We had just arrived on the South Pacific coast of Costa Rica a day earlier, after a frantic 24 hours braving toxic traffic and shady car-rental operators in San Jose. After feasting on a freshly caught, flaky mahi-mahi in a coconut sauce for a late lunch, washed down by frozen watermelon batidos (smoothies), we were driving out of town on a dusty, bumpy, unpaved road back to our Airbnb, ready for a siesta, when a print ad caught my attention. It had some cool animals on it, including a tapir and a striking red frog, with the words, “Uvita and Dominical Night Tours.” I took a photo of the sign and called the number as soon as we got home.

A male voice picked up, a guide named Greivin, and I asked about the standard night tour, which sounded amazing and something we would love to do on a later date, but I told him we were actually looking for some very specific, highly endangered creatures.

I had my ChatGPT queries open, so I didn’t bumble the scientific names.

“Estoy buscando la Oophaga granulifera, Phyllobates vittatus y el Dendrobates auratus. ¿Los encuentran aquí?”

I basically asked him if some of the most poisonous frogs in Costa Rica can be found in the Uvita/Dominical area.

He said, “La verdad que no. Yo hago tours de noche y esas ranas se encuentran de día. Pero no te preocupes, conozco el mae.”

(Not really, I do night tours only, but don’t worry, I know the guy.)

He passed on the contact for a mae (Costa Rican slang for “guy”) named Raby.

The next day, I called Raby and asked him the question at the top of the page. When he affirmed that we can see rare, poison frogs, it was time to get into the specifics. So I asked about the Phyllobates Vittatus, the Gulfo Dulce Poison Frog, whose scientific name was the easiest one for me to remember because it rhymes.

He said in pretty fluent-sounding English, Yes, I can show you this frog. And most likely we can also see the Oophaga granlifera, the granular poison frog, and the Green and Black Poison Dart Frog (Dendrobates aurates), which is more common.

All 3 in one outing? Is that actually possible?

“Anything is possible in the jungle,” he answered, chuckling.

I laughed nervously.

“Seriously?” I wondered if this guy was for real.

“Yes, this is one of the last remaining habitats for these frogs in the world, and you can find them all here. I am a professional, certified tour guide, herpetologist, and an expert on these frogs. When do you want to go?”

“Well, there’s a small catch: I have small kids, including a 4-year-old little girl who can hike for a couple of miles on a good day. You sure it’s ok? Is it dangerous?” I asked him.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

I didn’t love that response, so I grilled him a bit more.

I asked him what the worst thing that could happen was. He said that it’s like any other river hike in Costa Rica.

“So the worst thing would be slipping and falling on a rock, especially if it’s the one with a Fer de Lance (the notorious pit viper), hanging out below it?”

He chuckled.

“Exactly.”

I asked him if there were any recorded human deaths from these frogs.

He said no.

Finally, I got to the most pointed question of all.

“Would you take your own kids?” I asked him.

“Yes, I would, because I’ve participated in research that has confirmed that the Golfo Dulce produces relatively weak toxins, and there have been no recorded human deaths or serious poisonings. It produces batrachotoxin-related alkaloids, the same toxin family as the deadly Colombian frogs, just in much lower doses.”

“Seems like a family-friendly expedition to me!”, I blurted aloud excitedly.

This was the assurance I needed, and having already done lots of river hikes here with my kids, I figured there was little more risk in this little expedition. We agreed on a price of about 75,000 colones, or roughly $150, for leading us to see some of the rarest poison frogs in the world. It seemed like a bargain.

The reason these frogs are so endangered is partially that they live only in a very small geographic range: the South Pacific lowland rainforest of Costa Rica and Northern Panama. And unfortunately, so much of this precious habitat was cleared for agriculture (palm oil, bananas, cattle), roads, and housing. Amphibians worldwide have been devastated by a fungus called chytridiomycosis, also known as chytrid fungus, and small populations like the one here in Costa Rica are especially at risk. Also, because these frogs have such bright colors, they were historically sought after by illegal pet traders.

And here’s why saving these species might matter even more to the future of humanity: There is a cute little poison arrow frog called Anthony’s Poison Arrow Frog (Epipedobates anthonyi) found only in Ecuador and Peru. Research on this rare frog led scientists to discover epibatidine, an extremely powerful alkaloid found in its skin, which became a research goldmine. It helped scientists understand how pain signals travel, advanced research on anesthesia, addiction, and nerve signaling, and inspired synthetic compounds that led to modern pain medicines that help so many people today.

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The two frogs we are looking for today, on the verge of extinction, contain unique alkaloids that may also harbor undiscovered molecules or other valuable information for medicine or science. If we lose them, we not only lose a beautiful animal with inherent value that has evolved alongside us for millions of years, but also, perhaps, a more cynical reason for conserving them: we lose valuable information. A unique blueprint of life. A miraculous composite of creation. A potential unlock for humanity to live better, happier, healthier lives. Erased forever.

Which is part of the reason the stakes felt so high when, a few days later, we got up early and drove to Palmar Norte, where we met Raby, a guide, naturalist, and amateur herpetologist, in person by the Bank of Costa Rica. He was friendly, with a soft handshake and a warm smile, despite wearing a black guide shirt featuring the deadly Fer-de-lance pit viper. We followed him to a tiny dirt road that jutted up into the mountains, where he got out of his car and gave us instructions on how to find the meeting spot. He didn’t have a 4x4, and our SUV was packed to the brim with kids and gear, so he walked up the road just behind our car as we drove to the location. I felt bad, but he insisted.

15 minutes later, we met at the spot where we would hike into a little river gorge covered with primary and secondary rainforest and cacao trees. Apparently, they had been planted by farmers but abandoned. It was private land, but under Costa Rican law, once you are within 15 meters of a river or waterfall, it is considered protected public land. This is a good policy for protecting rare frogs.

We descended into the ravine. The boys hiked up ahead with Raby and Mom. I was with Vivi in the back, holding her hand strongly to keep her from slipping and sliding on wet rocks. Luckily, she’s wearing her Xtra Tuff boots from Alaska. She was a trooper and loved every second of it. The boys kept going ahead of the guide, and I was constantly yelling at them to stay behind him.

We are making 6 sets of fresh tracks on the muddy trail, breathing in the purest oxygen from millions of trees, and hearing the waterfall grow louder as we descend deeper into this river gorge. What started as a trickle of water has become a bit more intense, and we are now walking through little mini rapids. Eventually, all our waterproof boots get soaked inside and out. Raby is shining a flashlight on the river banks and the brown dirt walls of the canyon leading up to the road. After about 20 minutes of searching, he suddenly stops, “Aqui esta uno.” (Here is one). He shines his light on something.

We are so excited and focused on this muddy wall, trying to see what he is seeing with our untrained eyes. I squint and eventually can see a tiny red speck in a dark, watery mud pit towards the ground. I am looking at an animal so rare that maybe only hundreds remain.

We were immediately stunned by its beauty. We get a bunch of close-up shots with our iPhones, GoPros, and Sony long-lens camera. It’s hard to capture, partially because it's so tiny, but also because it’s got this granulated texture that doesn’t read as well through the lens.

We eventually put our phones and cameras down and just stared incredulously at this minuscule, stunning frog just hopping around. This is the moment we were waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of.

Suddenly, Raby picks the frog up with his bare hands. We’re all freaked out, but he explains that the toxins emitted from its back and spinal region are not deadly, and as long as he washes his hands afterwards, it won’t affect him at all. We learned that the skin serves as a barrier, so unless you touch the frog and then put your hands in your mouth, eye, or an open wound, you should be fine.

These very rare poison frogs are endemic to this region, and Raby knows them like the back of his hand, which he uses, not in a metaphorical sense, as a frog pedestal to show them to us. Immediately after handling the frog, he washes his hands in the river. He is often recruited for research studies to guide the more academically trained herpetologists to these Costa Rican poison frogs. He said they are not nearly as poisonous as once thought, but that we shouldn’t touch them as a precaution.

Sorry kids.

Raby tells us about the special Oophaga (which means “egg eater”). The mother of this frog lays special unfertilized eggs for their tadpoles to feed on. It’s a strong maternal instinct for reptiles. We observe it and keep on looking for more frogs.

The next frog we hope to see is a relative of the infamous Golden Poison Dart Frog (Phyllobates terribilis), found only near the Pacific lowland rainforests of Colombia. Those contain batrachotoxin, one of the most powerful natural poisons on Earth. The native Embera people used their venom on the tips of their arrows to make hunting more efficient. A single dart frog can carry enough toxin to kill 10–20 adult humans. I’m not sure taking my sweet kids to see that particular frog would be a sane decision.

No, no, no, don’t worry, grandmothers.

We’re looking for their relatively kid-friendly Costa Rican cousins (Phyllobates vittatius), which means “Striped leaf walker” in Latin, which do contain enough poison to make an animal regret eating it, but not enough for a human to regret touching it.

Suddenly, I saw Raby’s hand swoop down quickly on a rock, but the tiny frog that was there must have felt it coming, and it jumped just before the moment of impact, ricocheting its whole body against the giant human hand, before falling awkwardly into the river. The poor frog was floating upside down and being carried by the current into a rapid section, where we likely wouldn’t have been able to find it again. Luckily, in a second effort, Raby scooped it out at the last second.

And then he revealed to us, like a magician, that in the palm of his hand was Phyllobates vittatus.

And if Oophaga was striking, these guys may be even more beautiful. They are tiny, only 2-3 cm, and you really have to get up close to see them for what they are. But once you do, I think that anyone would be captivated by their beauty. Seeing them in the wild, doing their thing, made me ponder not only the genius but also the artistry of evolution. I sincerely hope that God/nature/Universe/WhateverYouBelievein somehow delights in the beauty of His or Her creation.

There was a brief instant with the frogs that felt like a transcendental, energising moment for a tired family. We were in a distant jungle, with no other humans in sight, witnessing this rare life form on the brink of extinction. And here we are, a normal human family, staring into its eyes, fully present and feeling so much love for this creature and for each other. The jungle went eerily quiet as we went into a flow state as a family, hyperfocusing on every detail of this extraordinary creature.

The fluorescent orange stripe running through its body. It has tiny webbed feet. It’s wide open eyes.

It felt so blissful, and so we just stayed there with it, with our guide, Raby, observing it, photographing it, witnessing its behaviours, asking questions. This feeling, this moment. It’s like nothing we ever experienced at a shopping mall, playground, family dinner, or doing anything else. For a brief moment, we were in unison. We were present. Witnessing the magic of creation, pondering the mystery of life together.

It’s a wonderful feeling knowing that right down here in this river gorge in the middle of a random rainforest in Costa Rica is exactly where we’re all meant to be. That there is a lesson, or some kind of gift that we are meant to learn or receive from all the efforts, energy, and suffering it took to get here, and ultimately, get back home.

The moment ends when our kids try to touch the frogs, and we have to intervene.

Raby finds another Golfo Dulce. He lets the kids pick it up with a leaf. The boys do, and somehow the frog jumped off the leaf and bounced onto my son’s bare hand. We all panic a little, but Raby says to just wash it off, and Ori does that.

We take it as a sign to keep moving.

We walk towards a waterfall for a dip.

On the way, we see a green-and-black poison frog. And just as I thought I had seen the prettiest poison frog ever, we see another incredible, beautiful species.

3 for 3. Raby was right.

This one is more common than the other two, and for that reason, it won’t make it in our Creature Catalog, and that’s a good thing, because it’s not nearly as threatened as the other two species we saw that day. We later learned that this stunner is considerably more toxic than the other two. According to Raby, a fellow herpetologist friend of his handled one of these, didn’t rinse it properly before touching his sweaty brow, and apparently lost his sight for a week. Be careful out there!

Then we found a pair of Golfo Dulce males fighting each other under a log. We observed them for a while, and he explained that they are actually pretty similar to male humans, fighting over territory and females. We made it to the waterfall and swimming hole and went for a swim. I submerged myself and then came up for air, exhaling deeply, full of gratitude after a successful and safe expedition.

One of the things we love to do after these encounters is to talk about the lessons we learned, either from the journey or from the creature itself. We talked about how these frogs needed to evolve to be striking and visually distinctive, because that’s the only way predators would leave them alone.

We learned from the frogs that conformity can get you killed. Be different. Be bold. Make yourself too colorful to eat.

We also learned from the expedition that sometimes, as humans, we fear the wrong things. We stay indoors because we fear the outdoors (the place where we evolved!). We hear about these dangerous Colombian poison frogs that can kill 10 people, and we make assumptions about all poison frogs. We prefer to remain ignorant rather than rush to save a creature that may contain life-saving compounds.

If you’ve made it this far, here’s the lede that I’ve hidden just like a tiny poison frog in the rainforest. It’s no panacea, but one key piece of the strategy for saving this frog, and indeed all the endangered species of this planet, is actually quite simple. It’s for all of us, or at least enough of us, to vacation differently. Skip the luxury resorts and over-priced strawberry daiquiris by the pool and instead book a herping tour with Raby. If enough tourists come to places like this, we can save it from becoming another banana plantation. Our tourist dollars speak volumes. And if you choose to come here, you are saying that these frogs are worth more alive than dead.

Costa Rica is not perfect, but with 25% of its land protected for conservation and a thriving eco-tourism sector, it’s making a strong case for how sustainable, well-managed ecotourism may be the best way to protect the planet’s most fragile habitats. We’re going to unpack this more in the future, but it’s both fascinating and inspiring to see the Costa Rican eco-tourism model “in the wild”, and see so many other nature-loving tourists coming to this country to experience something that is so hard to find elsewhere.

If you do come here and book a tour with Raby, do so at your own peril. If you see one of these frogs in the wild with your naked eyes, you won’t receive any toxins, but you may just receive a sacred experience to cherish for the rest of your days.

This is a long-overdue post. We’re finally catching our breath after a tumultuous and action-packed end of 2025 and beginning of 2026. Rest assured, we are safe and happy in the Southern Pacific region of Costa Rica, just outside the Osa Peninsula. And we are proud to announce that our labor of love, Earth Parade, this family world odyssey to document endangered species, is now officially 1 year old! Our creature catalog is already at 15! Only 58 to go!

We can’t wait to fill you in on some of our latest expeditions and accidental encounters in the weeks to come. But first, here is a short travelogue, an ode to California, with some of our observations and random thoughts sprinkled in. If you make it all the way till the end, you will learn why our current plan is to mimic the undisputably cutest animal in Costa Rica.

We know things are crazy in the world right now, so wherever you may find yourselves on this January day, we hope you’re safe and sound. There has never been a better time for us all to play our little part in building a better world.

Thank you so much for supporting and reading Earth Parade. We are grateful for your attention and sincerely hope there is some exchange of value, learning, or, at the very least, you are being entertained by our adventures and misadventures.

Sending you all abrazos muy fuertes,

J+D

“In my dreams, you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night.”

-Allen Ginsberg

This is how we felt driving across the Bay Bridge. Kind of like zombies moving without thought, towards a moody, orange Pacific sunset. After so many months on the road, living in a home on wheels, we drove as if on autopilot, magnetically and instinctively, towards our former home, San Francisco. Being back here felt like a dream, memory, and reality colliding as one.

This was our first time visiting the city since we left her more than five years ago as a family of four, returning as a family of five. After our crazy last 24 hours in the Airstream, which included a near collision with what appeared to be the world’s largest bull deer, we were too exhausted and anxious to speak. We felt disregulated and weathered after this day, after this journey. We could almost feel a new batch of gray hairs coming in.

The orange light on the horizon made the Bay Bridge feel eternal. We were happy to see “Carl the Fog” again as we cruised closer to the San Francisco side of the bridge. He greeted us like a familiar friend, a cozy blanket to tuck us into our much-needed metaphoric bed on this fine, chilly fall evening. We pointed out the silhouette of Coit Tower and the pastel colored homes peppering the hills. Their lights felt like mini beacons of hope, reminders of the kind of home we once had and hoped to have again.

Suddenly and not so surprisingly, as we entered the city, our moods shifted. Life returned to our eyes. We were so excited to visit and show our kids the city that had a profound impact on our lives, because it’s the place where we became parents. The city by the Bay served as the scenic backdrop for one of the most sacrosanct times in our lives. The most charming host for one of life’s most profound transitions. A place that for us will always represent the idea of new life and infinite possibility.

After a tumultuous few days, we all felt exhausted and were craving both familiarity and space. We couldn’t wait to spread out in our Airbnb in San Francisco, which was painted a similar shade of blue to our old apartment there. We also had a special surprise in store. Dana’s lifelong bestie Danielle and her daughter Kiki had flown from Miami to see us and were secretly hiding inside the Airbnb. (Thank you to our wonderful Airbnb host, Alice, for letting them crash with us!) We surprised the kids, who were at first in shock, but quickly became ecstatic and turned into a pack of tiny whirling dervishes. After spending the previous 3 months with very little interaction with people their own ages, this surprise visit was a thrill for them, and a giant exhale for us.

This substitute blue house was fine and did the job. But it was nothing like our old blue house on the hill in the Inner Sunset, overlooking Golden Gate Park with unobstructed ocean views, where we’d watch the sunset or the fog rolling in like a slow-moving tidal wave.

We decided a few days later to knock on the door of our old flat. And to our surprise, the new tenant kindly let us in. It was surreal standing in the living room of the home where Dana labored, where our boys ate their first solid foods, crawled, and took their first little steps.

The piney, musky, but somehow tolerable smell was the same. I could recognize it the second I walked in. The mid-century modern chandelier that we bought in a vintage store in the Mission, days before we had our first child, still hung over their dining room table. The metal Ikea kitchen cart we purchased still stood right where we left it. The pain-in-the-ass white curtains we labored to install in our son’s first nursery were still hanging there. It was nice to remember these moments as we tried to make uncomfortable small talk with the new tenants. It was not clear whether Luca remembered anything and how much Ori actually remembered, but he claimed to remember the pink-bursting bougainvillea outside our blue house.

Our San Francisco trip was a walk down memory lane. We traipsed through the vast collection of global flora at the botanical garden at Golden Gate Park, where both boys had their first outings into the great outdoors as newborns. We visited our son’s first preschool, where our eldest learned to sing Mother’s Day songs in a Russian accent.

We hiked up the multicolored mosaic staircase to Moraga Hill, which was foggier than ever. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to the tidepools at Muir Beach.

It felt like such a treat to bathe in nostalgia in such a formative place for our family. We also took the opportunity to behave like tourists. We devoured clam chowder out of bread bowls, rode the cable cars (for the first time), and of course, admired the sea lions at Pier 39.

And yes, we ate some delicious food—all our favorite Asian spots in the Inner Sunset. We chowed down at our favorite Sushi restaurant, Ebisu, and our regular waitress, Sunny, remembered us. Yummy Yummy was still two times yummier than any other Vietnamese restaurant. Manna still had an outrageous Bimbimpap. Burritos in the Mission. Arizmendis, Delfina, and Tartine. We did it all.

We burnt all the calories gloriously and quickly, hiking with new friends, belly laughing with old ones, walking up and down the infinite hills. After 11 days, it was time to move on. We left our hearts in San Francisco again.

There are threatened species all over California, including in the Bay Area, such as the rare San Francisco Garter Snake and the San Joaquin Kit Fox. They are typically harder to find without research teams and special permissions. So the plan was to fly from SFO to somewhere in Central America, where there is unfortunately a lot more wildlife on the verge of extinction, partially because it’s more biodiverse as you get closer to the equator, but also because there is a greater combination of habitat loss, illegal wildlife trade, and climate change impacts.

But then we thought to ourselves, maybe we should show our kids a bit more of California before we leave the USA. How could we not take our kids to the Monterey Bay Aquarium and Big Sur?

After we left San Francisco, we drove down the coast towards Monterrey, where we stayed at a really cool hotel right on the beach. The hotel didn’t really have to be cool. We were just happy to be staying in any place where we didn’t have to clean up after ourselves. It felt odd, and we even caught ourselves looking for the broom and the sink to do dishes! What a treat.

The main reason we stopped in Monterrey, of course, was to visit the aquarium. We came here when Ori was a baby, but he wasn’t old enough to appreciate it. And now, with our kids aged 4, 6, and 8, each one a budding naturalist in their own right, this was the perfect time to bring them to this grand sanctuary of the seas. We couldn’t get enough. We spent hours admiring the otters, the glowing jellyfish, and learning from the marine biologists who fed leopard sharks by hand in the kelp forest exhibit. It was incredible!

We were all zonked afterwards and treated ourselves to a nice dinner in Carmel at Nora’s restaurant. If you go there, don’t miss the Chicken Pot Pie. Vivi was overtired and was deliriously hugging all the diners and everyone waiting outside for a table!

The next day, we visited the Great Tidepool near Carmel, where we watched the ocean retreat, revealing an intertidal zone full of life. We jumped from rock to rock, finding plenty of hermit crabs and anemones. If you love tidepooling, this is one of many spots along the coast you can visit, but the Great Tidepool, as the name suggests, is particularly vast. Try to get there an hour before peak low tide for maximum critters!

We kept on driving south until we hit another one of our favorite spots on Earth, Big Sur. Another important place for our family. It was here, in Andrew Molera State Park, standing under a double rainbow, where we decided a decade ago to move to California at the end of 2016.

This place was as magical as we remembered it. We relished showing our kids the giant redwoods, rivers, and one of the most gorgeous intersections of mountains and ocean. We stayed at the rustic Big Sur Lodge and treated ourselves to breakfast at the historic Deetjen’s. We feasted on some sensational huevos rancheros and savored the hot coffee that we didn’t have to prepare ourselves.

We mostly just hiked and splashed around in the Pfeiffer Falls area for a couple of days. The kids engaged in some risky play activities, turning fallen redwoods into river bridges and then crossing them. They then decided to cross a real bridge on the wrong side of the safety enclosure. What happened was our boys got out of my sight for a minute as I (Jaron) was playing with the girl, and Dana was watching us. Once we realized what was happening, I sprinted like a madman to stop them before they got hurt. I scolded them for it. Thank god nothing bad happened, as both boys jumped back to the correct pedestrian path, and the safe side of the bridge when they heard my screams. But it shook us and made us more aware for next time. With a 50-foot-plus drop into a rocky river bed, this crossed the line from risky play to an activity that could have had real bad consequences. I’m bringing this up because I think this is a tension that many parents may be quietly wrangling with. We know it’s good to let the kids engage in risky play and not be one of those helicopter parents, but where to draw the line?

In this scenario, we unfortunately failed. Thankfully, nobody got hurt, and we all learned a lesson.

The key learning for us parents is to evaluate all environmental hazards and intentionally play out the worst-case scenario in our minds. We all do this intuitively, but while you're travelling with kids, it becomes a real challenge. With 3 active kids, this has been one of the hardest parts of this trip. We must constantly assess the risks of new, foreign environments.

Kids will always push the limits. I know I did when I was a kid, so because of genetics, it’s likely my kid will do the same. It’s our job to know they will push the limit to the max, so we must read the room and have eyes and ears everywhere, but not swoop in unless they are at real risk. It’s not helicopter parenting, it’s Mossad parenting. Let them engage in risky play, but know when you must swoop in and protect your loved ones. We all do this intuitively, but I think this should be a more conscious, explicit act. You can even explore together and then set the ground rules for a new location collaboratively, so you know the boundaries are clear and understood.

After a day of risky play, a crisp glass of California cabernet at sunset calmed our frayed nerves. We dined at our favorite ocean lookout at Big Sur, Nepenthe. We observed a family of deer from the deck until we had the honor and good fortune to witness the grandest and most magical optical illusion of all. You know the one. That circadian, evening show where our orange flaming gassy power ball plunges into the big blue, melting into a little speck of fire before vanishing out of sight. This particular one was a dandy.

The next day, we vanished from Big Sur, taking one last stop before the City of Angels in Pismo Beach, renting bicycles to see if the boys still remembered how to ride them. They did. Vivi rode in her daddy’s basket.

We visited a monarch butterfly grove and saw the first butterflies from the Western population returning to their winter home from the Rockies. It reminded us of our home in Miami and our little milkweed garden. The monarch was the first species in our creature catalog, and we, especially Vivi, really love these butterflies. Tragically, this population of monarch butterflies has suffered staggering losses in recent years for a variety of reasons, most notably, you guessed it, habitat loss, and is nearing a record low.

We then drove to LA for about 10 days to tie up loose ends. There, we would sell our truck, go to the dentist, and send some more boxes back to Miami. We also got to spend time with dear friends in actual human homes, visiting the amazing Farmer’s markets, where we tried to figure out how much fruit to buy since we knew we couldn’t bring any of it out of the country. The highlights included celebrating Halloween, during which the kids dressed up in last-minute store-bought costumes and the adults ate pizza, hiking in the Santa Monica mountains, and enjoying the company of a superb herd of guinea pigs.

We had a pretty clear observation while driving through some of the most epic scenery in the world in Big Sur, California. It’s something we actually first noticed while driving through some of the most beautiful landscapes in the Canadian Rockies, but we didn’t pay much attention to it. We weren’t as excited as we normally would have been or should have been when encountering such majestic natural beauty. The kids preferred to stay in the car in places they would have normally been eager to explore. We, too, were feeling numb and exhausted. It was not what we expected to feel, but this was our truth. After recognizing this, it felt like time to change things up a bit.

So after so many months of nonstop movement, experiences, and epic nature, what we really needed was a place to rest and reset. We were totally knackered, as the Brits like to say. We needed a pause from the intensity of constant motion to allow for some inertia to set in.

We embraced modern aerial technology and boarded an airplane, not an Airstream, at LAX in mid-November to fly to one of our favorite countries on planet Earth. It’s a place we’ve been fortunate enough to visit many times, and since it’s familiar, we knew we could decompress for a bit and get more stability for our kids and ourselves. We could then make our plans to see some very unique and rare species that we knew the kids were excited to encounter.

This place, of course, is Costa Rica, where our initial plan was to mimic the three-toed sloth. It was time to lie low, go slow, and conserve our energy. We realized that, as beautiful as it can be, travelling such a distance for so long is not natural. All creatures need stillness and space. We are no exception. So we rested, found a new tempo, and just existed as a family.

Sloth mode proved to be rewarding. More home-cooked meals, warm ocean time, and tropical fruit smoothies. More tinkering with new ideas and projects for our next, wide-open chapter in life. Slowing things down allowed us to go inward and dream up new, exciting visions for the future. More on that later…

We reflected on the fact that we burned a lot of carbon getting here, which we hope to offset, in actual and karmic terms, as soon as possible. This is another reason for going deeper rather than wider. For so many reasons, we prefer to spend more time in one place, to get to know it really well, especially in a place like Costa Rica, which is so dense with life.

Our resolve to encounter and tell the stories of these species has grown stronger, but the pace at which we will travel needs to shift. We don’t envision Earth Parade as one crazy, non-stop, dizzying year on the road. That’s doable if you’re on a regular old world trip, doing touristy things like visiting the Eiffel Tower. It’s not really feasible when your goal is to encounter the rarest species on Earth, with three wildlings of your own. So a recalibration was necessary.

We now look at Earth Parade as a far longer, multi-year project that we hope will span cultures, continents, and childhoods. Perhaps it can also exist as a side project as we hunker down and plant roots somewhere? We shall see. We certainly want to be able to stop as needed to process, create, and smell the roses. But that doesn’t mean we want to quit. On the contrary, we are figuring out how to make it sustainable. After all, as long as we’re doing something that feels meaningful for the planet, bonding as a family, and having fun, why should the Parade stop?

If we’ve learned anything trying to encounter these rare wild creatures, it’s that yes, you need both preparation and luck. But more than anything, you need patience. The longer you can wait in a spot, ready and attentive, the more likely you are to encounter the creature you are hoping to see. The best hunters are patient. In fact, all of nature is patient. It’s a state of being that humanity, in its rush towards profits, power, and some fake idea of paradise, has left by the wayside. Yet, it remains a key unlock for all of life's pursuits.

So we’ll be patient with ourselves, and when ready, we’ll be going micro instead of macro, exploring smaller areas of this spectacular country, one of the most biologically diverse places on Earth. Just one little sliver of a rainforest here contains multitudes. We suspect that this relatively tiny landmass has much to teach us.

Pura Vida, friends.

The backstory of the maize mishap is as follows: We were staying in an RV park outside of Grand Prairie, Alberta, and I needed something to do with the kids one afternoon while Dana was cooking dinner. So, I took the three kids to a maze carved into a cornfield near the RV park. Yes, it was a maze of maize. We had a great time, playing hide and seek and making fake moustaches with the corn silk. After we finally found each other, recognized each other, and made our way out of the labyrinth (minor miracle), we grabbed a bunch of corn ears as souvenirs. I threw them in a bag in the back of the truck and totally forgot about them.

.

A couple of weeks later, on our very last evening in La Tortuga for at least a couple of years, I began cleaning out the bed of the truck, and found these ears of corn. I foolishly assumed they were ok to eat, since they were protected in a brown bag in the truck bed, and the weather was already chilly. They smelled fine, and since it was already dark, I failed to notice the reddish hues underneath the kernels. I walked into the Airstream proudly announcing that we would have mashed potatoes and corn on the cob for dinner that evening. I filled our largest pot with water and added a few corn ears, along with some fresh potatoes, for what would be a less-than-glamorous last supper.

Thankfully, Dana had the foresight to peel the potatoes before mashing them, adding some butter and cream, and serving them with a side dish of cold carrots. The potatoes were, in fact, delicious. The kids were pretty full after snacking all day, but I was still hungry, so I decided to experiment with the corn. I took a bite, chewed a couple of times, and spit most of it out because it tasted nothing like any corn I’ve ever eaten. It tasted like a dried-out, bitter porcini mushroom combined with the texture and flavor of a worn-out baseball mitt.

Unfortunately, I did swallow a couple of very minuscule pieces of rotten corn. Fortunately, the consequences of this poor decision only affected me. After an hour or so, I began to feel some tummy troubles, weakness, and faintness. My brain also started feeling strange effects. I examined the corn in the light for the first time, noticing the clear red marks, and my heart sank.

This led to a ChatGPT rabbit hole where I learned that this is a classic example of ear-rot fungus known as Fusarium, which produces mycotoxins that can be harmful to humans. Upon reading this, I panicked, and my physical symptoms worsened. My first thought was the kids. Could the mycotoxins travel from the corn through the boiling water, into the potatoes? Yes, said ChatGPT. But, since we peeled the potatoes, the membrane on the potato skin likely protected our children from any potential fungal invaders that might have seeped into the communal boiling water.

Thank God.

And the kids seemed fine, which is to say they were acting like their normal, rowdy selves. I, on the other hand, was feeling like I was going to faint. The more I read about Fusarium, the worse I felt, which made me even more anxious. I was speaking like a protagonist in a Woody Allen film, saying things like this aloud to Dana, “I can’t believe on the last night of this epic RV trip across two countries, that I would get food poisoning and die from a piece of rotten corn. What Murphy’s Law that would be!”

Next thing I knew, out of an abundance of caution, I called 911.

It went something like this….

Dispatcher: “blah blah blah What’s your emergency?”

Me: “Hi…um…I think I ate a corn fungus. I didn’t realize it was reddish and discolored and looked like the images of Fusarium I saw on ChatGPT.”

“Sir, where should we send the ambulance?”

“Where are we again?” I mumbled to Dana, gathering some composure as I got back to the dispatcher.

“We’re in a campground near Bass Lake. I don’t think I need an ambulance yet. I want to know that an ambulance can make it to this campground should I get worse.”

“We can get you help, sir.”

“Do you need help?”

“I don’t think so?” I stated more as a question.

“So just confirming you don’t need any assistance, Sir?”

“No. I mean, yes, I think I will be ok.”

Instead of going to the hospital, I took a long, hot shower and begged God to forgive me for my devout atheism of the past decade, to protect my kids from this fungus, and to make me only mildly affected. I emerged as a new man from my wet confession in an Airstream shower. The chills and weakness subsided. I felt close to normal again. My kids were fine and getting ready for bed. I vowed never to hoard corn again.

I woke up on our last morning in La Tortuga with a similar feeling I had on many mornings during my college days, pretending that nothing strange had happened the night before. We had a lot of work to do to leave the campsite that day. But first, we had our final breakfast squeezed together around our little table, with Dana and I both determined to make a delicious last breakfast that would help us forget about last night’s meal, so we whipped up my signature Airstream waffles, soft-boiled eggs (known in our family as dippy dippy), and a side of turkey bacon. We packed up our personal items, and then, just as we were about to leave, unbeknownst to us at the time, another potentially even grosser disaster was in the works

At this moment, the Airstream was unrecognizable, devoid of kids and their accoutrements, and sparkling like new. We had worked so hard for so many days to get it there. The kids were in the playground, Dana was doing the last dishes, and I was performing the very final act: flushing the black tank (yes, that one) to prevent build-up and ensure a good experience for whoever would stay in there next. I did what I always do. I closed the valve, connected the designated hose, turned it on, and went to put the laundry in the dryer while waiting a few minutes for the tank to flush out. While in the laundromat, I got a phone call, got distracted, and about 15 minutes later realized that I had left the hose on.

Big mistake.

Dana came running to tell me that water was coming out of the top of the trailer, as if it was raining, only the skies were blue. I immediately realized my error and sprinted at top speed from the laundry facility into La Tortuga, flushing the toilet, but it did not send the water down. Quite the opposite, actually. It sent the water way up to the rim. It was like a bubbling science-fair volcano gone wrong, but instead of fake red lava, we had 18 gallons of real brown excrement on the verge of erupting all over our impeccably clean trailer floors. I immediately darted outside, turned off the hose by pulling the black tank handle, which opened the valve, releasing the sludge into the sewer where it belongs, saving the day at literally the last second. Phew.

We then waved goodbye to our Airstream and drove off. Saying goodbye to La Tortuga felt bittersweet, but we were all ready. We needed more space, fewer chores, fewer movements. We craved a sabbatical from the silver, 180-square-foot monastery-on-wheels. But then, around 30 minutes later, we had to turn around when we realized we had left a whole load of laundry, including the kids’ blankies and lovies, in the dryer. This was likely because of the aforementioned poopsplosion. So we turned around, got back to the campground, grabbed our stuff from the dryer, said goodbye to La Tortuga (again), and got back on the road, singing “On The Road Again” (again).

Minutes after leaving La Tortuga in the Outdoorsy campground near Bass Lake for the 2nd time, driving with just the truck, while driving about 60 mph, the largest bull deer I’ve ever seen, with a massive set of antlers, suddenly dashed across the road. The big buck came at us quickly out of the forest from our three o’clock. He froze in front of us, giving us that blank deer in the headlights look. By the time he realized his error and tried to stop himself, it was too late; he was going so fast his momentum forced him to skid across the road. In what must have been a split second, with the giant antlers just a couple of feet from our front bumper, I managed to do a very controlled swerve to the right, missing him by inches. We could hear the scratching of his hooves across the highway, which sounded like the most aggressive scratching of a chalkboard I’ve ever heard. We continued driving, shaken up, as the deer scurried off back into the bush. What a stroke of luck that we didn’t hit that buck with our truck. Fuck.

The thing that I kept thinking about that day, and for several weeks after, was how fortunate we were that we weren’t hitched up to La Tortuga anymore. It’s so crazy that after 12,000 miles of towing, on our very first drive in which we were not, we had our closest brush with a serious accident. Had we still been hitched to our Airstream, due to the extra weight, we would not have been able to brake in time. We would have certainly collided with the poor animal. But then again, had I not forgotten the laundry, caused the poopslosion, or eaten the corn fungus, maybe we wouldn’t have had this encounter at all? It was a reminder that every decision, every little thing we do, changes our destiny forever. And that life can turn on an unexpected moment, in milliseconds. Savor as many as you can.

Consider this a sign of life. As you’ll read in the essay below, things have been a bit crazy for us, and we've chosen to live a less online existence over the last couple of months. Sending out this dispatch on Thanksgiving is no coincidence. We are so beyond grateful to all of you who subscribed, encouraged us, or reached out. Thank you for being with us on this journey. After a trip like this one, with so much craziness happening in this world, we are extra grateful this year to be safe and sound. We feel so blessed.

And don’t forget, if you want to live the good life and eat some superfoods this holiday season, use our discount code EARTHPARADE30 to get $30 off your first box of wild Alaskan salmon. Special thanks to WAC for a fun collaboration, which you can see on our IG page, @earth.parade. Please follow us there if you are not already ;)

We hope you enjoy this essay/travelogue/update. Jaron wrote it, Dana edited it, and we both snapped the photos. Please let us know if you have any thoughts or comments.

Hugs,

J+D

“Summer is an illusion. Winter is the reality.”

- Park ranger in Denali National Park

The thing about driving to Alaska is that you also have to drive back. We tried very hard to ignore this little detail. But alas, just as we were getting used to the never-ending sunshine, wild salmon festivals, and zucchinis the size of major league baseball bats, we noticed the air getting colder, the leaves getting yellower, and this now foreign concept called “nighttime” beginning earlier and earlier.

After some consideration, we South Floridians decided that a dark, frigid winter would not be in the cards for us this year. We honestly did consider it, but as we saw the laundry piles getting bigger and bigger and the trips to refill the propane getting more and more frequent, we decided to follow the example of the Sandhill Cranes, the Humpback Whales, and the Northeastern Ashkenazi Jew, on their annual migrations towards the Equator.

Fortunately for us, the plan was not to drive all the way back to Florida, but to reach the Outdoorsy campground just outside of Yosemite National Park, where we would move out of our Airstream, La Tortuga, and rent it out to glampers as we begin to travel internationally. So instead of 6,000 miles, we only had about 3,500 miles of driving on the way back down. This is a huge difference, nearly the distance of an entire cross-country road trip across the United States.

So yes, this was going to be our last trip as a family in our silver home on wheels for a while. And by the time we get La Tortuga back, there’s a chance the kids will probably have outgrown their cozy little beds. This added a dimension of appreciation for us toward this mode of living and led to greater contemplation about what it all means.

We learned a lot on the way up, and wanted to do things differently on the way back down. We decided to do the Alcan again rather than the allegedly more picturesque Stewart–Cassiar Highway (BC-37) because, at a certain point, we were no longer craving scenery but rather more connection and comfort. We had some things we got a taste of on the Alcan highway that we wanted more of, namely to create a family symbol to put up in the Signpost Forest in Watson Lake, to savor the perfect hand-pulled noodles we had from a food truck in Whitehorse, and to soak in Liard Hot Springs again. We also wanted to take better photos of the highly endangered freshwater snail that only lives there, called a Hot Water Physa, the 8th member of our creature catalog.

We felt lucky that driving back down, there was no hard deadline, except for the unrelenting cycles of Mother Nature, who decided to make the return leg scenic for us anyway, painting the boreal landscape an ombre of yellows, oranges, and reds as we hit peak Autumn up north in September.

We left our most northern campground at Chena Hot Springs on September 4th, nearly hitting a large female moose who crossed the road suddenly. Luckily, I saw her and also saw the juvenile moose scampering across the road behind her, and managed to slow down in time to let them both pass. We drove to the northernmost KOA in the world in North Pole, Alaska, to seal the roof of the Airstream after a minor leak, fix the insulation on the door, and then last but not least, unclog a blocked black tank (probably the most anxiety-inducing issue one can have living in a trailer).

Thankfully, I managed to fix all the issues while Dana simultaneously made a killer minestrone and a new batch of fruit rolls. On September 7th, we left North Pole towards the border town of Tok, faces illuminated by the blazing sunlight, bouncing off the increasingly yellow fall foliage. We heard the tragic news of Charlie Kirk’s murder, just as we crossed the United States border checkpoint, entering a kind of no man’s land where you don’t reach Canadian customs for another 20 miles.

“How awful. I bet the killer was a young twenty-something white male,” I remember telling Dana, as I switched our car speed gauge from miles to kilometers.

From our vantage point in the middle of nowhere, closer to the Arctic Circle than NYC, on lands that once belonged to the Upper Tanana Athabascan people, we felt so far from everything. The airstream in our rearview mirror felt like some kind of spaceship, allowing us to feel distant from American society, internet culture, and Earth, not quite in it. This kind of violence felt more abstract, foreign, and abnormal. We were in such a different place, physically and mentally, as we rolled down the highway, gazing at infinite cobalt skies, interrupted only by jagged granite peaks, with millions of eye-shaped birch trees that seemed to be watching us, or guiding us.

It was a place from which we could dream.

That is, until we hit the next pothole, or the iPad ran out of battery, or a moose ran out into the road. Fortunately, the latter event occurred only twice on the return leg, and I was able to stop before ramming the animals both times. Many people and moose are not so lucky.

We drove slowly, in true Tortuga style, to protect our chassis and our asses. We still had a semi-broken valve and cabinets from the potholes on the journey up. We really didn’t want to deal with any new issues that would increase our workload. And most importantly, we wanted to keep our family safe, be more present for one another, and see more wildlife, which you often miss if you’re zooming by.

Choosing to take this journey with our three young kids, like everything else in life, is a trade-off. We sacrificed just about everything we once took for granted in our personal lives. Working out, yoga, meditating, no way. Time to think, read, reflect, forget it. Deep writing, art, filmmaking, not a chance. The biggest thing to know in taking a trip like this is that your personal adult time flies out the window like an enormous Alaskan mosquito.

We spent many of our waking hours like monks in the service of a shiny, silver, rolling temple. Our kids are less monk, more monk-ey, to keep the analogy going. (In some particularly wild moments, I had flashbacks to the time I visited Monkey Temple in my 20s in India, where unruly monkeys will snatch any loose items you have in your possession.)

We learned to embrace our daily rites, understanding, somewhere in the recesses of our brains, that our physical exhaustion served some greater spiritual goal. Every day we had our inside tasks (mostly Dana’s job) which were namely to clean, sweep, swiff, turn the bed into a table in the morning, turn it back into a bed at night, cook every meal of the day plus prepare snacks, feed kids, brush teeth, wash tiny hands, prep them for online tutoring on Tuesday and Thursday, monitor them during classes, fold laundry, and remove any objects that can move as we careen down some country road as well as strap all cabinet doors shut.

And then there’s the outside work, usually my job, which is to hitch and unhitch, plug in the electric cable, fill up the water or connect the hose, dump the black tank, then dump the grey tank (never in reverse), if there’s time, flush the black tank, and, then critically wash hands profusely with soap. Unplug and transfer the Starlink to the truck, and then grab the kids, the snack pack, leftover coffee for the road, the kids’ bottles, and adult water. Finally, we ran through the checklist together. iPads? Check. Cameras? Yep. Chargers? Check. Heads on shoulders? Hello?

We repeated this exact routine nearly daily. Did I mention we also have three kids, each one with a rebellious streak of their own? Imagine trying to do all this while also attending to their needs. We actually came up with a potential new name for Earth Parade: Mega Extreme Parenting. On many days, it feels that way.

I thought that leaving a CEO job would mean fewer logistics, less subconscious churning over decisions, big and small. I was wrong. The logistical planning and operations for a family on a trip like this are endless. Thank goodness for Chat GPT and Google Maps. Our robot overlords probably thought we were a traveling rock band on a drug binge rather than a family on a wholesome quest to see endangered species. Sometimes, we were 4 hours into a drive when I would turn to Dana, partially clear my throat, and croak out the somewhat rhetorical question:

“Babe, where are we sleeping tonight”?

The usual answer was, “I don’t know.”

“Can you please ask ChatGPT for the nearest campgrounds? Any chance of hookups tonight?”

And by hookups, no, I am not talking about consensual adult activities; I’m referring to the least sexy things imaginable: power, water, and, unless you’re into this sort of thing, poopoo.

“Do we need full hookups or just electric tonight, babe?” I would repeat.

“Just get me electricity, please,” was her canned reply.

Should we cross into Canada tomorrow or the day after? Should we go back to the fantastic playground in Talkeetna? What are we going to feed the kids tonight? These were typical questions for my wife.

And then there were the questions for my ChatGPT. Which endangered species can be found near us in the Yukon? Organic grocery store in Whitehorse? Is this plant edible?

The main differences between this trip and our last big Airstream adventure back in 2020 were the kids being older and more numerous, Starlink, and AI. With Starlink, wherever we had power, we had internet. And wherever we had internet, we had AI, which I relied on heavily for planning and logistics.

Besides the ecological challenges we face as a society to produce the energy the tech titans need to compete in their battle for AI supremacy, what saddened me most about this new way of travelling was the understanding that a world increasingly dominated by AI will lead to less and less human communication. We did chat with plenty of locals, but on travel days when we needed to get from point A to point B, the intelligence from unknown locals was far less reliable than the device in our pocket. As a traveller who once backpacked the world before these genius phones, I know that short conversations with strangers, seemingly mundane, can add meaning to one’s day-to-day existence and often lead to great adventures.

“Babe, seriously, it’s getting late. Where are we sleeping tonight?”

On the way back, as we entered the Fall season, answering this question became even harder. So many campgrounds were officially open but in reality closed, which meant 3-4 hour drives turned into longer ones. I remember one in the Yukon. Night was creeping in, it was getting colder, and we still didn’t have a place to sleep. The campground we hoped to go to on Kluane Lake was gated and shut down for the season, so we kept driving to the next campground, which, of course, was full. The kids were so manic at this point that we just had to stop, run them around a bit, and we happened to find one of our favorite playgrounds, mainly because of the zip line. We parked our Tortuga right next to it. Dana whipped up her famous, most delicious red-sauced pasta in about 20 minutes. The sunset was pink and gothic and glorious, making the clouds look like cotton candy. We ate a meal like normal humans around a table. We had Canadian Kit Kat for dessert, and jumped back in the truck in search of a place to sleep. These “night adventures” turned out to be some of our most memorable experiences. It was exciting for the kids, who got to stay up late. Plus, you are driving at dusk, when animals tend to be on the move.

For us parents, the long road days were the hardest ones. The kids have so much energy that being in the truck for many hours of the day is not conducive to falling asleep later. Thus, we tried to limit ourselves to no more than 3 hours on the road whenever possible. And every 3 or 4 days, take a full day off from driving. These were usually the best days.

Did I mention the word “tradeoff” earlier? Thank you, patient reader, for staying with us.

On the flip side of the operational oppression and physical exhaustion that comes built into an open-ended journey with kids lies a kind of freedom and beauty that I’ve never felt as a father. Being with my family, safe and sound, under one small roof, living with just what we need (plus at least 50 lovies, stuffies, or whatever you call them), and exploring the natural world together felt like the sweetest blessing of my entire life.

There was this sense of exhilaration in knowing that, no matter how much you plan, life will unfold as it does. Unplanned detours will happen, both positive and negative. Just outside Fairbanks, we got to see a massive flock of sandhill cranes fattening up, chatting up a storm, and doing their dance routines as they got ready to fly south. We decided to spend the entire day with them, going to the small visitors center at this Creamer Field Wildlife refuge and buying our kids a rare sandhill crane colt lovie they will treasure for a long time. Or that time we stopped driving in the Yukon to observe several groups of black bears feeding on the side of the road, so close we could hear them chewing the roots they were finding and munching on. And that extra night we spent at Liard Hot Springs to photograph the Hot Water Physa (Physella wrighti) led us to see the Northern Lights from a perfect location, in the middle of nowhere, with no light pollution. This experience was one of the most incredible moments of our lives.

So, to answer that nagging daily question above, where we slept never really mattered. Wherever we are on the map, if we are inside La Tortuga, we are our home. When we close that heavy silver door with our kids safely inside, some pasta sauce cooking, and do our nightly routine, we feel safe and cozy. The days typically end in warm, fuzzy feelings, priceless stories, and smiles on lips before we close our eyes and fall into a deep, hard-earned sleep. And because we didn’t have to rush the kids off to school the next day, we pretty much got to enjoy morning cuddles every single morning. The only thing that really changed for us was our view when we woke up, and if we arrived after dark the previous night, it was always fun to lift the shade and reveal where we were. The view ranged from mountains, prairies, and forests one day to public park bathrooms, gas stations, or trash dumpsters the next. And the truth is, it didn’t matter a whole lot, because we’d likely be driving away again later that day.

Driving days also had their positive aspects. On some days, typically during a longer drive when we let the kids watch a movie, Dana and I could have actual adult conversations.

We spoke about pretty much everything. We imagined places to live, and dreamed of how many dogs we would have if we ever stopped travelling. Can we have a St. Bernard if we live in Miami? Nahhh, the poor dog will suffer in the heat.

We laughed. We cursed like sailors (Ok, mainly I did). We listened to a few podcasts. We came up with many, many new business ideas. (Hopefully, some updates on that soon.) We shared our learning. We said our greatest fears and dreams out loud. We grew closer. Every minute of this trip, except when we were sleeping, was a test of our own communication and teamwork, so these conversations were critical. 13 years after our wedding, the journey clarified that my greatest stroke of luck is having her as a partner.

Eventually, we came to realize we are on so much more than a physical journey, but also a meta-journey as a family and as individuals. We towed La Tortuga, but after a while, it felt like she was towing us to places we call the “in betweens.” The lands that are far from airports are less traveled by humans and more traveled by wildlife. The environments and destinations you may have never heard of, but then surprise you and leave a mark on your heart until the end of your days.

And it dawned on us that this mode of travelling is actually a parable for our lives right now.

We are “in between” in almost every way. We are now in middle-aged years, somewhere “in between” youth and old age. We are no longer raising toddlers, but not yet raising teenagers. We are “in between” companies and careers. We are likely “in between” places to live. And as tricky as it’s been mentally to grapple with all these massive changes, as scary as it was to make the series of decisions that got us here, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that this voyage was the teacher we needed right now.

This is why, on the way back, we made a conscious, intentional decision to be more absent from the internet and social media, and more present for every second of this journey. This wasn’t from some preachy, holier-than-thou perch of parenting wisdom. It honestly felt like a necessary thing to keep our kids and ourselves safe, and to keep us adults somewhat sane.

We needed to devote any precious seconds of uninterrupted thought to process and reflect on all these intense experiences, and if we were fortunate, imagine what our future could look like.

We still took the photos and videos, but instead of rushing to share, we archived the footage, and as a result, relished our memories in a different, more personal way, the way we used to. Late at night or very early in the morning, I tried to journal, jotting down moments or experiences from the day. But usually, we just conked out while trying to get the kids to sleep, and any waking hours before the kids woke were spent savoring the silence and stillness.

And maybe this doesn’t need to be said, but I’ll say it anyway. All human beings these days are subconsciously grappling with the battle for our attention. We are constantly moving “in between” the physical and virtual worlds, continually toggling between the two, picking up and putting down our phones, thinking about our next post while also trying to live in the moment.

Nobody should have to apologize or feel bad for not being online. Being offline was critical for our family as we focused on ourselves and our needs. What is the price of an hour of sleep when your body feels destroyed? What is the price of being present with your child while they’re still young? Giving them the gift of your undivided attention when they really need it? We will never get these real-life moments back. We love you guys, but why would we trade a potentially beautiful real-life moment with our kids for a few extra Instagram followers or Substack dollars?

This trade-off didn’t make sense to us at the time.

For anyone struggling or needing a break from this highly unnatural digital world, I highly recommend taking virtual sabbaticals whenever possible. And now, as we return to the digital world, we feel we can be more purposeful about the stories and learning we choose to share.

Thank God our kids are doing well. We are so proud of our little road warriors, whose lives were upended for this adventure into the unknown. They soak up so much from each day, particularly any facts or tidbits about wildlife. We’ve found that art and drawing are excellent outlets for them to process all their experiences. They are also physically growing before our eyes—the shoes we brought at the beginning of the trip no longer fit. They are doing well in their online tutoring, too. We use an app called Outschool through which we’ve found some amazing teachers who are teaching the boys math and reading. The biggest challenge is that they are missing their friends and family. Vivi is probably missing real school the most, since the social component is so strong for younger children.

Was it all worth it? I believe so.

Are we continuing? For sure.

For all the hard work and challenges of this North American voyage, we’ve all learned a kind of resilience we didn’t know we had. We saw 8 out of 73 threatened species. Only 65 to go! We all grew in ways that we didn’t expect and have gotten closer as a family.

The reward at the end of this voyage was so sweet. After canoeing in the turquoise waters of Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies, hot springing and hiking as much as we could, we beelined to Boise to see some dear friends and repair the Airstream. Since they had older kids who could babysit, we had our first date night in 4 months! Our kids were so happy to be in a house with a dog; it made us emotional and really look forward to having one, or sixteen, of our own.

And then for the grand finale, we got to go back to the state where our boys were born, California. We couldn't wait to visit SF for the first time since we drove out of a locked-down city during the pandemic, towing our Airstream for the first time.

There is no better way to enter California than from the East. We left our dear friend’s home in Idaho, traversing the vast, barren Blackrock Desert of Nevada, which felt like a much-needed palate cleanser for our minds. After so much stimulation, it felt so refreshing to gaze upon an empty expanse. We found a campsite in the only bastion of civilization here, in a town called Winnemucca. The next morning, we ate pancakes at a local diner called the Griddle and kept driving.

The next thing we knew, gas prices shot up, along with the terrain, which meant we were back in California. We suddenly arrived in a majestic land of glacial lakes and some of the finest granite on Earth. The moment we made it here, back to this simple hot spring in the foothills of the Eastern Sierra, called Travertine, felt like a cellular recharge for our bodies and souls. We felt energized to be back in California, the boys screaming at the top of their lungs with excitement. It was another beautiful, full-circle moment for our family. The first hot spring we visited as a family when we fled California five years ago during the Pandemic in our Airstream. There’s no place quite like it. We stayed by Mono Lake, and the next morning we drove up the Tioga Pass and into Yosemite National Park, one of our all-time favorite drives.

It was such a full-circle moment going back to Yosemite National Park 5 years after we were fined for illegally squatting there during the pandemic. Ironically, it was now completely devoid of rangers due to the shutdown, and everyone just drove right through the gates without paying. We drove straight to the place John Muir described as the “Incomparable Valley.” We stayed and played in Yosemite Valley through sunset, admiring the brave climbers who were dangling off the granite more than halfway up a sun-kissed El Capitan.

We arrived after dark in our very last campsite of the trip, our 22nd unique campsite, 35 days since leaving Alaska, just outside Yosemite— the last stop for our Tortuga. I went to sleep with a sense of great relief and gratitude. We had arrived. The next day, we got a news alert that Trump had struck a deal to release the last hostages and end the Gaza war. It was a double relief.

We hiked up to the stunning Vernal Falls in Yosemite, feeling lighter in our steps, decompressing as we walked through the mist. We spent most of the week packing boxes, going to the post office to send stuff back to our parents’ house in Miami, cleaning, cooking, and styling the Airstream as best we could for our future guests. The kids were able to focus on their math, reading, and drawing classes. We did 6 loads of laundry, and our reward was a few full, magical days in Yosemite.

We’re still processing all the lessons from this voyage, but the biggest one thus far is just to be patient and gentle with ourselves, while living as consciously as possible, as we ride through these big life changes. The messy middle is certainly messier than a life of familiar routine, but this is not necessarily a negative thing if you’re doing what you love with people you love.

What I’m trying to say is that for anyone out there who might be reading this and is going through something similar or wrestling with the discomfort or confusion of a new chapter, there is no need to fear the “in between”. As hard and scary as it is, try to embrace it with an open heart. Connect with yourself and loved ones. Relish the chaos! As we’ve learned, “in between” is where the rare snails live, the best noodles are, and where growth happens quietly. And “in between” can’t last forever.

Speaking of Dana’s family, the whole gang flew up to Alaska to celebrate Monica’s 50th this summer. We had a pretty jam-packed itinerary while the family was here. After learning about what a local fishing guide called “a whale superhighway” in Resurrection Bay and the Kenai Fjords National Park, we figured it would be special to get the whole family on a wildlife expedition to look for rare marine mammals. In particular, we aimed to spot a fin whale (Balaenoptera physalus) or a sei whale (Balaenoptera borealis), both of which are enormous baleen whales, the 2nd and 3rd largest species on the planet, respectively, after the more well-known blue whale.

On a sparkling, sunny August afternoon, we boarded a large catamaran, the Kenai Fjords 360, on what was billed a “Major Marine Tour.” The goal of the trip, for just about everyone on board, was to see a whale. Typically, on these kinds of trips, you see humpback or orca whales, which delight the crowd and make this one of the most popular excursions for tourists visiting Alaska.

But we were looking for something different.

And so, as we were boarding, I asked one of the crew members, “I’m wondering if you think there’s a chance we will see a fin or sei whale?” I got a funny look and she said, “Say what?” I didn't know if she was kidding, so I repeated, “Are sei whale or fin whale seen around here?” and then she said, “Say it again.” Now I realized she was pulling my leg. Finally, she smiled and gave me some actual information. “We seldom see those species. I’ve been working here for two summers and have never seen one. Sorry, but there are very low odds of seeing one of those whales today. Deflated but appreciative of her “dad humor”, I reciprocated, yelling sarcastically, “Say it ain’t so” as I boarded the vessel with my good camera just in case.

Both of these remarkable species were nearly driven to extinction during the 20th century after being hunted for their meat and oil. Today, the primary threats include vessel strikes, entanglement in fishing lines, ocean noise, and climate change. They are considered endangered under the US Endangered Species Act. The sei whale, named for the word “pollock” in Norwegian since they often appear together, is also designated as depleted under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. The total population of sei whales in all U.S. waters is unknown. It’s estimated to be around 50,000 globally. Fin whales are named after the ridge line coming down from their dorsal fin. They are doing a bit better, with an estimated 100,000 individuals swimming in the seas.

We were just happy to be out on the water with our extended family, staring at these epic, ancient fjords and taking in the sunshine. As we entered Resurrection Bay, we saw a couple of otters frolicking on their backs, basking in the sunlight. They were nearly hunted to extinction for their incredible fur, but thanks to international efforts, they have received protection, have rebounded, and are no longer endangered. We took this duo as a positive omen.

All of a sudden, the ship came to a halt, and the captain came on the loudspeaker. “We’ve got a sighting of a fin at 11’ ’’clock. “We’re hoping it will come up again. Look towards the bow of the boat.” Suddenly, everyone on board was clamoring for a spot to see whatever it was the captain had spotted. After a few minutes of scanning the ocean’s surface for any signs of movement, a small dorsal fin came up about 500 yards away. I snapped furiously with my long lens, hoping to get a photo. I missed it. We waited another few minutes. This time, the whale came up even farther away from us. “There it is!” I heard someone scream. And everyone ran from the bow to the stern of the boat. The captain turned us around, and we tried to get another view. We waited again. It came up again, this time a little bit closer, but still quite far away. This time, my lens and eyeballs were facing the right direction. The second I saw some movement I snapped as many photos as i could. It was literally a split second before it came to the surface. I was pretty sure I had missed it. It turned out that I got one image of the whale.

Eventually, the captain came on the loudspeaker and said, “This is either a juvenile fin or a fully grown sei whale.” They were not really sure which. Either way, we're going to let him go on his way and go find some other whales.” I was both elated and frustrated. I couldn't believe we had seen one of these incredibly rare species, despite the crew members ’ pessimistic outlook. How is it that the captain didn’t know which one it was? And why can’t we follow it for a little bit longer?

I went down to the bridge and asked the captain which whale he thought it was. He said we were too far away to know. I showed him my photo, and he was still unsure. He said we were just too far to know for sure. He said that 999 out of 1000 times, they can identify the whale, but this is one of those rare cases where they just can’t. Of course, this whale is only unknown to us humans who have decided to construct a taxonomy of every creature on earth. The whale is likely not having an identity crisis.

We kept going on the designated route. We saw the Bear, Ailik, and Holgate glaciers from a distance. They were breathtaking.

And then, on the way back, we visited a colony of Steller Sea Lions (Eumetopias jubatus) where we got to observe them for a while. The western population of Steller sea lions, found mainly in the Gulf of Alaska, Bering Sea, and Russia, is listed as endangered under the US Endangered Species Act due to a rapid decline of 70-80% since the 1970s. The primary theory relates to a decline in the fatty fish they prefer to eat, such as herring, resulting from climate change; however, no one is yet sure why so many of them have died off. Fortunately, their numbers have stabilized since the early 2000s. Their barking and jockeying for position on the rocks was a thrill to see.

We continued searching for more whales, but unfortunately, we did not see any more—just a brief sighting of an unidentified whale. Maybe you can help ID it? ChatGPT was useless.

If not, it’s ok.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere. Perhaps it's that, in the age of artificial intelligence, where I can take a photo of a flower and get an instant ID of it, it’s kind of nice to have a bit of mystery still. Or maybe it’s just to teach us that there will always be unknowable things. I can live with that. The best part, after seeing the whale, of course, was when I bumped into the crew member again in the galley. She probably thought I was some male witch. She said, “You manifested it! I can't believe you literally said the Fin and Sei whales, and that’s what we saw! We never see those whales. You must be psychic.”

I smiled and said, “I must be.”

To make it slightly less creepy, I filled her in about Earth Parade and how we’re looking for endangered species, and that’s why I asked about those whales, but she still probably thought I had a 3rd eye.

Sometimes you have to say something, and the universe conspires to make it happen. This is the lesson of the Sei (or fin whale) for me. It's the inverse of that old moniker on the NYC subway to help prevent crime and theft, which goes, If you see something, say something.’

Our new motto here at Earth Parade is, “If you sei something, you might just see something.” Say the creature's name enough, and there’s a better chance it will reveal itself to you. There probably aren't any double-blind scientific studies to support this claim, but I do believe it works. Words and intent have power individually. And when you put them together, as in prayer, maybe, just maybe, they can alter reality. Or more likely, they alter your perception and awareness to notice reality differently. Try it and let us know how it goes.

As for our creature catalog, which is our ongoing tally of threatened species we’re celebrating, we have a bit of an ethical dilemma. We are definitely adding the Stellar sea lions, but in terms of which whale to add, what should we do? After a long deliberation, we decided we’re going to add both whales, even though we only saw one of them. We reason that it would be unfair to select just one, since it could have been the other one. And in a world where humpbacks and orcas get all the glory, we figured it can't hurt to celebrate BOTH of these two lesser-known whales. So that’s what we’re going to do.

Let’s start with some exciting and fun news. We just kicked off our first-ever brand collaboration with a company we know pretty well, the Wild Alaskan Company. Before showing you our first couple of videos we made with them, we wanted to share our thoughts on brand collaborations in general, and why we’re working with WAC in particular.

We want to start by saying, in this age of AI and social media confusing so many people about reality, that our commitment to truth and to basic journalistic ethics is sacrosanct. We aren’t writing this newsletter or making social media to put more junk information out there. On the contrary, we are reporting to you the world as we truly see it and understand it. We check facts and cite sources whenever possible, and to the best of our abilities. Any brand we work with, now and in the future, understands that our commitment to the truth comes first. Editorial decisions and judgments are ours alone, for better or worse. And if we get something wrong, which will happen from time to time, we will tell you immediately.

Another guiding principle for us here at Earth Parade is to do our part to conserve wild natural systems on Earth. This is why we’re going on this journey with our family. To learn about how humanity could and should function in concert with nature. To understand what healthy natural systems look like. And to learn about what happens when they break down. Passing down the ideas and wisdom of sustainability to the next generation is our raison d'être. We will never shill for any company that violates this core ethos.

The truth is that we are looking to partner with brands and organizations that not only do things right but also provide a blueprint for conservation. Sometimes it’s a hard thing to know. Fortunately, we know the Wild Alaskan Company well. Our brother-in-law, Arron Kallenberg, is the founder and has been telling us about the fisheries of Alaska since our very first conversation with him. We’ve been proud supporters of his entrepreneurial journey since the beginning. And now that we’re in Alaska, he’s helped open up doors for us to understand what this unique fishery is about truly.

We hope you enjoy the stories we’re creating with the Wild Alaskan Company. And if you do, we have an ask. Please re-share them, comment on them, and like them. This helps us continue to do the work we’re doing at Earth Parade. To see them live as they come out, follow us on Instagram. If you’re not on social media, don’t worry, you are not missing anything. We will share them all here as well, with even more context.

And with that, we want to leave you with our first two videos, which are at the bottom of this post. One is a fun little poem, and the second shows Dana cooking our delicious, simple sockeye salmon recipe in our Airstream, which is detailed below as well.

Finally, if you’re interested in trying the same fish we’ve been buying for 9 years now, here’s a code (EARTHPARADE30) for you to get $30 off your first box from Wild Alaskan Company. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

Wild Sockeye Salmon (thawed)

Salt

Pepper

Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Butter (optional)

Sprigs of Thyme (optional)

Method:

I always start by putting the frozen salmon in some water to thaw out in the packaging for 30 minutes before I want to cook it.

While my salmon is thawing, I lightly peel my asparagus and wash them.

Once the salmon is thawed, I take a paper towel to pat it very dry on both sides, which ensures the skin gets crispy and has a nice sear on the flesh side.

I generously coat with kosher salt and pepper or whatever simple seasoning is around that won’t be too spicy for the picky children.

Next, I heat a non-stick pan to a medium-high heat. You want that pan hot, and you want to hear the sizzle as soon as you put the fish on. Add some olive oil, and place the fish in the pan, flesh side down. I like to get that flesh nice and seared for about a minute and a half. Then I flip it to be skin-side down for the last 6 to 7 minutes of cooking so that the skin can get extra crispy. Sometimes this sets off our crazy smoke detectors in the airstream, but it’s worth it for that crispy skin. (Smoke detector clip)

I try not to touch it at all during that time and let it finish crisping unbothered.

You can put some butter in the pan for the last 2 minutes of cooking, maybe some sprigs of thyme as well, but it’s not necessary and will be delicious either way.

By the end, you should have nice and crunchy salmon skin, which I always serve skin side up to preserve and show off that beautiful crisp skin and prevent it from getting soggy too quickly.

Our kids like us to flake it up for them and mix it with the rice. Sometimes we add corn or scallions with soy sauce to make the rice more interesting.

We’ve prepared it in several more elevated ways, but this simple preparation is the clear winner for getting the kids to finish their plates and ask for more. Vivi steals all the crispy fish skins. She knows what’s up. It makes us feel so good as parents feeding this to our kids, knowing that we are giving them one of the most nourishing and beneficial proteins out there. Wild Salmon is a superfood because it is rich in omega-3s, antioxidants, and vitamins that support so many vital organs and systems in the body.

We hope you enjoy our humble recipe and make it for you and your loved ones. Please let us know if you do!

When I was a kid, some of my favorite snacks were Fruit Roll-ups, Gushers, and Fruit by the Foot. My house wasn't a huge junk food house, but these chewy gummy candies were somehow permitted. Every week, we would head to Publix, and my parents would let me choose one of these to enjoy at home. It was the late 80s/early 90s, so we were blissfully unaware of the adverse effects of the food dye Red 40. These were the only candies we had in my house, so I savored each chewy, sweet, strawberry-flavored bite with my after-school episode of Saved by the Bell.

A few decades and three kids later, I’m in Alaska. Fruit rollups were the farthest thing from my mind as I was trying to survive the day, sick as a dog, with what I would later find out was probably Covid, driving up a windy road, trying to understand why I was feeling so lethargic and weak. With the turquoise Susitna River on our right, we were headed up to Hatcher's Pass, a high mountain landscape reminiscent of the Swiss Alps. As we got up into the higher elevations, we noticed people on the side of the road bent over, peppering the landscape with their orange buckets. Wild blueberries were tucked away in the bushes all around, so we pulled over and went for a bit of forage in this stunning alpine valley crisscrossed by creeks hidden by shrubs and berry trees. I was struggling to move, so I rested by the creek while Jaron and the kids went picking.

They picked these tiny and tart but sweet wild blueberries, and I thought, why not try to turn them into roll-ups? We have gradually attempted to replace the things they love that contain Red 40 with healthier alternatives. Today, we understand that this ubiquitous ingredient that is found in so many of our favorite childhood snacks and cereals is actually quite damaging, especially to children. We now know that Red 40 is linked to allergic reactions, digestive and inflammatory issues, neurological and behavioral impact, and potential DNA damage. How could we continue to give our children foods that contain this toxic ingredient?

Blueberries, in contrast, are so good for you! They're a superfood, with this laundry list of health benefits, with powerful antioxidants that reduce stress and inflammation, potentially protecting against several chronic diseases. I was excited to use them as the star ingredient in a roll-up for my kids. Since we got so many, dehydrating the fruit is a great way to save space in our small airstream fridge, as well as making for an easy and convenient car snack. We have been experimenting with various versions of this nostalgic snack for a couple of years now. Our kids loved the mango rollups we made last mango season in Miami.

We were also lucky to have a wild raspberry bush at our campsite, so they went picking there too. With the abundance of berries and too little time to eat them all, we decided jams and homemade fruit roll-ups would be a nice way to preserve and use them before they spoil. We bought rhubarb at the farmers’ market, and while we would usually make some version of a crumble or crisp with that, we decided it could be delicious in the roll-ups too. The jams/compotes are basically just the fruit boiled down and reduced to a jam-like consistency. They are delicious on their own, as an oatmeal topping, pancake/waffle topping, or pureeing and then making dried fruit leather. (aka fruit roll-ups). We opted for a bit of both and saved a jar of jam and used the rest for the roll-ups.

Homemade Fruit Roll-Ups Recipe (makes about 12 roll-ups):

What you’ll need:

• baking sheet

• parchment paper

• scissors

• blender or vitamix

• small to medium saucepan for reducing berries

Ingredients:

1-2 pounds of fresh fruit (we used berries and rhubarb, but I’m sure other fruits would work well too)

1/2 cup of granulated light brown sugar

2 tsp fresh squeezed lemon

1/4 tsp fresh lemon zest (optional)

Method:

Wash and chop up your fruit and place it in a small or medium saucepan, uncovered. Then add in the sugar and the lemon juice.

Put that on a low simmer for about 10-15 minutes or until the fruit starts to get bubbly and boiling. Allow it to boil down and reduce until the fruit thoroughly softens and takes on a jam-like consistency. After about 15 minutes or when the fruit looks softened, turn off the heat. Let it cool down and then place the fruit in a blender or Vitamix to puree. While the fruit is cooling, you can preheat your oven to 350 degrees and line two baking sheets with parchment paper. I like to use scissors and cut the paper to the size of the baking sheet to ensure there is a neat border once the puree is spread on the baking sheet. This also makes for a nicer finish when rolling them up once they are dry.

Once you have a smooth fruit puree, take a rubber spatula and carefully and evenly spread a thin layer of the puree on the parchment paper. Try to keep the puree thick enough that you don't see the parchment paper beneath it, but thin and even enough that it will properly dehydrate. You will need to do this slowly, patiently, and gently. Try to avoid holes and keep the layer as smooth and even as possible. This is the most challenging part of the process, as it requires patience and persistence.

Make sure the baking sheet is evenly covered in the puree, and then pop it into your preheated oven for about 10-15 minutes, depending on your oven. These can start burning very quickly, so you will want to start checking on them after about 10 minutes. What you are looking for is that they start drying out without burning. When you check them, make sure there are no more wet puddles. A good trick that worked well for us after several burnt batches is to turn the oven off when the rollups are not completely dry, when they are slightly tacky, before they burn. Then, turn the oven off and leave the sheet pan in the oven to finish dehydrating for about another 15-20 minutes.

After your layer of fruit is completely dry, you can take it out and start cutting it up and rolling it up. You can make big ones or small ones; it’s really up to your personal preference. We did small ones to ensure we had enough for everyone.

We tried a few flavor combinations. First, we did a simple raspberry lemon. Next, we used the sour wild blueberries from Hatcher's Pass and made a Blueberry lime flavor, which was quite tart and sour, but the kids loved it. They tasted just like Sour Patch Kids, but better.

Lastly, we did strawberry rhubarb, which was also a huge hit. The combinations are endless, and it’s a really simple and fun project that you can do with the kids and send that Red 40 to the gutter for good. We hope you make and enjoy them. Please let us know if you do or if you have any good flavor combos to suggest, as we are properly addicted!

We moved so much in the past months that it feels like our brains are on a treadmill. Thoughts and feelings race out of our minds before we can catch them. The first move was out of our house, and on that same day, we began a 6,007-mile journey from Miami, Florida, to Homer, Alaska. The distance is not actually the crazy part. The crazy part was doing it over 30 days with three energetic young kids, while sharing 180 square feet of living space, and one toilet!

We averaged more than 200 miles of driving per day, which meant that we were usually in the truck for over 4 hours a day. Our kids turned into road warriors, and remarkably, spent a fair chunk of the time not on screens. Even more remarkably, they didn’t complain once and were bursting with genuine excitement nearly every day. We stayed in national parks, state parks, RV parks, and once on the side of the road. We camped in 27 different places, only staying in two places twice. This means we were moving, packing, and unpacking most days. Miraculously, we managed to search for three threatened species along the way!

Our Tortuga (Airstream) has seen better days. She was forced to go at a hare’s pace instead of a turtle’s. Despite the warnings we received from fellow travelers, we completely underestimated how bad the road was in the harrowing last leg of the Alaska-Canada Highway, from Whitehorse, Yukon, to Tok, Alaska. We tried to go slow, but still got caught in some unexpected sections of bumps that felt like a roller coaster, producing those butterflies in the stomach sensations. When we opened the door of the trailer afterward, it looked like a 9.0 magnitude earthquake had hit our Airstream. Shelves were open and emptied everywhere. Underwear, jackets, and onions were strewn about the floor. The road was so bad, in fact, that both our kitchen cabinets flew off the hinges and broke, and the cast-iron grill range cover broke into many pieces. We had a spaghetti sauce spill on the floor, a brand new extra-large peanut butter jar crack open on a shelf, and when we got to Anchorage and filled up water to take a much-needed shower, we realized our freshwater tank's valve had cracked and was leaking. On top of all that, our daughter managed to short-circuit all our bedside reading lights after yanking on one of them. Thankfully, these are all minor issues and are mostly fixed now.

Most importantly, we all made it here in one piece.

Every night on the road in the Tortuga feels like a minor miracle when we see our kids finally fast asleep in their cozy bed, knowing that it will transform into our breakfast table in too few hours. When the last dish is done, the floor mopped, and it’s finally time for us to go to sleep, our heads hit the pillow, and it’s lights out. We were moving so fast that even our dreams could not catch up with us. Sleep is profound, deep, and dark when it finally comes. The lack of writing is due to sheer exhaustion, lack of power or internet, and mainly, lack of time. During so many consecutive long days on the road with kids, every second is accounted for.

As a result of the above, we didnt really pay attention to much news or social media. When we did, it made us understand how our news consumption during more stationary life affects our psyche. Sure enough, Israelis and Palestinians were still killing and fighting, Russia and Ukraine ditto, and now even Elmo is anti-semitic? Do we really need to monitor these stories so closely or is it saner to focus on bison herds, the weather, or literally anything else?

We were saddened to learn of these terrible tragedies in summer camps. First, there was that awful story of the flash flood at Camp Mystic. And then on the day we arrived in Alaska, we learned that 3 little girls lost their lives in a sailing accident at the same Miami sailing camp our kids went to last summer, and probably would have gone to this summer had we remained in town. One of the girls was our friend’s beloved 10 year old daughter, Ari. We were so heartbroken to learn this news. We still are. The perspective of a tragedy that hit close to home heightened our sense of gratitude for simply being lucky enought to have the job of parents to these three wonderful children.

As we allude to in our Pinworm Vision Quest post, a trip like this felt like a pressure cooker, or a kind of stress test for our family and for us as a couple. We had so many challenging moments where we had to maintain composure when everything was going sideways. We weren’t perfect. Not even close. We lost our cool plenty. But we got enough reps in to notice improvement. We saw each kid in a new light and became acutely aware of their individual challenges and abilities. We discovered new ways to channel their creative energies. The kids now understand that we are there for them in a way that may have been clear before, but now we hope feels cemented.

We have so much more to reflect on from this humbling journey, but for now, we are just thankful for our safety, health and for the community of friends who encouraged us to chase this dream. We are looking forward to the opportunity to be here in one place for a while. We are very ready to slow down and focus on learning about local plants and wildlife, after taking one big, long exhale. We don’t want to think about the fact that we will eventually have to drive back! We feel guilty that we didn’t write too much about Canada, especially Jaron, as an actual Canadian. On the return leg, we hope to spend a bit more time in the 51st state. Only kidding about that last jab, ey. We don’t need to worry about these silly politics for now. We’re here in Alaska. The Last Frontier. Together. A family of 5 alive in 2025. Full of gratitude. Curious minds. Open hearts. Let’s go 🐢

In the middle of the night, one of our kids (usually our deepest sleeper) woke us up frantically in an agitated state, complaining of an itchy butt. This was now the 3rd night in a row. A few nights earlier, the same thing happened. We examined it and saw nothing obviously wrong, so we put on some Sudocrem cream and hoped that would do the trick. Then again, the following night, our child came to our bed in the middle of the night with an itchy but visually perfect-looking butt. We found an anti-hemorrhoid cream and tried that one this time. Tonight our child came into our bed and was more itchy than ever. The poor kid was thrashing and kicking and inconsolable.

We didn’t know what to do, so we tried both creams and prayed for a miracle. We were up all night. The next morning, while waiting for the truck to be serviced, we called the best concierge doctor in Miami, Dr. Michael Gilinsky, who also happens to be Jaron’s dad and who always gets the first call for all the bizarre viruses and bugs we’ve picked up over the years. We explained what’s been going on, and he said that the most likely culprit here is pinworms. He said we could go in for labs to prove it empirically, which will take some days, or we can treat it using some harmless medications, keep moving, and hope for the best. So that’s what we did. After the prescription option was out of stock in Country Drugs in Sturgis and bizarrely cost nearly $2,000, we tried this $13 over-the-counter formula called Reese’s that we hoped would stop the itch.

Jaron came back to the Tortuga with new oil in the truck and anti-parasite meds in his pocket. When he got back, the three kids were maniacally running shirtless on the trail that circumnavigates the lake. The midday sun was hot, and the wind was brisk and blowing strongly. The kids were all happy not to be stuck driving that day. They were feeling wild and free. Even the one with the itchy butt was feeling it.

Seeing the kids hollering and hooting, their moppy heads of hair dwarfed and disappeared by the cattail grasses blowing against this perfectly blue sky, a brown holy mountain rising up behind them from the plains like an anomaly, covered in bright green grass. They ran into Jaron’s arms, and he hoisted each one into the air, feeling their silky, smooth, cold skin in his fingertips, as they screamed in delight. It was this moment of poetry among the chaos.

We typically don’t split up while traveling. We like to stick together. So when we are reunited, even after just a morning of mundane errands, it feels heightened, like a blessing. Everyone in the family drank the Reese’s syrup per the pharmacist’s advice. We then ate the leftover salmon and rice from last night, refried with Japanese Barbeque Sauce, and went to Bear Butte Mountain for a walk. It was serene, a place that felt instantly spiritual to us as we drove the Tortuga up to its base. A herd of buffalo grazed on the green grass, which was gyrating and whistling in the wind. The sky felt like an infinite blue portal. We went to get advice about the hike to make sure we knew if there were any treacherous sections, which there were, according to the former B-52 pilot who was managing the facility.

We picked out little gifts for the kids and learned about the Sioux and Lakota histories on this land, the buffalo, and the circle of life. We learned the special rules about not touching the colorful fabric cloths tied to the trees or the tobacco scattered on their roots. These are offerings to the spirits, to the ancestors. We learned that you can’t photograph specific spiritual items and that you can’t scream. We learned that this is not just a historical site. It is an active spiritual retreat location, where people still come for vision quests, which involve a sweat lodge followed by days of solitude and fasting on this mountain with the vibes of Mount Sinai.

Finally, we were ready to ascend. After about 10 steps, Vivi had a meltdown, so Jaron went back down to get her in the hiking backpack. Just when they returned, Luca wasn’t listening and was going off-trail and too close to the steep sections for our liking. Dana asked him not to touch the expensive camera, and he grabbed it anyway, accidentally knocking his lip in the process. Now he was sitting there blocking the pathway leading up to this holy mountain, crying. There were very clear rules about appropriate conduct on this mountain, and our kids were violating almost every single one of them. We would not go up this mountain today.

We managed to convince Luca to come down, and he eventually did, kicking and screaming. We realized that this trip cannot go on if the kids don’t listen to us. It’s a basic requirement for us, as parents, especially going out into the wild with our kids, that if not met, we cannot possibly move forward with. This is a hill worth dying on, metaphorically speaking. And so despite our deep desire to ascend, we cancelled the hike up and got back in the truck.

There are many situations that we realize are not worth fighting about, and we try to give our kids more leeway and freedom to learn on their own, the hard way. But when we are hiking a steep trail or in a place with wild animals, there is no margin for error. And so, in order to teach this basic lesson, about listening and respect for public spaces, we got all the kids down, back into the truck, and left Bear Butte. We hope to come back and visit this sacred place, and when ready, spend some more time there and perhaps even ascend it. But that day was not today. Today was a day for teaching our children a lesson that, if absorbed, will provide us the trust we need to protect us for this journey and beyond. Maybe that was what this sacred place had to teach us.

We drove to an actual hill that was apparently worth dying on, to the site of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, where General Custer and his men lost badly in a battle against the united Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. It felt like hollowed, sacred land. Gauging the mood and energy levels in the truck, and after the rough morning and nights we have had the past few nights, we decided to keep our kids buckled up and inside the AC this time. We drove through most of the memorial, which is laid out over a paved driving trail, with stops along the way. We got out of the truck briefly to stop, pay our respects to the men and the horses who died here, and snap a few photos. It was a charged place, and we were sad to have to rush through it.

This is the other lesson for travelling families, especially with kids this age. Sometimes life will throw you temper tantrums in the worst moments, or pinworms in the middle of the night. You will not see everything you hoped to see. Not even close. You will not see most things in the guidebooks or even in your stripped-down, hopeful itinerary. Get over it. Be grateful for what you can see and do when the spirits are high and the bodies are healthy. Truly savor each experience. Talk about it the next day and count it as a blessing. Speaking of blessings (or modern science), the Reese’s (pieces) worked! No more itchy butts. Thank God.

We will never forget Bear Butte. With all due respect to this sacred land, Butte Mountain will forever be a double entendre for our family as the place where we battled those wretched butt parasites. More significantly, it became the site of a parental vision quest of sorts, where we were challenged profoundly, learned patience, taught a lesson, and had a last stand of our own.

Such was believed to be the fate of the only ferret native to North America, the black footed ferret, Mustela nigripes, when the last one died in captivity in 1979. But to steal the words attributed to Mark Twain, the reports of their death as a species turned out to be greatly exaggerated. Two years after they were thought to be extinct, in 1981, a ranch dog named Shep brought home a dead ferret to his owners, John and Lucille Hogg, who lived near Meeteetse, Wyoming. You’re a good boy, Shep, even if you may have killed one of the last remaining ferrets on earth, you’re still a good boy!

The Hoggs then reported the discovery, leading to the identification of one surviving wild population of around 20 black footed ferrets. Scientists swooped in and began a captive breeding program, which was moderately successful, bringing the ferrets back to some of their ancestral lands in Wyoming, Montana, and South Dakota. Today, about 400 wild black footed ferrets are prancing on Earth.

We towed our Airstream to Badlands National Park with a mission to find one of these cute little predators. But first, we needed to understand the behaviors of their arguably even cuter prey, the prairie dog, whose own demise is the reason black footed ferrets found themselves on the brink of extinction. Prairie dogs, which are not in fact dogs, are an herbivorous burrowing ground squirrel that make up 90% of the ferret’s diet. We went to one of several establishments outside the park where you can buy a bag of peanuts to feed these little guys and get close-up videos like this one.

After watching prairie dogs play and eat and wondering how many peanuts they can eat before exploding, we were ready to find wild ferrets. We went to the Ben Reifel visitor center and got to meet with a young, long-haired male ranger who was the resident expert on the ferrets, despite the fact that he is yet to see one in the wild. He said he’d gone on 6 expeditions with biologists to find them and had struck out every single time. But he said that while it is unlikely to find one, it is possible, and circled 3 places on the map where they were more likely to be, including a place called Roberts Prairie Dog Town. He told us to use our headlights to scan the prairie, looking out for two green neon lights close together, which are the ferret eyes.

We left the campsite just after sunset, which was around 9:30 pm. The kids all had their warm clothes on, headlamps in their packs, and full bellies. Despite having the odds stacked against us. We were excited for another “night adventure” to try and encounter an animal that, honestly, none of us even knew existed a few months ago. We loaded everyone back in the truck in search of these rare polecats and drove off into a pitch black night in the Badlands.

To understand why black footed ferrets are nearly extinct, you just need to look at this graphic below. The traditional grassland biome known as the “prairie”, stretching from Northern Mexico into Canada, was about 600 acres before the Europeans. Today, due to plowing for crops such as corn, wheat, and soybeans, cattle grazing, and urban expansion in America’s “heartland”, the prairie is now only about 100 acres in size and is highly fragmented and degraded.

The decline of the prairie has meant the decline of prairie dogs, the ferret’s primary food sources, which are widely considered an agricultural pest. And so, as 95% of prairie dogs and their grassland habitat was eliminated, too went the black footed ferret, which needs about 100 acres of prairie habitat for a single ferret family to survive. Additionally, both prairie dogs and ferrets are highly susceptible to sylvatic plague, a bacterial disease introduced from Asia, which has devastated many remnant populations.

Today, about a third of the entire population of black footed ferrets call Badlands National Park home, and when we read about the plight of these cute little guys, we decided that we had to drive through their territory to try and find one of them. We knew the odds would be low, but we wanted to give it a shot.

The turnoff towards Roberts Prairie Dog Town led us down an empty, bumpy dirt road, with burrows bulging up randomly on the surface of the ground like acne on a teenager’s face. The mounds seem to stretch as far as the eye can see. At first, we couldn’t see anything, but eventually we spotted a couple of prairie dogs, and next to them were a pair of very small burrowing owls hanging out along the edges of a mound. With no sign of the ferret, we kept on driving slowly and on high alert. The kids were climbing into the front seat. We drove for about another 30 minutes and never spotted the ferrets. We decided to turn around to take a picture of the sign, and when we came upon the sign, Dana spotted two green lights. She alerted everyone to try and be very still and quiet, not an easy task for this crew, but they obliged. We took a closer look, and when it turned, it was not a ferret, but it a big-horned sheep right there staring back at us. Everyone was still very excited.

We explored all 3 places the ranger mentioned, keeping our eyes peeled closely to the side of the road, realizing that wildlife was everywhere. Now and then, one of us thought we saw it, but nothing conclusive. Dana spotted another new animal that was very cleverly camouflaged with the grass on the side of the road. “It’s a porcupine!” she exclaimed and made Jaron reverse the truck. Nobody believed her, but as we approached, Jaron stepped out of the car and confirmed it was indeed an extremely well-hidden porcupine. How did she see that? Another new animal to add to our bio list. There was a lot of hoopla around the porcupine, too, but sadly, no sign of the black footed ferret.

We knew that seeing endangered species in the wild would be quite a challenge. And realized that while spotting these creatures and having a real encounter with them is certainly a great goal to have, the thing that matters more is the attempt. It’s having the thought in your head to see these creatures. Talking about them, writing about them, keeping them top of mind in a world whose priorities lie elsewhere. It’s a contrarian idea.

But for our family, going out and looking for ferrets that night with our kids in our truck was the recipe for a most memorable night. Our kids will never forget the animals we did see, and the feeling of anticipation when the headlights of the truck bounced off two green little lights.

Could it be the black footed ferret?

We didn’t see the ferret that night, and the next night we had to leave the Badlands as we couldn’t reserve a spot for longer. We had to move on, and we were at peace with it.

It made us understand that our family's mission of encountering 73 threatened species may be the right one; it’s not the encounter that matters most. It’s the attempt. It’s keeping alive of this creature alive in our minds. The thrill of going out into the bush and never knowing what you’ll see. We may never see a black footed ferret in the wild, and that’s ok. We are proud of our effort and putting ourselves in the right place to get lucky. 2 out of 3 kids fell asleep on the way home. The next day, we bought a black footed ferret stuffed animal at the visitors’ center. That may be the closest we’ll get to a black footed ferret this time.

And don’t miss this interview with John Hogg talking about Shep, the legendary ranch dog!

Somehow, in the chaos of the final stretch of yet another 5 hour car ride, we hadn’t even noticed the Earth and Sky Dignity Statue, a striking 50-foot stainless steel statue honoring the Lakota and Dakota tribes, depicting a Native American woman wearing a star quilt. We turned around and drove a few miles back to see it, and learned the pattern is a significant symbol of respect in Native American culture. We are glad we did. We feel a strong connection to the indigenous tribes who lived on this land for millennia only to be decimated in far more recent history.

After some much needed fresh air, we finally crossed the Missouri River when we saw a menacing, grey cloud darkening in the distance. “We’re headed straight towards that, aren’t we?”

There was nothing we could do. We were trying to get to Badlands National Park before dark. However, first, the weather gods forced us to endure an intense storm, which brought heavy rain and strong winds that made the trailer sway behind us. We had to turn on the hazards and slow down to 30 miles per hour when the visibility became non-existent. After a stressful 20 minutes, the storm suddenly cleared, revealing a spectacular sunset. There were thick, heavy, light grey clouds covering most of the sky, except for this horizontal band of fluorescent pink sunlight that stretched across the horizon. The light remained with us for the rest of our drive, as we followed it west into the badlands.

After so many days of maize, these bizarre and surprising rock formations suddenly just appear out of nowhere and make you question your sanity. These misshapen, rocky drip castles jut out of the surrounding prairie like aberations in a sea of plainness, like rebel children that are not ever going to conform. And as you drive in you realize there are more of them. And maybe it was the red light of the sunset, but we felt as if we were driving into Mars.

The next day when we woke up, the true colors came out, an ombre fading from a light sand to a mustard to a red rust and everything in between. The passage of 35 million-plus years of geological time is evident in each layer of sediment. It’s hard to imagine that this now dry and vast terrain was once the bottom of the ocean floor. Fossils of 50-foot-long prehistoric sea reptiles, known as mosasaurs, have been discovered here.

The name "Badlands” originates from the Lakota word mako sica, which literally translates to “bad lands”. They presumably gave it that name because the rugged terrain is extremely difficult to traverse and inhabit. The area features steep slopes, jagged canyons, minimal water sources, extreme temperatures, and slick, muddy conditions during rain, all of which combine to make survival very challenging. We were fortunate to secure a campsite for two nights in the Sage Creek campground within the national park, offering both power and water, making survival here easier than it used to be. We booked it a month or so in advance, hoping the dates would work out, and luckily they did.

We got to site 15 in the Agate section of the campground just before dark. That meant quickly hooking up the RV, turning our dining table into a bed for the kids, and getting everyone to bed. RV life is a daily monastic practice, especially when you're constantly on the move. The bedtime routine involves wrangling all the kids back into the Airstream. While they are inside this small space, one of us converts the family dining table into a platform that serves as the bed for all three children, while the other manages showering them one by one, as there is no bathtub. Once the bed is made, we grab our trusty quilt blanket and the pillows and make the bed as cozy as possible. We then quickly sweep and use a wet Swiffer on the floor as a final step before getting everyone ready for bed.

When we woke up the next morning, the temperature dropped by 40 degrees, and it was in the 50s. It was refreshing to finally open up the windows, turn off the AC, and feel a cool breeze flowing through the Tortuga. Reversing the action we had taken less than 12 hours earlier, we transformed the bed back into a table and cooked up some waffles, crispy turkey bacon and fried eggs. Then, we headed to the visitor center named after the first Lakota member of the US House of Representatives, Ben Reifel.

We went there for more information on how to see the critically endangered black footed ferrets. They are so rare that most rangers have not seen them. We learned that there was only a small population of about 125 of them in this area, which is about 1/3 of their population on Earth. The ranger said that the odds of seeing them are extremely low, and to do so, we would have to go out after dark, as they are nocturnal creatures.

This meant we had yet another night adventure in store, but more on that later. First, we had to find a way to get our children out of the Badlands gift shop filled with toys, stuffed prairie dogs, and all kinds of cool camping gear. Extracting our kids from a gift shop is a mission that requires us to turn into Navy SEAL Team 6 special forces soldiers, blocking exits, grabbing tiny toys out of tiny sweaty clutched palms, and using distraction tactics that Houdini might envy. “I’ve got the boys and we’re headed for the exits. Vivi has a prairie dog magnet in her hand and is running the wrong way. Intercept immediately. Copy, copy?”

The first hike we did was the Door Trail. As you start, you are greeted by a path of luminous wild prairie sunflowers that tower over the trail on either side. The first part of the is on a boardwalk, which then spits you out onto a wide open trail where you can invent your path out of hundreds of permutations. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure style saunter. The kids were so excited to be out of the car and free to explore this new landscape, unlike anything they had ever seen before. We were pretty nervous to see them hopping and jumping from rock to rock, with them quickly reassuring us, “We are nature boys! We were born for this!” Meanwhile, Vivi was in full kitty cat character and was very happy exploring all the nooks and crannies, constantly reminding us in her squeaky kitty voice that “this is a kitty place.”

The walk was beautiful as we were now deeply immersed in the foreign-looking environment. The hike left room for creativity and open-ended play. The boys tested their (and our) boundaries while climbing up pretty high on the rocks, pretending to be big-horn sheep. The cool air and stimulating outdoor adventure made us all giddy and reinvigorated our spirits. After about 2 hours on the trail, we headed back to camp for spaghetti and hot showers, before going in search of the black footed ferrets.

It was coined “America’s Spa” way back in the 1800s, and it may even be America’s first-ever national park, after President Andrew Jackson claimed the area surrounding the spring as federal land in 1832, predating the creation of Yellowstone National Park. A century later, Hot Springs is where Eleanor Roosevelt came to receive treatments for ailments related to arthritis and rheumatism. Back then, if you had money and your skin was the right color, you could obtain a prescription from a doctor for a 21-day stay at a bathhouse.

We were hoping to find a natural hot spring where we could take the kids, but apparently, “wellness” is not something kids need. Alas, there is no such place here. The only way to access the water is by visiting one of the few active bathhouses and hotels on the famous “Bathhouse Row,” which is connected to the natural hot spring that pumps water from the earth at a scalding 143 degrees Fahrenheit.

We visited one of the original bathhouses, the Fordyce Bathhouse Museum, which is now part of Hot Springs National Park. Since its closing in 1969, the bathhouse has been converted into a well-preserved museum. It felt as though we had taken a time machine back to the beginning of the 20th century, making it easy to imagine what it would be like to be a patient checking in at that time. The impressive mosaic-tiled floors and stained-glass windows decorated all three floors. Everything, from the antique hinges to the ornate sconces and the wood-floored gymnasium, was meticulously detailed. There were also excellent exhibits about the fascinating geology of the area, as well as about turn-of-the-century therapeutic treatments.

As self-proclaimed hot springs aficionados, or “thermophiles” because, like the rare bacteria, we too thrive in mineral-rich, warm-water environments, we couldn’t leave Hot Springs without a proper soak. Due to the strict no-children policy, we knew we would have to split up. Jaron went at 8:00 am while everyone was still asleep and then would take the kids out for pancakes when Dana would get her soak. There were two choices: the more modern establishment or the one that still functioned the same way it had 100 years ago. We opted for the latter, hoping for an anthropological experience.

The Buckstaff is the only bathhouse that offers traditional thermal bathing treatments and has been in continuous operation since opening its doors in 1912. It remains the most well-preserved active bathhouse in Bathhouse Row. The tubs we soaked in apparently were the originals, which makes them over a hundred years old. We didn't want to entertain the thought exercise of how many tushies touched those tubs before us.

We were not allowed to take pictures once inside, but everything started in the blue and white changing room, where we were greeted by an attendant and then wrapped in a drapey toga-like garment. Next, we were guided to the tubs, where you are then unwrapped and then plopped in. There were these steampunk antique-looking engine-like contraptions attached to the tub, which the bathhouse attendant switched on once you entered the water. Then, high-powered bubbles surrounded you in intense vibrations and pulsations. After 10 days on the road and living the RV life, which means constant packing, bending, contorting oneself in odd positions, lifting, sweeping, and more, the mineral-rich, steaming hot water pulsating aggressively on our bodies felt like medicine.

The next step in the traditional treatment, which cost exactly $101, was the “hot packs”. The attendant comes back to rescue you from the bath, only to re-wrap you in the sheet and escort you to a row of sterile metal tables, dressed in matching royal blue waterproof cushions that would not be out of place in a pediatrician's exam room. They give you ice-cold mineral water in tiny cardboard cups to drink while you wait. They then bring you four towels drenched in steaming mineral water and strategically place them wherever you are hurting. Then, one ice-cold freezing towel around your face, which feels incredible.

Next was the “steam cabinet”. After about 10 minutes under the hot packs, the attendant returns to adjust the toga once again and then walks you over to what appears to be a very slim closet with a metallic door and a little bench inside. You sit on the bench, and the bottom half of the metal door closes, while the top stays open. Two matching metal lids with a semi-circle cut out close around you, leaving only your head exposed above them. So your head is popping out, and the rest of your body is trapped inside a mini personal sauna. The temperature is extremely hot, and it feels like you're a rotisserie chicken being roasted in its oven. One could easily imagine Al Capone or one of the other gangsters using this device to force a confession or leaving someone who didn’t pay their debts in there for a little too long. After 10 minutes, the attendant comes back with a pitcher of ice water, which you are very grateful for at this point.

Then came the sitz bath. This is another disturbingly old mini tub that’s sunken into the ground. The attendant tells you to get in, and you basically park your derriere in the tub, while your legs dangle out, flopping awkwardly outside the tub. The hot water is said to heal ailments such as hemorrhoids and lower back pain. We had a difference of opinion as to whether this was enjoyable or not; we’ll let you guess who liked it and who did not.

Lastly, comes the “massage”. This was not anything to write home about. The massage therapist gives you a 20-minute half-hearted rubdown when what you're aching, forty-something-year-old muscles need is a deep-tissue, 90-minute session.

After the treatments, it was almost 100 degrees outside and very sunny, and we came out of there blissed out and zonked, ready to plunge into a cold river, which is precisely what we did. Luckily, we were camped right on the Gulpha Creek in the Gulpha Gorge campground, which is the only campsite in the National Park.

Full hookups (electric, water, sewer) right next to a beautiful, child-friendly body of water is pretty much the ideal scenario for us right now. The boys were entertained for hours, catching crayfish, rock sliding, and skipping stones, while keeping an eye out for brown water moccasins. Vivi was happy tiptoeing around the creek. It was the perfect reprieve after the oppressive heat and humidity of the low country.

Finally, after a long, hot day in Hot Springs, we needed a good meal. So we went to former president Bill Clinton’s favorite hometown spot, McLard’s, for the best BBQ in town. Being from Hot Springs can maybe explain why Clinton was so comfortable in hot water ;) Seriously, though, rumor has it that he regularly shipped this barbecue into the White House, and we get it. We arrived just before closing at 7:00 pm and snagged their last half chicken. This historic BBQ joint has been open since 1928. We were told that the recipe for their famous BBQ sauce was a barter between a customer who did not have money to pay for their meal, so in exchange, they traded the recipe for what became their famous sauce. When we walked into the restaurant, a nostalgic comfort surrounded us. Everything, from the red booths to the retro dining bar with matching stools, felt like we had time-traveled back to the 1940s when the place was last remodeled. It was cozy, inviting, and the service was impeccable. The kids were excited as they had never seen a place like this; they were bouncing off the booths and the walls alike.

Along with the chicken we had, dry rub ribs, coleslaw, BBQ beans, and good ‘ol Texas toast Wonderbread. The sauce was smoky and tangy, and paired perfectly with the bright, finely chopped slaw, which added freshness to the meal. The chicken skin was crisp to perfection, and the blueberry cobbler à la mode was gone before two shakes of a lamb's tail. The waitress gifted the kids gumballs, and we left the place with full bellies and happy hearts.

We arrived back at camp just in time for firefly hour. Being from Miami, we don’t get to experience this magical phenomenon. The kids pulled out the family jar and got to business, catching and releasing the glowing critters. Watching them gleefully hopping around and catching the fireflies in ecstasy is a favorite family pastime that we don’t take lightly. It was a magical ending to a perfect day. Hot Springs felt like a turning point and a much-needed respite before the long road ahead.

The pace and intensity of this trip are far greater, and frankly, not what we had hoped for. We can’t possibly find threatened species if we’re constantly on the move. We can’t make films or art. We can’t even get out a weekly Subtack post! None of this is possible when we have a deadline and a lot of distance to travel. The distance is not the problem. The deadline is. We’ll explain why we’re rushing in a subsequent post, but in the meantime, here’s a promise: Once we arrive in Alaska, La Tortuga will be taking it slow again.

As a result of all this crazy hustle, compounded by the hundred-degree heat and fried everything, we all feel a bit delirious. Our kids are misbehaving at every opportunity, a level of rebellion that we’ve never seen in our little ones before. It’s not their fault. We took them from running around from morning to night with their friends to spending more time with each other and us, while driving great distances and spending many hours in vehicles.

We have had temper tantrums, irrational outbursts, and boys sitting on sidewalks in Fayetteville, Arkansas, refusing to move. Minutes earlier, we gave them the mint chocolate chip ice cream fudge crepe named after a grasshopper, and exchanged looks while watching them hop around the restaurant, knocking into every sentient being in the establishment. Taking our kids into a civilized restaurant after a 5-hour car ride is like unleashing feral dogs in a chicken coop. We have been exchanging many looks of dismay, desperation, and despair, but at the end of the day, this is kinda what we signed up for. We also need to remind ourselves that we are all still adjusting to this new reality. At the core of this odyssey is a feeling of optimism that we will find a flow, and the rich, life-affirming experiences will outweigh the tough moments.

On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again
I can't wait to get on the road again

On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way

With Willie Nelson blaring like a daily pledge of allegiance to a nomadic existence, we drive off to the next stop. Wait, are we still in Florida?

We love Florida so much that we drove the entire damn peninsula. After leaving the Space Coast, we cut inland and drove through the Ocala National Forest on July 4th, stopping at one of our all-time favorite springs, Juniper Springs. We had a refreshing swim and picnic until the storms forced everyone out of the water. We snagged a beautiful campsite in Paynes Prairie, got settled, and then went to Gainesville for Jaron’s first trip back since graduating 23 years ago. His favorite restaurant, the Top, was still there but had expanded. Its burgers are still delicious. The red pool table is now outside. We then drove through campus at night. The little ones fell asleep, and we got to regale Ori with semi-kid-friendly college stories.

The next day, we did a short hike in Paynes Prairie, saw wild bison in the binoculars, and got back to the airstream to pack up (again) for a drive to the panhandle. We’re big fans of the so-called “Redneck Riviera,” mainly because the beaches are some of the most beautiful ones we’ve ever laid eyes on, and the people are real Southerners, which means they are typically friendly, unless you cross them, and then you will promptly be shot.

We nabbed the last spot in Topsail State Park and quickly drove to Santa Rosa for sunset. We fished with a trio of Louisiana twenty-something boys who were catching sand fleas and fishing while getting scolded by girls. We came home to find white, flaky beach sand spread all over our floor, wet bathing suits on the griddle, and laundry already spilling out of our hamper. We cleaned up the griddle and warmed up leftover pizza.

The next morning, we got up early, and D made peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches for a beach picnic. We had an ambitious plan to get our fam on the tram at 9 am. The reason is that Topsail Beach is a special place. It is set on this gorgeous, preserved 3-mile stretch of beach, with a little reef to explore. No private cars are allowed. You can only bike or ride the State park-administered tram here. We wanted the kids to get a nice, last session in warm ocean waters, before we hitched up and drove north into the South.

It was spectacular and calm in the morning, but soon after the kids went in, we had to pull them out of the water briefly after someone spotted a shark. (The advantages and disadvantages of crystal clear waters!) But then we all went back in and savored every second of these swimming pool-like waters and silky white powdery sand.

We drove through Alabama, had dinner at the Blue Gill restaurant, which served standard Southern cuisine, and then arrived in Mississippi around dusk. We filled up our gas tank at a seedy gas station in Lucedale and then made our way to the Turkey Fort Recreation area, set on a little lake, to spend the night. We always check the federal site Recreation.gov and state park systems before private campgrounds to find spots, as there’s an incredible number of campgrounds that are not as well known or popular as the national parks or forests, but are clean, well-maintained, and set in beautiful locations. There are also nice private campgrounds, but they are typically a bit more cramped and located in less picturesque places.

After a morning swimming in the gator-rein lake at Turkey Fort, we cut West to Natchez State Park, which was eerily empty except for us and one other large rig. The kids had their own private Glastonbury festival in the mud on the outskirts of Natchez Lake. Just before leaving, we had a picnic of plums at the playground.

We crossed the great Mississippi River, which felt like such a profound moment, a turning point, a commitment to going West. We talked about the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn while cutting through Louisiana. We stopped for a decent fried catfish sandwich at a hole in the wall in the tiny town of Sicily Island, and made our way into Southern Arkansas.

Driving through the main streets of these towns during business hours provided us with a glimpse into the reality and values of the South. It was like driving through ghost towns. Lots of dilapidated houses, very little economic development, and for every seven houses you see, another Baptist church in perfect shape with a sign encouraging you to come to church and be a good Christian already. Or else! Two of them had Israeli flags waving next to the Stars and Stripes.

We spent our first night in Arkansas right on the Arkansas River in a park outside of Ozark (population 3,002). Just after the longest day with a 4.5 hour drive, attempts at fishing that actually meant untangling lines for hours in the hot sun, temper tantrums, crying kids, poop episodes in underpants, and finally, homemade hamburgers over a campfire with fries and a salad, the air conditioner that sits right above our bed began to leak mysteriously. We turned it off, and then it started dumping water out. We are still not sure why. Somehow, and perhaps miraculously, that issue resolved itself the next day. And then we saw this sign on a church while driving out of that very campsite.

The pace of our travels means the days, campsites, and even the states are becoming a blur. It’s all a bit too fast. Five years ago, when we took our first Airstream journey, partly to escape the California Covid lockdowns, our first RV camp was Paradise Shores in Bridgeport, CA, located in the Eastern Sierra. There, we met a fellow camper, an older Hispanic man, who told us the secret to success in life, especially in a nomadic life, was to observe one basic rule: “Just go slow.”

We proceeded to nickname our trailer “La Tortuga” because it moves slowly and has a hard shell. On that first cross-country trip, we drove approximately 15,000 miles over a six-month period. The pace was leisurely. We were able to be spontaneous and then stay in places for a few days to delve deeper into our explorations, or just take a few days to relax and enjoy being stationary again.

In this eerie, yet oddly comforting moment of synchronicity, or the past repeating itself, a poor Black man approached us in a Gainesville parking lot, asking if he could clean the outside of our truck for $10. The truck was absolutely filthy, and he seemed genuine in his offer, so we, of course, said yes, doubling his rate. As we were leaving, he said, “Go slow, enjoy them while you can.” It was essentially the same advice we received from another older man five years earlier. Maybe it’s generic old man advice. Maybe it’s also what we need to be reminded of from time to time. We came back to a spotless truck.

And then we completely ignored his advice and were on the road again.

Arriving just after dark at our campsite in Hot Springs National Park next to a cool mountain stream felt like salvation. The fireflies were out to greet us. The next morning, we had hot, freshly brewed coffee with a dash of half and half in our mugs as we watched the kids from our Airstream couch, jumping into the creek next to the Gulpha Gorge campground, skipping stones, and finding little rock slides, all while having the time of their lives. Such is life on the road with kids. You can swing from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs in an instant.

Just as we were feeling able to breathe again, we learned the terrible news about the flash floods that took so many young lives at Camp Mystic. It was a reminder that no matter what we go through on a given day, seeing our kids asleep in their warm beds, wherever we are, is a reason for gratitude.

- President John F. Kennedy

On Day 3 of our odyssey, on July 3, after our intense night adventure, we had another rainy day, so we decided to stay in the Space Coast and went back to the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge to take the kids to the Kennedy Space Center. The US government acquired this large barrier island off the coast of Florida in 1962 for NASA. A year later, in 1963, they protected this ecosystem teeming with wildlife and turned it into a National Wildlife Refuge. Today, this complex, which includes Cape Canaveral, situated just across the Banana River, is the world's most active spaceport.

As we rode out on their official bus tour to the historic Launch Complex 39, the site of the Apollo Space Shuttle launch that took humans to the moon, we watched wild ospreys soar by, hunting for fish. On this small parcel of land jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, you catch a glimpse of both the Earth’s past and future, with the most innovative man-made technologies ever imagined set against the backdrop of the natural world as its creator designed it.

It’s an awe-inspiring place, and we both felt a surprising surge of patriotism on the eve of America’s Independence Day as we marveled at two of her greatest ideas: the conservation of what we have through our national park system and the exploration of what lies beyond through the space program.

It required 2 million unique systems working together perfectly to get a man to the moon. We’re not going to the moon, but Alaska might as well be at this point. We’re still in the early stages, and it’s all a bit daunting at this point, processing this huge change while juggling the systems and daily tasks of RV life, taking care of the kids physically and emotionally, planning routes, driving, laundry, cooking, finances, our marriage, health, and where we'll sleep again tonight?

We don’t have 2 million systems, but there’s a lot to think about on a given day. We hadn’t planned to go to the Kennedy Center, but this trip to the space center gave us an unexpected and much-needed boost!

We parents are not yet in a flow. We overpacked and under-organized. We have no idea where that iPad headphone adapter is. We are exhausted from the move and probably need an actual relaxing vacation. Not this, LOL.

The kids are not listening to anything we’re asking them to do. “Don’t lean on the mosquito screens.” They throw each other onto the mosquito screens. “Don’t go near the trailer hitch.” They invent a game to jump over the trailer hitch. “Don’t touch the sewer hole.” They open the sewer hole and stick their hands in it. We probably washed their grubby little paws 30 times today. We’ve all lost our cool at one point or another, but that’s to be expected.

It’s always like this at the beginning of an RV trip, even short ones, and this is NOT a short one. There is an adjustment period, and we’re right in the thick of it. Plus, we are all processing the magnitude of this life change in our own ways.

The day started with a morning hike to find the scrub jays again, but we couldn’t find them in the same place where we had seen them the evening before. It's probably because a massive Florida summer squall was coming our way. It rained on us a bit, and then it started pouring just as we shut the aluminum door on “La Tortuga” (the Airstream). It was cozy to be indoors. We had a late breakfast of freshly brewed hot coffee and fried eggs, and the kids had Choco Chimps cereal with fruit. Jaron exercised with the kids on his back while Dana worked on drawing, painting, and finger weaving with them, all while trying to get more organized in the trailer — a Sisyphean task. We managed to distract them for a while, but the rain didn’t let up for hours, and we all got a bit of cabin fever.

To make matters worse, when the sun came out again and we wanted to hit the road, we realized we had lost the keys to the Airstream. We searched for almost an hour before finally finding them inside the lock that opened the latch for the outdoor shower, which is our main hand-washing station while at camp. Duh

Eventually, we filled our water tank, hitched up, and drove straight up I-95 for Titusville. We had booked an excursion that night to see the dinoflagellates that light up in a bioluminescent display at the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. It was going to be what we affectionately call a “night adventure,” which really could be any reason we decide to let the kids stay up way later than they should.

We had a late lunch on the road at a nice restaurant called Citrone’s Bistro in Hobe Sound while it continued downpouring outside. We made a deal with the kids that we would pay them one US dollar for every new food they try. They each tried fully loaded potato skins and a wedge salad. 6$ for the kids.

During the meal, we attempted to book a campsite at Manatee Harbour Campground but were unsuccessful. However, since this was the closest campsite to the launch point, we decided to roll in anyway. Luckily, we were able to get a site on the spot. We quickly unhitched and frantically got dressed in long-sleeved shirts and long pants and drove with just the truck about 30 minutes to the Beacon 42 boat launch in Canaveral National Seashore.

We found one operator who would take a 3-year-old out, and it was BK Adventure, which offered us a raft with a guide for our whole family. We had some doubts about whether we were doing the right thing by taking our children on a nighttime rafting trip, but they said they had taken their young kids out before, and we decided that this was a unique experience we shouldn’t miss.

We met our guide, Kai, a local college student with a septum ring, who said that the long sleeves and long pants and bug repellent may not be enough to deter the “18” varieties of mosquitoes that inhabit the area. The US government had apparently attempted to eradicate them with DEET but had failed to do so. The story goes that the surviving mosquito species are these Frankenstein super mosquitoes infused with the blood of Chuck Norris, unkillable and fierce to a level we mortals will never understand.

Two women of Gujarati descent who live in Southern California joined us, but it seemed they were unaware that the tour was a bioluminescent tour when they signed up as they were looking for the glowing lights in space. Seriously. Maybe not so crazy, though, given that NASA’s Cape Canaveral is just a few short miles away. As dusk turned into night, the waxing moon, with a majority still hidden by shadow, rose slowly over the Lagoon. The Chuck Norris mozzies did not relent and were trying to conquer our bodies from our scalps to our ankles. We were all literally itching to get on the raft. After a brief introduction, we put on our life jackets, climbed onto this heavy-duty inflatable vessel, and before we knew it, we were pushed out into the water. It was approximately 9:30 pm, way past the kids’ bedtime, and we were off.

Kai was wonderful. Patiently answering all of our questions while doing the majority of the paddling. Out on the water, the mosquitoes finally paused their attacks. A tranquil serenity washed over us as we stared up into a sky freckled with stars. The moon glimmered on the dark water, sparkling in a white glow. Luca and Vivian started to get sleepy, and we held them. Which means we couldn’t help Kai paddle very much. As our guide explained the science and mystery of this phenomenon, he paddled us farther and farther into the lagoon, the water growing darker. With each paddle, these tiny single-celled planktonic creatures got stirred up more and more until we saw these streaks of turquoise fluorescence with every stroke of the paddle. The best part was when a school of mullet, hundreds of them, got agitated by our presence (or maybe a predator nearby) and began whizzing by us like purplish-blue fluorescent lasers in the water, lighting up the lagoon like our very own Pink Floyd laser light show in the lagoon. Ori, our eldest, sat at the edge of the raft, mesmerized and enchanted by this phenomenon. “My friends will never believe me! ” he shouted while hoping one of the fish would land in our boat like they did our neighbor’s boat.

Suddenly, the sky darkened. On the positive side, the bioluminescence got even brighter. But on the negative side, it appeared we were about to encounter a severe storm way out in the lagoon with no protection. We got nervous, particularly for the sleeping kids, as we were still at least a mile or two away from the launch. The wind picked up, and the rain hit us aggressively and it was suddenly pouring. There was nowhere for us to take cover from the rain. Poor Vivi woke up and cried. The wind picked up even more, and paddling became very difficult. Thank God the rain let up after an intense few minutes. The wind finally died down, and we were able to paddle faster. We wrapped Vivi in a towel, and she fell back asleep. Somehow, Luca managed to sleep through the whole thing. Finally, we got back to the launch and carried our two younger children to the truck. Half an hour later, we were back at our campsite, as we carried all three sleeping beauties back into the airstream. The rain continued most of the night, and we all slept well.

- Lao Tzu

It’s day one of our voyage from Miami to Alaska. We haven’t posted anything for the last few weeks because we’ve been in logistics purgatory. Packing, purging, and planning have been our focus. All questions needed answers, from critical ones like who will rent our house? Who will take care of our fiddle leaf and monstera plants? And where are we going again? To the more mundane ones, like whether to bring the half-full boogie spray? Should we bring this chutney that expired last month? How many pillows should we pack?

It has been a whirlwind. Vacating our house and moving all our earthly possessions into a storage unit, all while struggling to parent our three young kids and wrap up the usual end-of-school-year mayhem.

Thankfully, our community here has stepped in big time. Grandparents, friends, and siblings have offered playdates, pickups, and sleepovers while we navigated the challenges of moving from a 2,500-square-foot house into a 200-square-foot tin on wheels. We made room for six extra-large sketchbooks, nine cameras, and seven pillows, but camping chairs and ukuleles did not make the cut.

WTF are we thinking? This has been the dominant question looming in the back of our minds as we try to knock things off a seemingly infinite task list.

The doubts creep in constantly. “No, for real,” as our dear friend’s daughter asked, “Why are you actually leaving?”

It’s a tough question.

The insecurities linger in the back of our minds, sniping at us when we least expect it. At the same time, we are walking through a field of emotional landmines—the Bluey stickers, placed haphazardly by a toddler's hands, on the dresser. The silly-looking tiny plastic rooster our kids played with for weeks, lying in the cracks of the keystone coral entranceway to the house. The loose periwinkle rhinestone that fell off our daughter's necklace, which we thought we had lost. Our son’s first sky-blue bicycle, which led to so many screams of joy, now lies lifeless, propped up next to one of our boxes in a drab, silent storage unit.

The memories flood in without permission while driving, bathing, or looking at the kids’ room, once filled with books, stuffed animals, and Lego sets, but now barren. We sob, imagining the milestones and the future experiences that we are taking away from our loved ones because we, unfortunately, can only choose one path. This is the great tragedy and romance of life.

And for the next year at least, the path we have chosen is the one we have been dreaming of for so long. We leave feeling grateful for the people in our lives. The community we’ve built and known and loved since we were kids ourselves. The closeness we feel to our people is so special that it’s hard to put into words. Leaving all this makes us feel like ingrates, and maybe we are.

However, we also have to trust our intuition and do the difficult things that help us grow into the people we aspire to become. After all, love is not a function of geography but of solidarity. Our friends and relatives strengthen us because, deep down, they see us for who we are. They want us to achieve our dreams, even though when it came time to go, they bawled their eyes out and begged us not to go.

It was overcast and stormy in Miami today, but just as we were leaving, suddenly, a beautiful ray of sunlight poured in. It felt like the opening of a portal or perhaps just typical summer weather in Miami. We’ll let you decide. A giant swallowtail butterfly and then a monarch butterfly fluttered past us in our backyard as we were doing the last bit of packing up the Airstream. Was the monarch sending a spiritual blessing from our ancestors, as many indigenous peoples in Mexico believe? Or perhaps it’s just attracted to the whole leaves of our milkweed plant, which grew back larger and fuller than ever. Again, you decide.

Finally, after months of logistical hurdles and after years of plotting and wondering about this world trip, at 13:45 on July 1, 2025, exactly 5 years to the day since we embarked on our first ever Airstream voyage, after the final long, tight, and sweaty hug, we towed our airstream out of our house in Miami. We all felt, and still feel, a bit shell-shocked.

We drove for a couple of hours, stopped by an REI in West Palm Beach to purchase a new tea kettle, and found a campsite in one of our favorite Florida spots, Jonathan Dickinson State Park. The moment we stepped outside onto a white sandy trail in this rare Florida scrub habitat, the kids spotted a cottontail rabbit and chased after it. They found a tiny snake skin, a conch shell, and a Cicada exoskeleton for our new nature box. Seeing them sprint with joy, their excitement about spotting wildlife, and then retreat into the airstream, asking for s’mores and hot chocolate, restored our spirits and made us feel sane again.

And to cap off Day 1, just as the sun was setting, we saw the endangered Florida scrub jay for the first time, when we were least expecting it. We have searched for them in this park numerous times, on many mornings, which is when the rangers say you have the best chances of spotting them. We are so grateful for this one life. And to our people back home, whom we will miss dearly, this is not goodbye. It’s see you later. We love you dearly.

In this immersive adventure, we dive beneath the surface to witness a fragile world on the brink, to see whether the colonies survived the summer of 2023 bleaching event, which decimated so much coral around the world.

As part of the journey, Colin introduces us to the Coral City Camera, which he calls “Miami’s Free-Range Aquarium Underwater Livestream,” capturing the biodiversity thriving in an unlikely urban marine habitat. This episode documents the challenges facing Florida’s native coral species and the surprising places they still survive.

📍 Filmed at an undisclosed location near the Port of Miami.

🎥 Featuring: Colin Foord, Coral Morphologic

🔗 Learn more at coralcitycamera.com

Yes, we're moving back into the Airstream—this time as a family of five sharing roughly 200 square feet. It's a good thing Alaska is massive because we’ll need to spend a lot of time outdoors.

Why the Last Frontier of Alaska?

Here’s why we chose this as our first segment of our world trip:

-Alaska is EPIC. It has 3,000 rivers, 3 million lakes, 29 volcanoes, 33,000 miles of coastline, the largest rainforest in North America, and is twice the size of Texas! The superlatives of this massive state are seemingly endless.

-Alaska is WILD. It boasts a superb wildlife: human ratio and is home to many endangered and threatened species, including blue, bowhead, fin, and sei whales, polar bears, Steller sea lions, and arctic ringed seals.

-Alaska is FOREIGN to us. We’re going from palm trees to the polar ice caps of the Arctic. We’re excited to meet and learn from indigenous communities who’ve lived in these frigid, remote landscapes for generations.

-Only Dana has seen Alaska—and that was on a childhood cruise. This time, it’s new territory for the rest of the family.

-Our sister and brother-in-law run the Wild Alaskan Company and are based there in the summer. We have a big birthday to celebrate there this year.

Why drive?

We get this question a lot: Why not just fly to Alaska?

Here’s why we’re opting to drive:

• Alaska is made for RV travel.
  Many of the best places to explore by road have few hotels or lodges, and they book fast in summer. RV travel gives us the freedom, flexibility, and access we need—and we already know our Airstream (aka La Tortuga) inside and out.

• We prefer slower travel.
  There’s something special about seeing the landscapes and terrain evolve while gradually getting acclimated to the various environments. Flying is great for business travel, but it’s unnatural and rushed. We prefer to savor the experience and the journey to distant places whenever possible.

• There’s magic along the way.
  From the Florida scrub jay and maybe the ghost orchid, to Hot Springs National Park, to meeting with the Cherokee and Sioux communities on the Great Plains, and possibly spotting the endangered black-footed ferret in the Badlands—this route is packed with once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. And yes, we’ll try to soak in Liard Hot Springs on the Alaska-Canada Highway.

• This is for all of us.
  Our daughter missed our last cross-continent trek since she was not yet born. This is her chance to experience the wonder of a road trip across the continent.

The Plan

We’ve mapped a route that balances efficiency with wildlife opportunities, and yes, we’ve consulted with ChatGPT to help out a bit. If you’re a human with local knowledge, route tips, or can’t-miss experiences, please send them our way!

We will need to average about 3 hours of driving per day. However, the plan is to take at least one or two full days off each week. On most driving days, we’ll aim for 4–5 hours max, allowing flexibility for the unexpected—whether that’s a wildlife sighting, a flat tire, or a perfect roadside hot spring.

In the coming weeks, we’ll share our packing list, Airstream prep, and the highs and lows of gearing up for this new chapter. Thanks for following along—we’re glad you’re here!