Mexican Hat Moonlight Stroll

Or, Van Tours and Dog Chores are a Van Life Given

Since we have decided to slow our roll and not travel for a while, I will share a little backstory bit that I have written for my travel memoir, about our visit to Mexican Hat in the summer of 2019:

I'm having a princess and the pea kind of night. We are camped about 300 yards from the Hat Rock formation in Southeastern Utah. It's 2:12 a.m. and I am riding the heavy duty toss and turn circuit tonight.

It's 70 degrees outside, and very still and quiet in the van. Every window is open, plus the roof vent and zombie hatch, but I am just warm enough to be miserable. I sleep best on nights with temps in the 40's and 50's. 90 plus degrees will be tomorrow's high. My body hasn't fully cooled down from the heat earlier today. I am sore, tired, a little bit crabby, and more than ready to sleep.

We sat outside after dinner this evening and watched the sun set. We ooohed and aaahed as millions of twinkly stars slowly appeared in the dark, inky black sky. Dan set up his tripod and camera and worked to get a decent shot of the moon, or the milky way. I sat in my camp chair, mouth agape, both stuffed up and sniffly, and completely astounded by the number of stars looking back at me. I could barely stay awake, blowing my nose loudly between yawns. I still wanted, NEEDED, to be out there in this dark sky part of the desert to bask under a silky blanket of starlight. I am recharged by starlight and moonlight, campfires, silence, and the desert, especially at night.

A stiff breeze rose from the canyon directly in front of us as we gathered up our chairs and folding table and ambled back to the van for the night. I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the soft bed, and immediately found myself dozing off. In a few minutes, Dan and the pups joined me, and we all settled in for a snooze.

As we said our goodnights, two cars drove past our camp and headed down into the canyon. The large, loose cobblestones and steep, immediate hairpin turn on the way down to the river, especially in the dark, seem to be a cause of concern. Red taillights glowed as they sat still, making their decision.

We watched them back up slowly, and then pull back out onto the red dirt road, choosing to pitch their tent via headlights a short way up the hill from where we were parked. We had both been lying in bed a few minutes beforehand. Now Dan was on high alert, keeping an eye on things from the front seat until he was satisfied that our new neighbors were also settling in for the night instead of planning monkey business.

I was sprawled across the bed like a worn-out Mom who accidentally fell asleep on the couch mid-afternoon while the kids ran wild. When Dan came to bed, he very nearly sat directly on my head. I scooched over and gave him room, and soon, the entirety of Camp Cordray was fast asleep.

A few minutes before midnight, my eyes popped open. The cool white glow from the just barely waning full moon over the desert made it almost as light as daybreak both outside and also inside the van. I was sleeping, as usual, in a tank top, known for collecting long stray silver hairs in its seams and releasing them to wreak havoc in the middle of the night.

While I tossed and turned, these hairs knitted and crocheted themselves together, creating hammocky springboards that helped propel my breasts out the armholes of my sleeveless shirt. Tiny grains of sand, cracker crumbs, small rocks, bread ties, thumb racks, plus assorted who knows what gather there. They samba with those pesky hairs, poking and prodding me into a whirling dervish series of moves, hoping to dislodge the lot of them somehow. Even if I have just recently emerged from a shower, there will still be some sort of minuscule, diamond edged particle embedding itself into tender tissue on whatever side of the body that is currently in contact with the mattress.

In my younger and more robust days, I carried both home and office keys, all of my cash and bank cards, and sometimes a pager in my bra. Living in Detroit, DFW, and Houston has had its effect on me.

These days, I carry nothing but what belongs in there, plus whatever random irritating micro something or other that decides to catch a ride. This weird inconvenience, and the perpetually stuffy nose, is usually what is on my mind the minute I crawl into bed most nights.

Lying flat is where it's at, but my reclining allergy-fueled snot gurgles often keep the roomies awake. Camphor oil, lavender oil, Vick’s VapoRub, Kleenex, and herbal nose spray are all kept within easy reach. Altoids and papaya enzyme tablets for late night belly ache, Tiger Balm, baby wipes, and all kinds of stinky things that bring comfort to one, and a “what's that smell” experience to another fill the recycled denim storage bags hanging on my side of the bed.

While I am up dealing with breast and nasal irritants, Libby, who is at the foot of the bed, takes notice. She is aware that it is bedtime, but she sees that it is light outside as she peers out the window from her perch in the 'Berty bed. Like me, Miss Liberty is highly affected by moon cycles. On big moon nights, her greatest urge is to convince me to join her on an extended moonlight stroll. I am almost always wide awake on and around the full moon.

I dust off my tatas and adjust my tank tee. I refuse to look her way, although I can see her shadow form gently wagging. I go about my business, blowing my nose, sniffing some camphor oil, checking the time and weather, all the while, simply ignoring her.

She isn't having it. She knows this game far too well. If I lay back down, chances are that I will go back to sleep, read a Kindle or audio book, scroll on my phone, or write. If I head for the front seat, I might pour a cup of coffee from the Thermos. This means I will be conveniently located much closer to the exits.

I can see her staring at me, mentally sending me “head for the front seat, and then either exit door with my leash in hand” vibes. I send her back “I don't have a dang bra on, it's rocky out there, I don't know where my shoes are, so just lay your butt back down” vibes. She fires back with an “I know you have to pee, too, and we could BOTH do that outside”, adding a thick top layer of guilt and truth. That one hits me where I live, but I don't let on. I do have the queen's throne port-o-potty, after all.

She stalls a moment, reconsidering her approach, and then implores with a well-timed, low, but very insistent whimper. She shakes the bed with a mighty flap of her pointy ears. She inches forward, threatening to breach the midline of Mount Dan if I don't comply with her demands.

Recently trimmed but need to be Dremel-smoothed nails extend from two pushy front paws as she reaches for my bare thigh, digging in slightly, asserting herself, flipping the switch on my aggravation. I lean forward and whisper a firm command to get her narrow behind BACK to the 'Berty bed without delay.

Instead, she inches forward, directing her claws to a point just short of Dan's thigh, stretching luxuriously and then straightening herself upright, preparing to slink up his leg, across his belly, and right up into his grill if she has to.

Her intense, Tootsie Pop brown eyes meet mine. I spy a slight, jaunty, defiant “I'm telling on you” eyebrow lift. She is fully prepared for that kind of action.

I snatch her up, stepping over Dan's snoring body with her tucked up under my arm like a naughty hen. I step down onto the floor from the bed and drop her at my feet. I am quite possibly snarling.

I add boxer shorts, water shoes, and a flashlight to my bedtime, but now going outside ensemble, peering out each of the windows and the windshield before opening the door, to check for critters.

I see that a huge motorhome has snuggled in behind us while we were sleeping. They also have a solar patio light burning. Crap. I have no bra on, so I pull a dark t-shirt over my head and hook Libby to her leash, short, with just enough length to allow her to pee locally, but not go exploring in the moonlight like she had originally planned. She will have her way, modified.

Inside the van, Layla lifts her sleepy head from where she is sprawled out between the front seat and the doorway, on her Layla bed, of course. Libby and I stepped over her, and her bed, on our way to the exit door.

Asked if she wanted to go out, she shot me a look and flopped her head back down with a sigh. Now she peers out the window from inside the van, asserting her own suddenly urgent bathroom need. We might be sharing a snack that she doesn’t know about. Either way, she is an impatient “me too” on the outside action.

I let her out and hook her up short as well. We all do our business in the glaring moonlight. I hand carry Miss Libby back into the van so she can't hop on Pop and jostle him awake. I lift her over the top of Dan and she snuggles back into her little tuffet, satisfied.

Dan stops snoring, mutters a "hmmm?". I say, “dogs had to pee”. He grunts and rolls over, and begins snoring again. Layla settles back into her spot on the floor, mid cabin, and I ease my way around her and head once again for the front seat.  This night was one of adventure, not rest.

At least the cold night air (or the camphor) relieved my congestion, but I am now wide awake. The sleep part is a be continued, maybe tomorrow night if the conditions are right event. In my life, sleep can be such an elusive thing.

After everyone else was up and at ‘em, I was enjoying the view and cooking breakfast when a few unexpected guests arrived. Seemingly out of nowhere, three tourists approached the van. Two walked by, close to the driver’s side of the van, chattering in a foreign tongue, possibly an Asian dialect of some variety.  They proceeded to a spot just behind where we were parked to take pictures of the Mexican Hat rock formation and the surrounding valleys and plateaus.

The third proceeded past the open side doors on the passenger’s side, where I was standing near the kitchen sink, whipping the eggs. I could have reached out and grabbed any of them from the open windows, they were so close to the vehicle. She didn't look up as she passed, even when both dogs started barking like crazy and Layla plunged her big ol' furry head out the passenger side window and almost butted heads with her.

I was a bit surprised but endeavored to fry up the bacon and sip my coffee. Dan had this. He worked for a Japanese owned company for two decades. I could hear him having a stilted conversation with these folks near the rear of our cargo trailer and assumed that they were able to converse on some level. A minute or two later, one woman popped her head through the passenger side window, a huge grin on her face, but said not a word. A second later, another woman popped HER head through the driver's side window, a huge, goofy grin on HER face. She also said not a word.

They both stood there, wordlessly grinning at me like faces drawn on a balloon, floating. It was a surreal moment. I am not a fan of the “on display” element of our everyday life, but I can understand the curiosity. Neither of them twitched an eyebrow or gave any sign that they planned to move along.  They just grinned like Cheshire cats as their eyes swiveled side to side, taking in the view.

I didn't know what to say. With furrowed brow, I slowly, incredulously mouthed the word "woooow". With that, they both laughed uproariously, simultaneously ducked out, and scrambled up the hill to their vehicle, catching up with their buddy who was already headed back to camp.

Dan related that the only word they could understand when he was describing our setup and lifestyle was "gypsy”. They had been given a tour of the cargo trailer, mostly through the use of gestures on Dan's part, yielding astonished expressions and enthusiastic head nods. They were left with a keen curiosity about me and what was happening the inside the van and couldn't resist a peek. I get it, but I am never fully prepared for the whole tour aspect of vandwelling life.

Later, Dan shuttled more tourists over to the van where I sat on the bed immersed in my usual pile of maps, yellow dogs (yellow legal pads), and blank and scribbled note cards. One couple was from Switzerland, and the other, Uruguay. They looked around in utter amazement at the specifics of the interior of our chariot, asking many questions. Afterwards, I stepped outside so we could talk maps.

They received more travel advice than they would ever use, on THIS trip, anyway. They would be returning with plans next time, they said.  They knew where to go and what to do, because I was willing to share what I have learned. I am always amazed that people CHOOSE to completely wing an out of country excursion. THAT takes courage!

I jotted down notes for things to see locally and even nationwide on a few blank notecards, their lovely parting gift.  Another feature of a day in my life as navigator, and my own contribution to the American tourism industry.

We never know who we might meet out on the road, and whether we will give the travel advice, or get it. One thing is for sure. There will always be visitors and van tours, even if you know not a soul for hundreds of miles in any direction.

After they left, I continued to peruse the maps, considering any possible shower opportunities near Monument Valley, and in Kayenta and Cameron, Arizona, on our way to the eastern Desert View entrance of the Grand Canyon. Neither of us are sure we really want to see the highly commercialized South Rim again. We plan to disperse camp in the Kaibab National Forest above Flagstaff, so we figured why not dabble along the edge of it, anyway. Roooocks. ‘Nuff said.

We end up camping 11 minutes from the Desert View entrance but do not stop by that famed gaping hole in our planet this time around. Getting to Flagstaff after boondocking for a week or so was first on the list, and then landing somewhere remote again swiftly, second. Although we had taken showers in our shower tent here and there, it was time to line the cabinets with vittles, replenish our water supply, and get a long, hot, endless shower somewhere, some way.

I had spent days mapping our route from southwestern Colorado through southern Utah and into Arizona. It was far too hot to head back home to Quartzsite just yet, so we slow-moseyed around this section of the Four Corners area, stalling to wait for cooler temperatures to descend upon our little house in the desert.  Our Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona summer was worlds of fun, but we were ready to get back to our desert docking spot to regroup and rest.

So much of our time traveling is spent trying to be comfortable in the here and now, while waiting for the weather to be comfortable somewhere else, so we can finally head that way next.

Of the four states we visited during our Four Corners summer (Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Arizona), Utah is the one that we explored the least. Someday I will dig out my Utah yellow dogs, maps, and note cards, and we will head out that way to see and do the things we missed last go round.

You can’t see it all, that’s a road truth we learned early on.  You can’t always be “on vacation” either, expecting everything to be perfect every day when you live on the road most of the time. There are easier days, and rougher days, but I would not trade a moment of the time we have spent journeying from place to place, and staying a short or long while, our choice. We have learned that you cannot reach every pin dot, but even on the slow-mosey, or the sit down and wait, you can still see and do a lot.

Until next time.

Blessings and starlight,

Brenda Cordray

“The Desert Rose”

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