What Day is it Again Today, Baby?

The swings from RV Hell to Paradise on Earth, and Back, while hustling through the Hot South

We’re more than 10 days into the trip, and we’re starting to get a feel for what this journey will be like. Driving from Miami to Alaska is hard. Doing it with three young kids makes it challenging. Attempting to complete the 5,000-plus-mile drive with said kids in under 30 days might be the hardest thing we’ve done as a family.

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.