days 97–100—phoenix rising

We stayed in Sedona an extra day or two to catch up on all the boring van chores I don’t talk about enough (though, trust me, there’s more than enough of that content floating around the internet already). With a full tank of water and a stocked fridge, we headed south toward Phoenix.

April 1-4

Eventually, we landed in the sleepy town of Florence—not to be confused with the rolling hills of Tuscany—at a humble RV park about an hour from the scorched edges of the Phoenix suburbs. RV parks weren’t meant to be a regular part of our travels, but lately, they’ve become necessary pit stops.

If you’ve been following along, you know we’ve had recurring drama with our battery system—the one that powers essentials like the fridge and stove. It keeps us on our toes like a toddler with a blank wall and a Sharpie.

This time, even after 4–5 days of perfect, sun-drenched skies, the battery dipped to 50%. For the uninitiated, anything below 65% puts us squarely in the danger zone—think half-cooked steak and raw broccoli.

Rather than shell out thousands again (we thought a mechanic fixed it back in January), or pause our travels to chase a real solution, we went with a band-aid: RV parks. These spots offer something we’ve come to deeply appreciate—shore power. It’s the luxury of plugging in, like you would at home, and suddenly everything works. We can cook, rinse, repeat—without worry.

Now, while Florence, AZ is definitely a cheaper alternative to a European summer, I wouldn’t go bookmarking it on Skyscanner. Aside from the electricity—and the rare distinction of not being a 55+ community (seriously, almost every other RV park near Phoenix was off-limits)—we had another reason to stop here.

We couldn’t pass through Phoenix without visiting Trent’s uncle and cousins—one of whom has two golden retrievers, so Charlie was basically seeing family, too. Rancho Sonora, the RV park we chose, was the closest we could get to join them for dinner.

Over backyard burgers and spirited rounds of cornhole and cards, we swapped stories, met new faces, and I got to know more of the family I’ll soon be marrying into.

Trent enjoyed a few beers from his uncle’s sweet neighbor, who was convinced Trent was a big IPA guy (for the record, he wants Coors at our wedding). So, I got to drive the van back to Florence.

At 65 MPH, with desert winds slicing in from the east, we heard a whoosh, then a clunk on the roof, followed by a high-pitched whistling.

“What was that?” I asked, far more alarmed than Trent.

He shrugged. “We’ll take a look in the morning.”

I swear I’m marrying the most even-keeled man alive. It was already 1 AM, and we weren’t about to pull off on the side of a dark desert highway. He wasn’t wrong.

Come morning, we discovered our roof-mounted light bar hanging by a thread, one hinge completely gone, flapping like a skinny kid trying to do the robot.

“This van is really preparing us to be homeowners,” Trent chuckled, as we mentally added another item to the never-ending fix-it list.

A bit of Googling and a trip to the local Ace Hardware later, we had our next temporary solution: duct tape.

Then it was westward again, toward San Diego, with a quick overnight at Imperial Dunes—where the sand stretched for miles, golden and soft, blurring the line between earth and sky.

It felt like the desert’s way of reminding us: nothing stays broken for long.