Mexico 2.0 Part 1: Breaking Free, Thawing Out (12.20.2021 - 12.23.2021)

Departing Idaho

What had started as a fever dream spawned by a certainly chronic and likely terminal case of fernweh¹ had metastasized into full blown reality. The truck² was packed to the gills - three rafts, two motorbikes, a roof top tent, and all their necessary accoutrements. The house was ready for renters - clothes and sundries unnecessary in tropical climates stowed away until our return. The road was freshly plowed - we had just survived the second week of record breaking December snowfall. All that was left was for Chelsea, Gracie, and I to jump into the literal truck and off the metaphoric ledge, to make the plunge, to start the trip - and Gracie was already in the truck.

Day one was a quick escape out the West Central mountains of Idaho. Snow drifts and berms that held us on our property receded quickly as we drove south through the canyons. Inside two hours we were surrounded by dry hillsides, the lower elevations of Boise reminding us that the whole world was not, in fact, a snow-globe. We plodded on, the engine humming, the wheels spinning, the dog sleeping, with our eyes set on Salt Lake City. It was the day before solstice and we were at the northern terminus of our route, meaning our hours of daylight driving would be the shortest of the entire trip. We had resigned ourselves, not to the possibility, but to the promise of driving at night, knowing that we would have to get a hotel to beat the cold and extend our ability to make miles. We stayed in the urbanity of suburban SLC on night one, a pedestrian start to the adventure. One united state down, four to go.

Fresh snow, fresh start? It was a record breaking December in the valley.

“I don’t care where you are going, I want to go with you.” - Gracie O’Malley Tuttle

Starting the Slog

Night one went well, which was a relief, because it was really the start of the trip, the departure from the norm. A seven hour drive to SLC isn’t out of the ordinary for us, it happens a couple times a year, and we’ve stayed in hotels and motels with Gracie the needy, energetic, too-smart-for-her-own-good cow dog before, but that night in the hotel was the first of the trip, and its general success gave us some confidence. Maybe we could do this? Maybe we could find independence? Maybe we still are the kind of people who drove a Pinzgauer through Baja, and converted a school bus, and lived in an ambulance? Maybe, just maybe, we actually are the Traveling Tuttles?

If we actually were the Traveling Tuttles, we would need some proof, and someday we would need some prints to hang on the walls of whatever old-folks home we eventually inhabit, so we stopped in Moab for some family photos. Chelsea packed a lot of her camera equipment, including her drone “Olsen”³ (named such by Chels’ newspaper editor, which I think makes me Superman?) for reasons such as this. If you’re going out to hunt for travel magic, it’s worth documenting.

We drove around some backroads just outside Moab looking for a minimally trafficked spot to fly and land the drone and get some good views of the area’s iconic red slick rock. Even in moments like this, with all the freedom in the world, we felt rushed to get the photos and get moving, as each moment spent taking photos meant less daylight drive time. The time spent on the dirt road was worth it though, and I think the family portraits came out great.

The Wintery grip of the Intermountain West was noticeably weaker on day 2 - we were escaping.

We made sure that getting to Chels’ photo kit wasn’t too arduous. Cameras that can’t be accessed can’t be used.

Family photo time! Batsquatch the truck has a real Harlequin vibe going on.

Slogging

From the start, which is a moment in time that neither Chelsea nor I can pinpoint, this trip was going to be divided into two halves - the slog north of the border, and then everything after. Day two, three, and four slipped by as the miles disappeared in the rearview mirror and the diesel drained out of the tanks. Our existence was the monotonous staccato of a long distance road trip: drive, food break, drive, bathroom break, drive, fuel stop, drive, play disc with your dog so she stops considering armed mutiny, drive, get a motel.

We found some travel magic along the way, but not much of it was documented. We stopped for a broken down 1969 VW bus on the side of the highway, inhabited by two young Utahans and their two dogs. They had been there all night, listing perilously and perched on three wheels and a jack stand as their wheel bearings had decided to weld themselves together under the strain of a load never imagined by engineers during the Summer of Love. We stopped for some of New Mexico’s best fried chicken and barbecue shortly after, where we were welcomed to New Mexico by a friendly local who commented that we were a long way from home when he saw our Idaho plates. We found kolaches in Texas after a heartbreaking five-plus year hiatus from the regional delicacy (selling Christmas trees in San Antonio got us properly hooked on the breakfast item in 2015).

The slog continued, and continued. We drove through New Mexican towns sleeping the winter away. We drove through the oil fields of West Texas at night, with the fires casting eerie, unnatural shadows across the landscape and the cab filling with the rotten-eggs-stench of hydrogen sulfide, as if the Earth was asking, “Are you sure you want to be taking this stuff out of the ground?” only to have my truck answer, “Yes, and please don’t stop, I’m thirsty.”

We drove until we were hungry, ate until we were uncomfortable, and kept going, until the hill country of Texas slowly gave way to palm trees and grass unusually lush for January. We were closer to the border than we were to home, by a long shot, and we were probably closer to the tropics than we were to the mountains. We picked our way through a heavy stream of traffic down through San Antonio and on, to McAllen, driving on a highway two sizes too small for the volume of traffic, surrounded by signs proclaiming the arrival of an interstate route to the border, someday soon. As night fell on us for the last time in the US, we pulled in to a motel in McAllen, an easy 8 miles from the border. It felt like we had made it all the way to the edge of the cliff - now all we had to do was jump off.

If you find yourself in Cuba, New Mexico, do yourself a favor and stop at Mel’s Drive Thru Chicken and BBQ - it was well worth it

Even Gracie got a few morsels of chicken and bbq goodness at Mel’s.

Slogging.

one quick wash on the road to get that pesky road salt off.

Kolaches!

KOLACHES!!!

Slogging, slogging, slogging.

Slogging, slogging, slogging to success!

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¹ “Fernweh” is a German word for “farsickness,” the opposite of homesickness.

² “Batsquatch”, a 1996 Ford F-350 XLT

³ Jimmy Olsen is a fictional character appearing in American Superman comic books published by DC Comics. Olsen is most often portrayed as a young photojournalist working for the Daily Planet.

April 23-29, 2019 : Rafting the Lower Owyhee

This past weekend we were invited to go rafting on the lower section of the Owyhee River in southeast Oregon. We’d never done the stretch, but had heard of it and knew it was supposed to be quite beautiful.

It’s 48 miles of class II-IV water (classes vary greatly depending on the level). Typically it’s a spring-runnable river, as the levels become far too low to run it in the summer and fall. With the spectacular winter runoff, the levels were ideal, so it was a perfect time to go paddle it.

Christian and I paddled our little Hyside Mini Max (we were the ONLY paddle boat that we saw on the river…everyone else was rowing and we saw a few commercial trips that had some inflatable kayaks along). Gracie came with, which added an extra level of difficulty to what would normally be a very straightforward section of river.

Other folks along for the trip were our friend/neighbor Colin in his 14 ft boat, George in a cataraft and Dave in his amazingly retro hard-sided Infinicat. The first few miles were flat, meandering through farmland with lots of grassy side channels. We took one of these channels and happened upon a goose nest. A very angry goose greeted us, flying aggressively towards the boat while honking loudly. This startled an already trepidatious Gracie, who backed right off the boat into the water. Christian pulled her back in before she even had a chance to think about paddling, but it was clear she’d been scarred and spent most of the first day trying her darndest to avoid another encounter with the water.

We think we paddled about 16 miles the first day, prioritizing getting a campsite, as the river was absolutely packed. Once we stopped and made camp, we counted 58 boats come by us that night.

Our campsite for the first night didn’t disappoint.

By the second day, Gracie was getting her water legs and found that she really enjoyed hopping onto the other boats to say hi. She’d never stay with them long though, whining and worrying as soon as we paddled too far away for her to jump back in with us. When going through any splashy water or rapid, we’d tell her to get into the back of the boat and lay down. At first we’d forcibly put her there and hold onto her if we didn’t both need to paddle, but by the end of the second day she had those commands down and followed them closely every time she heard whitewater approaching.

On the second day, we made the realization that would could tie onto the front of Dave’s Infinicat and create an unstoppable paddle machine. This technique helped us breeze through several long flat sections.

The second day, we stopped at mile 31 to camp below a rapid known as Whistling Bird. It was a great spot to sit and watch boats float by, but also had a nice side canyon hike accessible from the camp. In addition to being Gracie’s first raft trip, it was also her first hike. Christian had to turn around with her after seeing a large rattlesnake and we then kept her on a leash the rest of the trip after realizing what an abundance of snakes there were.

A great view of the canyon down river from our camp that we would paddle through first thing the next morning.

The third day, Gracie all loaded up and ready to hit the water as if she was born to be a rafting dog!

Christian and Gracie admiring the canyon views.

The canyons along this section were varied and beautiful. We knew it had been referred to as the “Grand Canyon of Oregon” but had no clue that it would be so impressive. Each time we entered a new section we’d sit around and stare at the new scenes before us. The last canyon felt like we were in Jurassic Park and John Williams’ soundtrack should be accompanying us while we floated along.

By the third day, Gracie was pooped. During the flatwater sections she’d ball up and fall fast asleep.

One last ride with Colin!

All in all, it was a fantastic trip and we’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was a great opportunity to practice our overnight setup with the Mini Max (it’s only 10 feet, so it’s quite a small boat to take days worth of gear in. We’re hoping we can make this trip a tradition every spring.