Day 18 -- Lodi, California to Carson City, Nevada -- 180 Miles

Lunch with jim and Suzanne and jennifer and Meghan and Brad in Roseville

Day 17 -- Gilroy, California to Lodi, California -- 117 Miles

I decided to post photos of us running our RV through the Lodi truck wash this afternoon because we spent most of the day on the Intersate and didn't stop for photos.

So, tonight we're sleeping in Lodi, California, which puts me in mind of the RV we purchased back in 2013. In that momentus year, Concetta and I had finally decided to retire from our jobs in Nevada State government and pay more attention to recreating and traveling. Our decision to give up working was actually the second time we had "retired" as both of us had left our regular jobs and had gone to work for the Nevada State Legislature.

Concetta had moved from a full-time job with the legislature to a part-time job and really had remained just as busy. When I retired, it was from Nevada's Department of Public Safety where I had been a field trouble shooter for the department's IT unit. After I left in 2008, I signed up to work the legislative sessions which occupied six months out of every two years. Once again, I worked in the IT section and I ended up working for three legislative sessions ending in 2013 when we both retired again.

I bring this up because arriving in Lodi today put me in mind of how we got started RVing after our retirement. In my spare time during the summer of 2013, I trolled through Craigslist looking for a used rig of sufficient size that we might comfortably live in for one to several months. At the same time, we would look at rigs that came on the market in our own area but had not found one we liked.

Then along came a Craigslist advertisement posted in Lodi, California. It was the fall of 2013, and the ad listed a thirty-one foot, Class C motorhome on a Ford Chassis with only 31,000 miles on the clock. That sounded good to us, and Concetta and I called the owner and made an appointment to travel to Lodi to see the rig.

When we arrived in Lodi, we met with the owner, drove the 1996 vintage RV around some rural roads, and decided on the spot to make an offer. The price we agreed upon was something like $13,500. We did notice that the rig lacked a spare tire, and we requested that the owner remedy that problem before we brought our cashier's check and picked it up. He agreed, we shook hands, and then Concetta and I headed for home.

Though it was a lovely sunny and warm fall day in Lodi, by the time Concetta and I had driven a few miles toward home on the challenging Hwy 88, a storm had blown in and, incredibly, snow was being forecast on the radio. We had to drive Hwy 88 over Carson Pass on our way to Lodi, and naturally sought to return that way. But each mile that we drove toward the mountain, the clouds over the Sierra looked more ominous.

Still, though the weather looked gray and ugly, I thought we'd be okay. After all, it had been sunny in Lodi, right?

Well, as we started the long climb into the foothills, things began to look decidedly NOT okay! In fact, random snowflakes began to lightly drift down on the highway, and I found myself clutching the steering wheel more firmly. So far we hadn't been turned back by the Highway Department, but I couldn't help but entertain thoughts of having to return to Lodi for the night.

We had taken our four-wheel-drive pickup which we always insist on driving when we tackle the mountains in the fall and winter. We might not encounter bad weather, but we had to be prepared at all times. I just hoped we wouldn't have to have chains which I carried, but vehemently hated to install.

By the time we approached the summit at 8,574 feet, the snow was falling like Mother Nature had decided to get a year's worth of snow delivered to alleviate the water problem in the West in one night. It had become a blizzard, snow was blowing horizontally rather than falling vertically, and we had reduced our speed by seventy-five percent. Still, we had not encountered any roadblocks.

When we finally topped the summit, you could not see ahead more than a hundred feet. Mother Nature had delivered a full-blown blizzard and no one besides us appeared to be trying to drive in it. Still, we pressed on, and began to descend from Carson pass in low gear, with a prayer in our hearts, and a vice grip on the wheel.

It was at this juncture that headlights appeared somewhere in front of us, and soon a driver approached from the opposite direction in a pickup truck. As his lights bounced off the blizzard and blinded us in the process, I knew that each of us was wondering just what kind of fool would be out on Carson Pass on such a treacherous night.

Inconceivably, as the other crazy driver passed us in the opposite lane, we saw he was towing a boat and trailer. Good God! If there was ANYTHING you wouldn't want to be hauling over a 8,574 foot pass in a blizzard whiteout, it would have to be a boat.

Anyway, the boat owner was soon out of sight in the rearview mirror's swirling snow, and we were left alone to granny-gear our way down the steep mountain road at 10 miles an hour.

Thankfully, Concetta and I soon dropped below the blizzard level and made it the rest of the way home without incident. Come 2014, the newly purchased Fleetwood Tioga in our yard was well-stocked for the open road. Soon, we would joyuously add another 20,000 miles to the rig's original 31,000 miles on the clock. Throughout those many happy miles we would travel from coast-to-coast more than once and see many of things we'd always wanted to see in America.

The beautiful conclusion to this story is that Concetta and I had found the love of our mutual lives, traveled to every corner of our great land in that, rig and a much newer, thirty-two foot replacement, and further cemented our many decades of marriage in pursuit of the things we love. What more could anyone ask for?

Day 16 -- Greenville, California to Gilroy, California -- 100 Miles (maybe)

This morning we needed to head north when we left camp, but we decided to not go back through Salinas on Hwy 101. So, instead of heading north on 101 from our camp in Greenfield, California, we headed south until we picked up county road G13. From there we headed east until we intersected Scenic Byway Route 25. Oddly enough, we almost missed the turnoff for Route G13 as it wasn't announced on the freeway. But since I was feeling just a bit insecure about the tire job yesterday, I thought I should look at the front tire to make sure it was visibly holding air.

Incredibly, as we exited Hwy 101 South and pulled into the town of King City to check the tire pressure, we saw a directional sign for none other than Route G13. Amazed at our good luck, we tarried only long enough to make the tire check, then we headed east on what we took to be the proper route. We did stop just once to ask directions from a couple of men walking along the sidewalk, and the older of the two confirmed that we were, indeed, on the right track.

At that point Concetta announced that she had found our location on the GPS. We were pointed toward scenic Route 25 which sort of parallels Hwy 101, albeit twenty some odd miles east and with a MUCH slower speed limit. The route turned out to be serene and beautiful and largely vacant of any real traffic, and we stopped a couple of times just to look at the rolling hills, verdant valleys, and the occasional small herd of lolling cows.

Almost before we knew it, we had arrived at the Scenic Route 25 "T" intersection where we would begin our low-speed journey north toward the town of Gilroy. As we meandered along at 25 to 40 miles an hour, I found myself wishing that I was driving my old '63 MGB with the top down, just cruising on a Sunday afternoon like I used to do in Chicago back in the early 1970s.

Just before noon, after numerous stops for photos on Route 25, we made the turn and headed west on Route 156 towards our noontime goal: the Mission San Juan Batista which was founded in 1797. Little did we know that we were about to encounter an episode that we would rather have avoided.

Using the direction from the GPS, we pulled into town and easily cruised right up to the mission grounds. But as so often happens to us, the mission and it's attendant state park grounds did not come with suitable parking for our rig. I had only just alighted from the cab and stood looking around for such a parking area when a perky young female park ranger walked up to me and asked if I would have any trouble removing the rig A.S.A.P. I told her I probably wouldn't have any trouble, but exactly where did she recommend I put it.

At first the ranger didn't have any real ideas, but then thought better of it and suggested I go find the dirt parking lot at the north side of the mission property. "It's huge," she said.

So I got back in the truck, made my usual illegal turning and backing manuever into a handy side street, then proceeded to drive back down the main street until the entrance to the "huge" dirt parking lot appeared. Well let's just say that the lot might have been huge on non festival days, but since the Latino community was holding some sort of giant celebration they had sort of filled the dirt lot to overflowing already.

At that point, we should have read the handwriting on the wall and moved on to some less popular attraction. But we didn't. What we did is pick our way across the packed parking lot trying hard not to sideswipe any vehicles until we got to the very rear, less desirable, part of the lot. There I could see lots of space, and we rolled up and parked perpendicular to the rest of the parking lanes. Foolishly, I announced that we'd be fine in our spot, and we could have lunch before going to see the mission.

My downfall was that I failed to consider the mindset of the myriad of parking spot seekers who would do ANYTHING to keep from parking further away than necessary. As we sat there having our lunch, I kept having to leave the rig and advise drivers not to box us in. They looked at me like I was speaking in tongues but would eventually move a few feet away or find another spot entirely.

Lunch done, I set out on foot to see exactly how we were going to exit the parking lot now that it had half again more cars than when we entered. The first thing I saw was that a half dozen parkers had effectly blocked the exit route completely which meant we'd have to exit on the entry route which, I suspected, would be really tough.

But as I turned to walk back to the rig, I saw a perfect out-of-the-way place to move it where no one could easily box us in. At least, that's what I thought. Since we were really interested in touring the mission and didn't want to leave, we decided to move and hope that we'd still be able to exit when we wanted to go.

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Once the rig was relocated, Concetta and I then spent a pleasurable hour touring the grounds, taking lots of photos, and enjoying the ambiance of the setting. In the background we could hear that the intensity of the outdoor mass was really picking up. Since it was around two o'clock in the afternoon, we had hoped that the affair would have trailed off, and people would be leaving by that time. On the contrary, people were still arriving and seeking more parking places.

Hurrying back to the rig, we discovered to our horror that some less-than-clever person had parked his pickup truck directly in front of us. I stopped and looked around at the tiny field of manueverability remaining that I would have to somehow persuade our thirty-two foot vehicle out of the remaining space between the closely-packed cars and trucks. I just shook my head. It looked like we were marooned until the religious event was over.

But hey, my motto is never say die. Jumping into the cab I told Concetta to watch from a distance, and I started manuevering back and fourth and back and fourth to try and get past the idiot who blocked us. Then, when we had moved as far away from him as we could without hitting someone else, I began to edge past his rear bumper which projected alarmingly into the space we needed to use to exit.

I thought I had almost clearned both the pickup truck and the car across the aisle enough to slide between them when I saw in the mirror that the side of the rig had contacted the pickup truck's rubber bumper. As it was, I had been clearing his the truck by perhaps four inches. So, I backed up slightly to separate from him, and I got out. At that point, a woman came up and asked if she could help. I told her to please check the pickup to see if it was open. Amazingly it was, but sadly, we couldn't get it out of gear.

Next the woman volunteered to direct me from in front of the RV. Amazingly, she sucessfully got us out without us hitting anything else. Thinking we were home free, I looked up to see not one, not two, but three cars sitting patiently facing us with the intention, I guess, of somehow preceeding past us or perhaps hoping we'd simply disappear!

Well, it took some persuassion, but the drivers of the three cars finally reversed direction and got out of our way. Then, with more backing and turning and backing and turning, we got headed out of the sole exit that folks hadn't yet blocked. But at that point, a woman drove in the gate, saw us going out, but still kept coming in our direction as if she, too, expected us to magically disappear.

For several minutes she and I sat looking at each other without moving. Convinced that she was holding firm to her position, I got out and approached her window. "This is the entrance, not the exit," she proclaimed with determination.

"That would be fine," I said, "if other drivers hadn't blocked the normal exit. I'm not driving a Volkswagen, you know." I told her. "You're going to have to back up before anyone else enters the lot."

With obvious reluctance, she finally backed towards the entrance, swung into a handy side lane, and let us make our departure. With a huge sigh of relief, we left the "huge" dirt parking lot and headed for Route 101 north and our camp for the night. We were sure glad that it wasn't far away.

Thus ended yet another fabulous, tedious, exiting, thrilling, satisfying, terrifying, educational, exasperating, and damn well worth it day of traveling the highways and byways of America.

After I got into camp, I inspected the "brush" with the pickup truck's bumper and found that it had indeed left a scape and a small dent in one of the locker doors. As Concetta so accurately put it, "every trip leaves the rig just a little more banged up." Well, she's absolutely right.

But my attitude about the bumps and scrapes and dents and even worse problems is this: If I have to totally destroy the rig to travel every back road in America the way we want to see them, the RV will just have to weather the storm. As the old saying goes, "you can't make an omlette without breaking a few eggs," and the Tom Davis motto is, "you can't travel tens of thousands of miles, on all types of roads, backroads, and even dirt roads, and expect to maintain your rig like brand new. Some owners might want to just wash and wax their "baby" after every trip, but that's not us. I say, "bring on the bumps. We're going to keep rolling."

So, ciao for now and get out there and have some adventures of your own!