days 92-96—between a rock and a red place

I promised this blog would be joy, not a job. So here’s me, joyfully late with stories from the last month on the road.

Apologies for keeping all three of you waiting, but lately, I’ve been too busy soaking up the places—and the people—to get swept away by my laptop’s siren song. I gave in today, though. So, shall we?

March 27–31

With the Grand Canyon in our wake, we made our way south through saguaro-dotted highways and rust-colored landscapes, toward Arizona’s mystical, red rock gem: Sedona. We were eager to finally experience the towering formations, something called a vortex, and at least one of the hikes we had bookmarked—but even more excited about the arrival of our dear friends, Savannah and Colin, flying in from Denver.

Unlike most friends and family we’ve met up with on the road, these two were opting in for part of the van-life experience—albeit from the views of a tent. Which brought us to our first challenge: securing a campsite.

Now, while we occasionally book sites ahead, spontaneity (and public lands) are our usual jam. But with guests joining us—and Colin standing at a casual 6’7”, which meant folding him into our van was not an option—we needed something a little more…stable. Ideally reserved in advance. Flat enough for a tent. Maybe even within a generous distance of a flushing toilet.

Unfortunately, Sedona in late March is not known for its generosity. That awkward shoulder season between winter and spring? Check. Spring breakers running amok? Check. Oh, and just to keep things spicy—spring training baseball games nearby. Every campsite that could be reserved ahead was already booked, and others smugly reminded us they wouldn’t be open until later in the season.

Savannah and I kept refreshing reservation pages to no avail. So, we surrendered to the unpredictable world of first-come-first-served camping. We pinned a few dispersed camping options on the outskirts of town and crossed our fingers that families with small children would opt for amenities like running water and at the very least, cell service.

Trent and I rolled up to our top choice—Javelina Campground—first thing in the morning and snagged a spot with just enough flat ground and a couple scrappy trees. Only a few sites remained, so we dug in like stubborn desert flora and didn’t budge until Savannah and Colin arrived the next morning.

When they pulled up in their rental car, we gave them a grand tour like it was a Zillow listing.

“We chose this spot for its optimal flatness and shady afternoons,” I told Savannah, gesturing proudly. “And just over there is our scenic, open-air restroom. BYOTP, of course.”

She looked relieved after stressing that we wouldn’t find a spot and would have to fork over hundreds of dollars to a last-minute hotel or Airbnb. Colin looked like he was game for anything.

With the site secured and spirits high, we kicked off the weekend with a hike to Subway Cave. The trail was described online as “moderately trafficked,” which turned out to be code for “everyone and their mother will be on this trail.” We laughed at our naïveté as we hunted for a semi-legal parking spot along the shoulder and started the dusty ascent into Sedona’s crimson wilderness.

The crowds were there for a reason. At the top, we found ourselves in nature’s own sandstone subway station—arched cave walls that looked like commuters had just vanished into thin air. It was every bit as stunning as promised.

Afterward, we rewarded ourselves with local beer and shared apps on the patio at Sedona Beer Company, where the sun was warm and the beer was cold. Bellies full and legs pleasantly sore, we headed back to camp to marvel at a clear desert sky.

The next morning brought us to the West Fork Trail, often compared to Zion’s Narrows for its winding canyon and creek crossings. When we got to the end of the standard trail, Trent, Colin, and Savannah pushed deeper into the canyon while I hung back with Charlie. Legend has it Colin’s yelps from the icy water still echo through the canyon walls.

We thawed out with a pit stop at Don Hoel’s Café, where an older woman intercepted us in the parking lot. “You have to try the chocolate chip cookies,” she said with conviction.

Reader, I have seen the light. This was the best chocolate chip cookie I have ever had. Glenda—if you’re reading this, thank you. (Her name definitely wasn’t Glenda, but it’s fitting for a woman who wanted others to share her joy.)

That afternoon, we wandered through town, sampling honey, popping into galleries, and searching for the perfect memento. We capped off the day with a pre-dinner cocktail at Redwall Distillery, followed by a pizza feast at Gerardo’s that sent us rolling back to camp like carb-loaded tumbleweeds.

By the next morning, we were getting a little…smelly. After two hikes, four people, one dog, and a dwindling water supply, we were pushing it. But where there’s discomfort, there’s also innovation. Some of us used a bottle. Others, the hose. All emerged… marginally cleaner.

Feeling semi-human, we traded dusty trails for tasting notes and set off to explore Verde Valley Wine Country. Just ten minutes from camp, our first stop was Page Springs Cellars—a scenic spot with creekside charm and a slightly overambitious tasting fee. Pleasant, but not memorable. Next was Oak Creek Vineyards, where the vibe relaxed and the pours were a bit more generous.

And finally, DA Ranch—the crown jewel. The sun was shining, a live musician played something vaguely folky in the background, and we played corn hole while refilling our glasses.

When it came time for Savannah and Colin to leave the next day, the goodbye hit harder than expected. Exploring new places will always be my favorite—but it’s the people you share them with who turn them into stories worth treasuring.

Next in the stories lineup: a sun-soaked stint in San Diego and some light desert frolicking (not the Coachella kind, promise).