🌲 A Trial Run, A Tender Reminder

Josh and I decided to take the RV out for a short weekend escape—a gentle test before our big journey planned for the end of June. Ever since it rolled into North Carolina, carrying the dust and memories of New Mexico, we’ve been slowly breathing new life into it. Each scrub, each repair, each cozy touch felt like a conversation with the past. It wasn’t just about making it road-ready—it was about honoring the spirit it carried.

The RV had absorbed years of desert wind and snowstorms, and inside, there lingered a scent that felt like time itself. It took effort—hands-on work, patience, and a little elbow grease—but slowly, the space began to feel like ours. Still, we knew we needed to test the nuts and bolts close to home, where help was nearby if anything went sideways.

We chose Crosswinds Campground on Jordan Lake in Apex, North Carolina. We arrived at dusk on a Friday, the sky soft with fading light, and both dogs—Levi and Zoey—curled up in the back, sensing the shift. Setting up was smooth, almost instinctive. We’ve got it down to fifteen minutes now, maybe less. The site was quiet, nestled among trees, with the bathhouse just a short walk away. Everything felt clean, calm, and welcoming.

My half-sister and her family were staying in a nearby loop. Josh, Levi, and I walked the mile over to visit them, according to my Fitbit. Her children and their families were there too, and it was surreal—beautiful, even—to reconnect. I hadn’t seen my niece and nephew in over 25 years. Back then, they were kids and I was just stepping into high school. They didn’t remember me, and that was okay. We shared stories, laughter, and lunch. It felt like stitching together pieces of a family quilt that had long been folded away.

Levi and I went swimming later. He was hesitant about the lake, unsure of its vastness, but he trusted me. Watching him paddle through the water, unsure but brave, reminded me of how I’ve felt lately—navigating unfamiliar terrain with hope and memory as my compass.

That evening, our dear friend Frank joined us for dinner. Seeing him again was like opening a window in a stuffy room—fresh, familiar, and grounding. I grilled pork chops and corn on the cob while Frank brought baked beans and coleslaw. We had planned to eat outside, but the rain had other ideas. That’s when we discovered the RV’s awning had dry rotted—another item for the fix-it list before Bryson City. But even with the rain, the laughter, the food, and the company made it perfect.

After dinner, we played a spirited game of Uno with a deck that looked like it had survived the '60s. The cards were worn, the colors faded, but they held stories in their creases. It was the kind of simple joy that feels rare and precious.

That night was... cozy chaos. At home, the dogs sleep on our king-size bed. In the RV, we had a short queen, and they weren’t about to give up their usual spot. We ended up in a tangled pile of limbs and fur, trying to make it work. It was cramped, but it was us—and it was oddly comforting.

The weekend was more than a test run. It was a gentle unfolding of what this RV could be—not just a vehicle, but a vessel for connection, for healing, for rediscovery. We made a list of things to fix, things to add, and things to remember. Crosswinds Campground was a quiet gem, and I can already see us returning.

This trip reminded me that sometimes, the smallest journeys carry the deepest meaning. And that grief, when met with love and movement, can become something quietly beautiful.