solo travel Archives - Miracle Update: Outback Edition

Best Small Campground in East Texas

The beauty of nomad life is the ability to pack up camp and leave. Unexpected weather change can usually be handled with a move on down the road. But the deal is, “unpredictable” is the new weather norm. High winds, flooding, and snow are sweeping across the country much like the fires do in the summer. By the time you travel to forecasted clear weather and set up a camping site the winds shift bringing strong storms.

This month I traveled to the south and central regions of Texas because of historic snowstorms in the traditional winter havens in Arizona and California. When my beach camp on South Padre Island Beach Preserve disappeared under unexpected storm waves and strong winds I instinctively headed to the woods for protection.

Shelter in the Forest

Davy Crockett National Forest in East Texas. Photo by TXDOT.

One of the closest and most beautiful places to shelter in the forest from the starting point of South Texas gulf beaches is in the piney woods of the East Texas Forest Trail region.

Young loblolly pines are maturing in forests of oak and beech surrounding old logging lakes. Hiking trails meander through abandoned homesteads, mills and buildings erected for trail life during the 1900-1920’s lumber boom. Spacious, impeccably maintained and monitored campground facilities meet every need.

Ratcliff Lake Recreation Area in Davy Crockett

I was drawn to Davy Crockett rather than Sam Houston, Angelina, or Sabine National Forests because of a childhood memory of the Davy Crockett TV show. Driving from Southern Texas Hill Country north to Austin then east to Houston that song looped in my mind along with images of the beautiful rolling hills and forests featured in the old black and white TV show of the “King of the Wild Frontier” Davy Crockett.

I settled into the Radcliffe Lake Recreation Area in the national forest just outside of Lufkin and Kennard Texas after a long day of driving interstates across Texas.

The Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC) built the camp in 1936 and preserved all the charm and character of that era.

Campground Ammenities

The grounds stretch around the small 45-acre lake with ample room between sites and plenty of electric and plumbing services to pamper campers. There’s also space preserved in gorgeous locations for walk-in, primitive tent camping.

In fact, the fingers of the Lakeside and Loblolly Loops have a tent group campsite on the point of a neck of the lake surrounded by several large primitive camping sites. There are ample potable water outlets on the loop.

It’s a good on-grid experience for us boondockers who camp only during the week, if ever, in an established campground.

Long History As Gathering Place

*Caddo village. Image courtesy of the Texas Historical Commission.*

Imprints from centuries of life in the forest flow from early Native American settlements to a booming logging business at the turn of the century and now, to today’s small, beautiful, and peaceful on-grid campground.

It’s easy to feel the layered generational memories from pow wows and large family camping reunions to intimate couple getaways or friends gathering for fishing and campfire getaways.

Facilities for Groups

An amphitheater and two large sheltered picnic pavilions facing a roped-off swimming area vibrate with the history of weddings, revivals, church services, and easy, simple fun. There’s fishing, swimming, and boating on the quiet lake. Boat motors are not allowed. The icing on the cake? A concession area similar to a church kitchen. Can we say reunion?

Hiking Trails

The camp is enveloped by over 160,000 acres of national forest. The 20-mile Four C Hiking Trail explores lower and upper pine and hardwood forest, boggy sloughs, and upland bluffs with scenic overlooks. The Big Slough Wilderness on the route has abundant wildlife and primitive campsites for backpackers.

There are two shorter interpretive trails and one 20-mile trail maintained in the Ratcliff Recreation Area.

Nearby History

Check out local history at the CCC Camp-888’s reconstruction of the 1690 Mission Tejas chapel north of Ratcliff on State Route 21. A few miles further north showcases Native American history at the Caddoan Mounds State Historical Park.

My Experience in Ratcliff Recreational Area

I arrived at Ratcliff camp in a shroud of mist seeping through the humid forest. Sunset colored the hovering fog over the lake. The site I selected backed up to the woods at the far edge of the campground. During the week there were only three RVs in the entire water and electric hook-up loop and only one tent camper down by the lake.

Shelter from the Storms

I was so grateful to be out of the shifting sands and pummeling winds and waves of the beach storm! The abundant wildlife, rustling pines, and tree frogs in the pines created the perfect soundtrack for the vista of gently rolling forested hills. A soft fog enveloped our teardrop nestled in the pines as Rocky and I settled in for a deep, hard sleep.

We woke to a steady but gentle rain. A couple hours later I gave up waiting for a rain break and geared up to make breakfast and hike in the soft February rain. It is a beautiful natural area reflecting a great deal of pride and skill maintaining the lake campground nestled in the East Texas woods.

My Gut Said ‘Move On’

One of two bathhouses in the Ratcliff Recreation Area

In spite of the beauty, electric and water hook ups, and clean bathrooms with real flushing toilets and hot showers I couldn’t settle. My gut pressed me to move camp after hiking. I would rather snuggle in with a good book on a cold, rainy afternoon nestled in a gorgeous forest than act on nomadic instincts.

Nevertheless, by early evening I was on the road again. I’m learning to trust my gut even if I don’t understand it.

I popped onto Wi-Fi during my first break for gas and received a text alert for severe weather in the Daniel Boone National Forest where I had camped. Unexpected, strong storms hit suddenly. It ended up lasting two days. Roads closed due to flooding.

Searching national forecasts to find my next camp I discovered passengers were trapped in an Amtrak in a snowstorm in sunny California. Kids were building snowmen in Arizona. I’d already escaped two erratic storms and every instinct said burrow in.

Home Sweet Home

I’m grateful to be sharing this particular tale in front of a roaring fire in my home base in Norman, Oklahoma where we have freezing rain and snow in the forecast.

My teardrop is packed; gas tank is full and ready to go. My nomad gut is feeling a tug from southeastern Arizona. Fortunately my overly analytical brain is keeping my gut snoring gently by the fire’s warm glow.

For now…

The BEST FREE Winter Beach Camping

Solitude, warm nights, sea breezes, and a full moon in dark night skies create the backdrop for a Valentine’s Day beach getaway. In my opinion the best free winter beach camping in the country is at South Beach in Padre Island’s National Seashore.

“Bigger in Texas” Padre Island National Seashoreis the world’s longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island. The seashore creates the first break, or barrier, before the sea winds and water slam into the mainland.

Rugged, remote, and prolific ocean wilderness

Coastline, dunes, prairies, and wind tidal flats are home to 380 bird species on 70 undeveloped miles of the preserve. You’ll see far more birds than people at this National Park.

All five species of Gulf sea turtles can be found on the island and surrounding waters. The Division of Sea Turtle Science and Recoveryworks to monitor and protect the turtles and is the only division of its kind in the National Park Service.

Texas is the only state in the U.S. where Kemp’s ridleys are native, with nesting records dating back to the 1940s. Kemp’s ridleys almost disappeared, but intensive conservation efforts increased populations in both Texas and Mexico. (Photo courtesy National Parks Service)

The endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtle has safe nesting ground on these beaches and no effort is spared to save these turtles.

This is the setting for the best free winter beach camping in the US.

It Wasn’t Always So Beautiful

The photo on the left shows the extensive damage too dunes. Almost 20 years later the dunes returned to healthier dune ecosystem.

Four different nations have owned the expansive preserve on the Gulf of Mexico and none erected endless rows of condos. But the beaches and dunes had extensive damage from oil drilling and cattle grazing. Restoring the island to pre-European conditions became a goal in 1969. Two years later cattle were removed and Texaco paid for clean up of oil sites.

Healthy dunes are a hallmark of South Beach on Padre Island, Texas.

Today the mended island is a safe permanent and migratory home to Nature. And a perfect way to escape the city and hit the beach for free winter camping,

If you love isolation in Nature this is it. Almost.

The beach is a public road! You can drive up and down much of the national preserve beaches and even primitive camp or boondock free on the beaches.

My favorite area is South Beach because it is less crowded than North Beach located just outside the National Park’s preserve system and the sand is more packed. It also has fewer mosquitoes than Bird Island.

How to Get to The Best Place to Boondock on Padre Island

Take Hwy 358 southeast out of Corpus Christi. It becomes S. Padre Island Drive (SPID) and then Park Rd 22 and goes to park entrance directly. Entry fee is free with a National Parks Annual Pass or $10 per week. Be sure to register to camp at the entrance to South Beach at Padre Island National Seashore.

Malaquite Visitor Center in Padre Island National Seashore

Stop at the Malaquite Visitor Center to get a copy of the tide tables and view exhibits of island history. Sign up for ranger led programs for birding and sea beaning. The center also sells ice and has cold water free showers.

Showers at the Malaquite Visitors Center.

Access to the south beach road starts at the park paved road just past the Visitor Center. The first 5 miles of South Beach are accessible by two-wheel drive. Beyond the first 5 miles South Beach goes on another 60 4WD ONLY miles before ending at the jetties at the Port Mansfield channel.

Tips for South Beach Driving and Free Winter Camping

This free winter beach camping is primitive and remote so come prepared with plenty of water, food, shelter, and mosquito spray. There’s little to no internet past the Visitor’s Center so be sure to make one final check of weather and tides while there.

Set up camp a minimum of 100 feet from the waters up to the edge of the white sand dunes. No camping is allowed in the dunes.

Just remember this is Texas public highway. Obey the standard laws – street legal, licensed, obey all traffic laws, speed zones, and remember to buckle up.

Because you’re gonna need to be strapped down to get to the perfect campsite. The sand road can disappear beneath surging waves forcing drivers closer to the soft, unpacked sand that can trap a car in seconds. Most of the road can disappear in high tide so plan accordingly or you’ll get trapped. Campers tend to set up in the 20-30’ section between the road and dunes.

Small inlets created by eroding high tides can provide some break from the wind, but are also sand traps. Remember to look for a site 100 feet from the water and off of the sand dunes. Look for the high tide water mark and set up at least 10-15 feet above that mark. Factor in the anticipated tide level each day listed in the tide table forecast.

Be Prepared For The Unexpected

High temperatures in winter are usually between 50°-70°. The forecast was for low 50’s with sea fog. But the third night on my Valentine’s excursion a sudden, strong cold front barreled through. Gale winds blew and temperatures dropped quickly to the 30’s.

Rocky and I napped nervously through the irritable, howling night. Winds slammed logs in jams, created dunes around the rv, and forced sand into every possible crack and crevice. Even with the built-in stabilizer jacks deployed my rig swayed and lurched in high winds.

Morning awakened the rage of a winter storm that upended predicted tide levels. By mid-morning unrelenting brown waves thrashed each other in the race to shore. The ocean swallowed the beach road four hours before predicted high tide. My mouth dropped when waves began blowing into my cozy, sheltered cove at the edge of the dunes.

When the road is being covered by incoming waves it’s time to leave, no matter what tide tables and weather forecasts say.

The power of the howling wind and rising waves roared like a tornado. Instinct grabbed control from my analytical mind still pondering how tide tables and weather forecasts could be as wrong as maps and GPS.

It didn’t take this plains gal more than two blinks to break camp, say a quick prayer, and drive nonstop through blowing wind, sand, and waves. Subaru’s all wheel drive combined with the offroad tires of my NuCamp RV made me howl with delight! Every time land slipped in surging water we quickly recovered forward progression.

Malaquite Visitor Center was crowded with campers surprised by the sudden winter storm that brought coastal flooding and wind advisories. I didn’t hang around to contemplate my options. Instinct was still in charge and it drove me far inland before I realized the escape had left a mark. I had no trailer lights and it was dark.

Deal is, the best winter beach camping adventure can end like this and there’s only one thing to do. Check into a hotel, take a long hot bath, catch up on laundry, run camp dishes through the dishwasher and binge watch all the Crocodile Dundee movies!

Candlewood Suites are reasonably priced for a full kitchen, free laundry, and great wifi. What every nomad needs occasionally!

Special Thanks for Your Help!

The fantastic folks at Custom Tinting and Truck Accessoriesfound and replaced the trailer hitch fuse shorted by seawater. They even taught me how to change the fuses myself. Good thing since shorting fuses outside of the standard auto fuse box is becoming a thing with me. Thank you for the great work Johnny Salazar and team in Victoria, Texas!

Fortunately the teams at AAA Premier RV and Subaru’s Extended Warranty programs will cover the unexpected hotel and food expenses while my vehicle was out of commission. These two programs pay for themselves every year that I’ve been on the road.

Go prepared. Stay flexible. Have fun!

Scenic Byway 12: Utah’s First ‘All American Road’

Utah’s 124-mile All American Scenic Byway 12 captured my heart with intense drama, diversity, and landscapes unfolding with stunning perfection across south-central Utah.

give yourself plenty of time

This All American Road has 11 amazing national or state forests, parks, monuments, and recreation areas. You won’t want to miss any! Each is a destination in its own right, so give yourself ample time.

Spanning from Bryce Canyon to Escalante and then Boulder, the diverse landscape includes lush ponderosa pine and aspen forests opening to sliprock canyons and then stunning mountain meadows full of flowers.

Desolate shale badlands and rugged limestone canyons filled with eroding rock formations and spirals of hoo-doos seem to keep watch over this infinite, quiet beauty. Breathtaking is an understatement.

Landscape of american pioneers

Scenic 12 crosses the Trail of The Ancients Scenic Byway where maps spiral beyond time in a land that has shaped resilient, tenacious people. The range spans Paleolithic societies to ancestral Pueblo’s, then on to nomadic Navajo, Apache, and Ute tribes and finally followed by white settlers.

Limited water, rugged topography, and powerful winds carve astonishing vistas in the landscape. It also carves an enduring faith and deep appreciation for life in the people of this region .

Vistas spanning hundreds of miles and eons of time offer a rare silence broken occasionally by the faint drone of airplanes. Sunrise and sunset delight the senses while expansive dark skies starscapes reveal glimpses of the universe beyond our galaxy.

how to get there

Scenic Byway 12 has two entry points.

The southwestern gateway is from U.S. HW 89, seven miles south of the city of Panguitch.

The northeastern gateway is from HW 24 in the town of Torrey near Capitol Reef National Park.

There are nine communities along the route. There’s quite an expanse between towns so be sure to keep an eye on your gas guage.

All American status

How does a road become an All American? These elite scenic byways are a portal to Nature’s stunning creations.

All American Roads offer inspiring vistas of natural, historic, recreational, archeological, and cultural significance.

I am transformed by each All American Road I meet.

A single lifetime is not nearly enough.

From Medicine Lake, WY to The Wild Madison River, MT

The check engine light popping on in my 2017 Subaru when I’m two hours outback and off grid triggers looping over-analysis in a gal like me. Best I could tell the main impact seemed to be loss of Eyesight system that’s the “culmination of everything Subaru engineers know about safety” according to their website. Engine restart would clear the check engine light sometimes but not the comprehensive electrical glitches.

Bottom line she was drivable so I didn’t need a tow. For now. Good thing since there’s no cell service for hours and very few people on the road to camp.

I arrived late in the day to the remote, mountaintop Upper Medicine Lodge Lake campsite next to Cloud Peak Wilderness in Wyoming’s Bighorn National Forest. I had camped the night before near Medicine Wheel Archeology Site even though the lake camp was still calling me.

Two hot exhausting August weeks in downtown Minneapolis had depleted every energy reserve. I refilled a good bit during two weeks at the rejuvenating waters in Black Hills National Forest camp. I needed another area steeped in healing traditions and Medicine Lodge Lake beckoned me like a lighthouse.

That I follow these gut tugs is not so much a miracle as it is decades of training on the personal front lines of my 30’s and early 40’s and then 14 years of traveling solo.

That I was heading to a campground rather than my normal boondocking alone far beyond civilization was the first real miracle. The second was the available campsite directly on the sparkling alpine lake beside the national forest. The third miracle was Corky.

Retired from a life of rodeos and barebacking Corky is a true cowboy with powerful, rugged features, good manners, and a helping hand if needed. He popped out of nowhere to assist my trailer backing before building a warm fire while I set up camp.

I don’t do campfires in the west because of fire hazards and I’m lazy. I know the tending required to have a safe fire and I’ll not risk a forest fire for food and warmth unless absolutely necessary. I have a propane stove to cook and a dog for cold toes.

This hypervigilance is a leftover control issue from navigating my late husband’s eight-year illness while raising four young kids. I believed being prepared for chronic crisis created a structure that would somehow calm the chaos and our normal wouldn’t seem so unbearable, especially to the kids. That was then.

Now the crackling flames danced in front of a backdrop of the blood orange sun sinking into the clear alpine lake by the campfire. I melted into this new level of heaven wondering if it was a dream that a man met my road weary self, built me a fire, reassured me about that pesky check engine business, and bid me goodnight without expecting anything in return? God bless gentlemen cowboys like Corky.

Medicine Lodge Lake Wyoming draws in folks steeped in generational family traditions who love life deep in the woods far beyond today’s hectic life. Doesn’t matter if you’re there for the end of the earth or the beginning of a brand new day people take care of each other and are decent stewards of Nature. Carnivores and vegans, Tea Party and moderates, evangelicals and atheists share a simple outdoor life.

You have to want it to get it. Take HW 14 east out of Shell, Wyoming for 17 miles through the Scenic Big Horn Highway then exit forest road 17 and go south 24.5 miles. Plan on two hours to drive that short 24 mile distance through some of the country’s most inspiring offroad vistas. There’s no cell or tow service.

Corky followed me in his truck the two hours out of camp across the national forest and knarly private roads to paved road and cell service to be sure I was safe to travel the remaining distance to the Subaru dealer in Billings, Montana. He also called to make sure I arrived in Billings ok.

It always baffled me that herds calmly move to a cowboy’s request. Not anymore. I’m far too independent for herds but being looked after by somebody who takes his job seriously in the sometimes perilous outback is a gift I gratefully accepted. So did Rocky.

I’ll spare the details once I hit paved road mid-August but the bad news is it’s almost a month later with two visits to the shop and still no fix. The dealer says the audio and electronic issues are resolved but they’re still waiting on a starter from Subaru. A few days ago they broke the news to me that ETA is October 8.

I’m NOT kidding.

The good news is my Subaru is still under warranty and Rimrock Subaru gave me a loaner Outback. The bad news is the loaner doesn’t have a trailer hitch so I can’t pull my home. Homeless is not on my bucket list.

My extensive travel does not have nor require a big budget. Paid lodging is a rare treat strictly reserved for a hot soak in a deep tub, laundry, and supplies. The anxiety over these unexpected expenses has been eased by the miracle of the folks crossing my path like family friend AJ and her Indian Gulch Ranch. It reminds me that everything works out better than I could imagine if I just stay in the flow.

Kathy at Madison Management’s true gift is property and client matchmaking. I asked for the cabin I found on her website close to the Madison River because it was available on short notice. She suggested that I might prefer a softer, gentler version in the same price range. Boy was she right about that soft, feminine touch less than five minutes from two fantastic bridges for prime wild trout fishing on the Madison.

The Madison River is a fly fishers meca three times bigger than any gold medal river I’ve fished. It’s “A River Runs Through It” wild fish big river
country and in late summer the pressured mojo of a weary world class fly fishing river is obvious.

The fish that survive are smart and hiding from the heat and anglers. You’ve got to cast your fly in the mouth of a yawning fish to catch it this time of year.

Montana Angler’s guide Rob McGillicuddy helped me land wild rainbows, browns, and whites. Watching Rob work the boat into just the right spot then hold it in the current so my line would sweep perfectly through a drift was impressive. Nothing to write home about in size but plenty of action with the small, less experienced fish.

I can do technical water, but frankly heavily fished mojo drains me slick like Wal-Mart on a Sunday. I yearned for the smaller streams and relaxed ease of outback fly fishing where larger fish are more likely to play.

Picnic packed we headed beyond the highway and cell service. The steady flow of divine guidance led us through a spectacular day in stunning outback Montana. Following my gut is always a good call but following my angels is spectacular. They send just the right people at just the right time with just the right information.

Rocky and I picnicked at a boondock site an hour off HW 287 on FR 202 of the West Fork of the Madison. We spied the shallow, swift water sweeping beside the small pine meadow in a valley just when hunger couldn’t be denied any longer.

Hours later I wondered once again why I was still sitting in my chair staring at the current. “Just wait for it” my angel replied.

When he arrived the young man had the manners to park his truck on the road and hike into our temporary camp. An earlier group had driven right into our picnic without heed. Needless to say Rocky’s leash was still off and my 9mm clip checked.

But this young man stopped a good 10 feet from us after a slow approach, body language relaxed, open, and patient. I added common sense to his attributes.

I leaned into that sweet slow storytelling manner outback folks share and listened to his tale unfold. He’s a bowhunter and had spent the night before in a meadow listening to a massive elk herd bugle. He searched all night to scout a campsite nearby and had come off the mountain at dawn with big plans to celebrate his first anniversary with his new bride and their young son.

He offered his wife a fancy hotel to celebrate marriage OR camping in the primitive boondock site just over the ridge from the elk-filled meadow. His beautiful bride is also a bow hunter and she excitedly picked the camping option only to arrive at the site to find me already there.

“So you’re why I’ve been waiting,” I noted packing my gear to welcome them in. “Thanks for saving the spot for us,” he laughed noting my fishing gear in my cargo and wondering if I’d had any luck. I keep a small “miracle notebook” handy for times like this when a local begins sharing their secret fishing spots with me.

An hour or so on down the road a cyclist was stopped and I slowed to confirm he and his retro 1970’s Harley were ok. A bit later I moved on with even more secret fishing spots in the gorgeous “Chain of Lakes” and smaller West Fork scribbled in my notebook. Unfortunately there was not nearly enough daylight to keep going especially when I was nearing the end of my week near Ennis, Montana and my car still wasn’t ready.

What now?

Madison Management Kathy stepped in once again and knocked it out of the park with a cabin very much like the boondocking sites I love the most. Behind a locked cattle gate on a wild pristine stretch of the Madison River with a side stream enveloping a small island the cabin and the imprints of lives well lived raised the hair on my body in a most pleasing way.

I was free to roam without my guard up although Sgt. Rocky was in perpetual guard mode because of the abundant wildlife. Eagle, osprey, cranes, owl, deer, antelope, moose seemed as common as the chipmunks.

The first two days Rocky guarded every exit from the house sticking right by my side even when I walked to the car. He’s had enough outback experience to know we stick together with this much wildlife around.

I’ve learned to listen to Rocky whether it’s on a backwoods trail or going on a date. His radar for danger is impeccable so I never second guess or overrule his opinion, although this time I gently coaxed his rigid boundaries to relax.

By the third day we had explored every inch of land and water in this enchanted stretch. In fact, the week we were there we never left the property, never unlocked the gate, and never once had a desire for any part of life beyond the gate.

Montana believes water is public so there’s none of that blocked access to private waters nonsense you find in other states. Every couple of days a savvy fly fisher would wade up the back side of the island where the slower stream flows in front of the cabin and I could get a fishing report to compare to my own.

I also had an extraordinary visit with the woman who grew up on this stretch and raised her kids there too. Kindred spirits we both know how priceless a small stretch of outback fresh, cold water can be for generations of family and friends. I cherish that visit and her amazing rosemary pear preserves.

I wonder at the tales I’ve heard of days gone by on the crystal creeks and highland lakes stretching from Wyoming over the breathtaking Beartooth Pass to the shores of the Mighty Madison in Montana.

I marvel at what we’ve had access to since we left Minneapolis in August. I sense watery images of what awaits us in the secret places we’ve yet to explore.

Glacier National Park is tugging for me to come play but it is past time to have a chat with the folks at Subaru in Billings about the 22 business days waiting on a simple starter and news of another 16 business days to go before the part arrives.

My heart and my budget need my rig back. I’m questioning the wisdom of Subaru playing a leading role in my outback, offgrid life. Looks good in the commercials but at just over 30,000 miles my reliability and service experience is taking a huge hit by sitting in the shop for a month. That breaks a bottom line survival rule for a solo, outback, offgrid nomad and her dog and smells an awful lot like a lemon.

River Monsters and Rosemary Pear Preserves on Montana’s Mighty Madison River

I was too excited to sleep so we hit the water early.

The day before I met the mother of the third generation to grow up on this magic stretch of the Madison River in Montana.

Her childhood memories of camping with the neighbor kids on the river’s edge feasting on the first catch of the open trout season reminded me of my own outdoor adventures and freedom as a child.

Her stories of picnics in Pickle Jar Meadow, sunrise at Frank’s Hole, and the beaver trapper who homesteaded this area filled my mind during the morning fish upstream.

As usual, the catch was smaller wild rainbows and browns in the three to six-inch range who fight like crocodiles.

Past due for a Montana Monster Fish I decided to experiment with a crazy long tippet rolling it out quietly on the water, delivering the tiny fly far beyond the end of the bright yellow fly line and thick leader.

The fly line spooks them but the tiny fly landing a few seconds later can trick the distracted fish.

The leader and lengthy tippet were much longer than the 7.5-foot rod I was using, but sometimes it works in pressured, end of summer waters.

It’s also a rig that rules out using a net to land a fish, especially waist-deep in big water currents. Ass far as I know, but I’m always open to learning if a full-timer is available.

This time I knew the name of Frank’s hole when I stripped and jigged a beetle across the confluence of the cabin side stream and the roaring Madison.

Frank and Joe could catch fish no matter the location or conditions and sounded a lot like my Dad and his best friend Jim.

Frank’s hole was just off the front yard and deck of the cabin he built in the 70’s. It’s a stunning view and the fishing hole name is a proper tribute to the man and his family legends.

I was daydreaming about that when the Madison Monster hit stripping line and skipping my heart as he torpedoed out of the water.

This one isn’t the monster, but there’s a story to watch for about this whitefish.

Muscle memory kicked in popping my rod tip up and line pressure tight yet responsive. I’d give him plenty of space to wear himself out and come in gently.

Steering him out of the weeds meant I had to stay in the middle of the strong, deep current where an experienced monster can throw a hook easily.

He fought like a machine and I reeled in line during his brief rests, but still had too much line out given how long he’d been on. Eyeing a possible path to shore I decided to try to sweep him across the current to land.

This strategy is my least favorite because it takes the fish out of water increasing the stress and potential for injury. It’s even rougher on the fish than lifting it out of the water to get a photo because fish thrash about in panic on land.

It’s hard to catch and release when you’ve maimed a fish in the catching process. For me, it’s too cruel just to have bragging rights or photos of the landing.

The river dance is normally more than enough for me, but I was past due for a monster catch and hooked deep in this fantastic challenge.

Fate twisted in favor of the fish when I turned toward shore tripping over a submerged boulder and crossing the tight line into my pole with a definitive SNAP.

Monster Fish 1. Cindy 0.

To add insult to injury my defeated slouch rolled me into the strong current filling my waders with ice cold water.

On the way down I snatched my phone from the open bib pocket, holding it triumphantly in the air while body surfing down the river.

I heard Rocky’s distant, sharp bark and shrill yelps just as I was pulling myself out of the water. Adrenaline slammed into my legs propelling me past cabins across Pickle Jar Meadow through the shoulder high thorny brambles over several downed logs and into the side stream calling for Rocky and getting no answer.

No yelps. No barks.

I spotted him slammed into a log jam scrambling to find purchase on the slippery logs.

Our eyes locked and he arched to leap toward me just as I held my hand up signaling STOP. WAIT.

I’d never catch him if he jumped into the fast current even though I was running like a mama bear through the river.

Years of training, our combined stubborn will, and plenty of help from Frank, Joe, my Dad, and all the guardian angels in this stretch held Rocky frozen in that perilous perch until I lunged the last few yards and bear hugged his chest.

We might be going down but we were going down together.

There was no easy way out of this mess. Direct access to the shore was totally blocked by decades of downed trees.

The current was too strong and water too deep for Rocky to wade. I’d have to carry him upstream through the current around the log jam to shore.

He’s 50 pounds and I’m not 29 anymore, but adrenaline, the force of will, and the power of love is an amazing combination.

We groaned at the same time and I laughed pulling ourselves up the steep bank and out of the water.

Rocky squirreled beneath the brush but it took me forever to work myself through the tangle of thorns I had torn past in seconds earlier.

Exhausted, winded, and grateful I crouched at the top of the slope with my hands on my knees when I saw something that caught my breath, “Are you kidding me? ”

The labyrinth.

I hadn’t noticed it in Pickle Jar Meadow but the day before Chris told me about the years she and her kids would collect and place rocks carefully creating their family labyrinth.

She had texted me before I hit the river to let me know she left a gift for me in the labyrinth center.

I had no idea I’d be in a state of absolute grace when I got there. No idea the first steps on level ground would land Rocky and me in front of this sacred space.

Sloshing in my freezing, waterlogged waders around that labyrinth immersed in the gift of the miracles of this day I was mindful of little more than grace.

Snuggled in a warm, soft blanket back at the cabin devouring homemade rosemary pear preserves, I am gratefully mindful that life doesn’t get any better than this.

Medicine Lodge Archaeological Site in Bighorn Mountains

Can a nomad soul like mine live in one section or region and never feel the pulse quicken when the next place calls? The subtle shift in the wind ignites daydreams of new adventures in the beckoning breeze.

I had to call in all my angels and guides however to uproot my heart from the enchanted Black Hills of South Dakota. National forest boondocking is free but requires a move of at least five miles every 14 days. I wasn’t ready to leave that raspberry meadow on the roaring creek in the shadow of Crystal Peak outside Hill City, South Dakota. But I respect the other wanderers who fill the places I free up, so I sang travel songs and prayers into my pack and headed north to Big Horn country.

Northern Wyoming and Southern Montana in the Bighorn National Forest and Canyon region also made my roots itch to grow deeper, faster, longer. Twenty square acres can offer snow-capped mountains, hills rolling into wide prairie valleys dropping to canyons laced with crystal streams, waterfalls, and roaring rivers. The entire universe can exist in one alluring square inch.

There is also comfort in the northwest summer temperatures. Unlike the South’s wet sweat lodge heat, it’s quite simple to find cooling shade in the northern trees and bluffs. A nearby icy creek, river, or lake can relieve even the worst heat of the day and evening breezes bring the perfect chill for snuggling in.

Those of us who prefer life offgrid are drawn like migrating birds to fish, hike, build camps, share stories, and heal in the mountains of Nature’s backbone where the veil becomes exquisitely thin.

Social and sacred gathering sites like Medicine Lodge outside Hyattville, WY invoke feelings of going to grandma’s – on steroids. The bluff along Medicine Lodge Creek has been a gathering place spanning 10,000 years from Paleoindians to the Crow people. Each left a mark, a lesson, a sharing across the bluff’s 750-foot mural.

Figures have been pecked, incised and painted by artists representing at least 60 different northern plains groups. The diversity and quality of the figures makes this massive mural one of the major rock art locations in the region. Late Prehistoric Period hunter-gatherers created most of the petroglyphs. Local tribes of Crow and Shoshone made the recent art during the 1700-1800’s. The work captures every single known, recorded figure of the northern plains artists.

That is what we know. It’s the unknown that pulls me beyond the Medicine Lodge mural and campground to nearby creeks, wet and dry, sheltered by towering, ancient rock bluffs decorated with clinging evergreens, sage, and sweet grass. Medicine Lodge nurtures solo journeys where protective filters dissolve and the soul opens to sing, dance, pray, and play with the Universe.

True to form by the end of the first day traveling to the area I was fairly aware of my coordinates but road conditions blocked access points recommended by two office-based rangers in two different national forest districts. I was beyond maps, coordinates, and certainty.

Perhaps it is part of my journey to waste energy on futile attempts to map the wilderness because I still do it every time while my gray hair laughs at my folly. Go to town. Recharge all gear. Refill tanks and food stores. Get maps and coordinates. Head out like I’m in charge.

GPS is my only hope in the city. But the more the on-grid networks fade, the more I hear, see, feel, smell the way like I did as a child. It is simple but not easy to remember the way always shows up when I have exhausted all of my skills and let go of my planned outcomes. The way waits for me to ask and wraps me in sweet encouragement and obvious signs leading me to where I’m meant to be.

I won’t try to use words to define the shelter of Medicine Lodge because it seems insulting to try to contain flow. I can assure you it is worth losing yourself to the Bighorn. May you and yours know the peace, grace, and welcome that appears when lost is found.

Manna in the Meadow

Two weeks in downtown Minneapolis can suck the last drop out of a gal like me. I travel the rough back roads of this country solo and rarely feel vulnerable, afraid, or exposed. But a lot of time in most cities is draining. San Francisco, Montreal, and Istanbul are the exceptions.

My hat is off to the founders of Minneapolis who preserved the green space along the Mississippi River flowing between the Twin Cities. Daily hikes along the downtown Nature trails infused Rocky and me. The festivals, museums, music, and food reflect an appreciation of high talent and passion. I’m grateful for the hospitality the fine staff at Town Suites on 2^ndStreet offered Rocky and me.

The St. Croix River and several gorgeous state parks are within an hour drive of the city. The flooding of St. Croix created an awesome canoe ride on a sunny Sunday.

We bid farewell to the Twin Cities with one urgent goal – restore the balance off grid. I was so depleted I loaded up enough groceries, water, propane, permits, and maps to avoid town. Forever!

I knew what I needed and why. I didn’t know what state or national forest would answer my call for a cold, mountain creek with deep forest shade and enough flat space to set up camp. Frequent rain is a bonus.

We drove east past the crystal clear mountain lakes of Minnesota and the blazing Badlands of South Dakota without a second glance. But the Black
Hills National Forest pinged images of moving water, cool breezes, and the smell of evergreens.

Firing up my orienteering brain, GPS, and the Forest Service’s off road maps we set off to find our next hermitage in the woods. But the answer to my call for a mountain peak and valley creek took me far beyond even Subaru’s impressive off grid GPS coverage. The paper map led me to blockades of private land, cut timber, and herds of cattle common in today’s national forests.

I could feel the place in my heart, but I couldn’t find it with my head. Frankly I thought I knew the plan but all I really had were clear visions, longing, dreams, journals, stories, and prayers guiding my life. Eyeing the setting sun I let go of outcomes. I’d make due. And due would make me as it always does.

One deep breath disabled the brain and my open, willing heart took the lead focusing with gratitude on the cool, moist breeze, towering spruce, green rolling meadows, and distant granite peaks. Each turn on the ATV trail offered more than I had planned or prepared for. What did it matter if there was no creek?

On a last minute whim I took a left on what appeared to be a wagon trail from the old west.

Never turn left, my brain piped in, reminding me of the crash statistics on left turns.

Almost there Cindy. You are almost there, my heart replied.

Right. Sorry I got in the way for so long. Thank you for this, I whispered crossing a cattle guard opening to a large meadow blanketed with flowers.

A delighted laugh flew from my heart as I rounded a bend. A small clearing created when diseased trees were removed nurtured a new meadow
bursting with baby raspberry plants, brilliant flowers, and strong, native grasses. A wide and swift creek flowed beneath towering granite cliffs framing the meadow. Centuries of evergreen needles made the ground soft, flat, and fragrant. The sun disappeared beyond the cliffs while I danced in joyful circles around the meadow laughing and singing.

I couldn’t overthink camp set up because there was only one possible, perfect option. Shade for the camper, space for the shower/bathroom, stumps and cut timber for tables and chairs. The meadow was just right for optimum solar collection and a small deer trail led to the creek. I quickly assembled a basic camp and slept deeply to the sound of running water.

The nudge at dawn was annoying enough to be effective. Quickly wake up! Look! Outside my door was a breath-taking, eight-point buck grazing in the meadow with a juvenile male sporting new antlers. I flashed on Bambi’s Dad showing him the ropes in the forest. Mimicking Bambi’s Mother’s I sadly whispered “Man was in the forest today,”and the big buck looked my way before trotting up the hill with a snort and quick flash of tail.

Over coffee a curious bumblebee with an odd flight pattern feasted on purple flowers by my chair. He might have a limping flight but was not lacking in strength and agility I noticed lighting incense and settling into meditation.

He was gone when I came back to physical awareness but returned often. His visits correlated with each new item I set up in camp. The two awnings, bathroom tent, a tablecloth over stumps to create a kitchen seemed to draw him like an inspector. He would hitch a ride on my feet, arms or hands.

I would too! I thought watching him crash land on the kitchen counter and crawl onto the raw veggies to nap.

The second day, eager to satisfy my curious brain I gathered up maps settling at the table to identify our coordinates now that we had hiked the area. I could visualize how the last minute left turn had taken me through private land with access to Crystal Peak and Creek. Now to verify that theory.

Bee arrived with a hard landing on the map and danced in circles along the winding map trail markings. Between dances he slept, so still the only sign of life was the light reflecting in his eyes. So bees sleep with eyes open?

I’ve never observed bee sleep so can only guess that’s what it was. If I nudged him he would crawl into my hand and drift back off. He napped a lot, especially in the spruce branches I had harvested from a newly cut tree to use on the altar. In the world of bee blessings I knew I had hit the jackpot even as my awareness of his declining condition grew.

No big surprise here, I mumbled acknowledging that if humans find me to midwife death why not a bumblebee?

By the third morning he had let go of gathering nectar in the meadow, preferring to stay snuggled in the altar bustling with a community of spiders, honeybees, beetles and ants. Extravert aye? I mused as I broke my “don’t kill the wildflowers” cardinal rule and placed his favorite purple flower next to him on the altar. He perked up and fed for hours between naps. I tucked him in that night with visions of angelic hives, prayers for peace, and a deep appreciation for his quiet companionship.

The next morning he was gone. I searched but never found him. My mind filled with images of Elijah the Bee ascending in a chariot of meadow flowers.

Seemed fitting. Like Elijah, Bee reminded me to be bit more mindful of daily manna in the wilderness that defy life or death polarities. This elusive, often fleeting awareness deeply restores a vibrant, healthy, happy harmony in every part of me and has since I was a girl living in the woods with creeks and ponds.

Profoundly simple. Nothing fancy. Just Nature showing up as Bee leading the way through miracles and magic in the great outback.

Off-Roadside Assistance

“You need help?”

“I did it this time didn’t I?”

“Thorough job.”

“I’ve driven from coast to coast on backroads but never experienced this one yet,” I chuckled surveying the tire so flat it had collapsed in on itself with an angry pop and forceful hiss after I clipped the partially buried wedge of shale forcing a split in the sidewall of the tire.

I also didn’t mention I’ve never experienced a flat, had no tire changing skills, and am often confounded by tools, although more often than not I do sort it out, given enough time. “Chin up ol gal. Somehow things will soon be right as rain,” I whispered internally pushing back the image of a spring shower exploding into an Oklahoma tornado.

“So can we help you then?”

“Are you in a rental? I know you probably need to get it back in time?” I replied with false bravado to honor the southern code of “thou shalt not impose.”

“No. These are ours. We’re in no hurry,” he nodded to the four rumbling ATVs waiting on the side of the remote narrow forest road across from my Outback.

“I don’t have cell service but a family drove by and took my information to call AAA and Subaru Roadside Service. It’s ok if you’d rather not. I’m sure someone will come,” I explained oozing ignorance about the likelihood of a service vehicle maneuvering the rough ATV trails half an hour off gravel roads and another hour to the first town on paved road.

“Then we’d better get to work. You guys ready?” he replied with reassurance that soothed the hard lump in my gut.

I held up my hand to stop him. “There’s just one more thing I should show you before you volunteer to help. It’s quite the hassle,” I warned moving to the rear of my car to open the hatch and reveal the solid wood chest of drawers built to fit in the full cargo area of the Subaru. My favorite carpenter had built it for me to haul my gear. With all the drawers removed it still takes two strong people to lift. Someday I’ll find someone to build it out of lightweight aluminum but for now this 300 pound behemoth serves me well.

Until now.

“Deal is the spare is under this. It’s hard to remove. You sure you’re still up for this?” I asked turning to him fully prepared to see serious back peddling. This would not be a simple tire change.

“I’m going to need one of you to help back here,” he quietly motioned.

At his signal engines shut off and a crowd of men and women gathered around. I recognized the quiet, exquisite manners, and warm compassion of these Black Hills folks who respectfully restrained their comments. My wide-open Oklahoma plains girl quickly threw open the door to release the mounting pressure.

“I can’t believe not one of you has laughed yet!” I allowed.

The tallest man released a short, healthy guffaw and the women began to softly chuckle. Everyone began sharing thoughts, opinions and good-natured jokes and one began videoing my predicament. I doubled over allowing my own belly laughing to release the tension and fully receive the openhearted gift of this remarkable family.

And family they are. Three strapping brothers, their sister, mother, and a sister- and brother-in-law out for a picnic near beautiful meadows and old mine in Castle Peak wilderness area of the Black Hills National Forest in South Dakota.

I quickly declined their invitation to join them for their picnic even though I couldn’t imagine a lovelier opportunity. I would be dining with angels in one of God’s most beautiful settings. These folks are so good to the bone they didn’t even trigger Rocky who is well known for his keen ability to read the true character of folks. He will not allow anything unsavory near me. He slept soundly through the entire ordeal until I shuffled him out of the back seat and into the front to make room for the ruined tire.

I also knew I’d not only be intruding on family time but also would never make it back to camp on a spare. My tires are not common stock either. It was another miracle of the day that Tires Plus in Rapid City was able to track down one tire in the whole city. One is all I needed! (I highly recommend this business on Haines in Rapid City, South Dakota).

With a grateful heart we shook hands, hugged thank you’s and good byes and went our separate ways. Just as I was getting in my car a mammoth, cobalt blue 4×4 pick up pulled up and offered help. I shook his hand in introduction and George swore I was the spitting image of his cousin. He may have missed out on the heavy lifting but he did stay in my site until we hit paved road where he waved good-bye.

My first calls when I reached cell service were to cancel the service requests made on my behalf by the family who first stopped. The call center folks couldn’t find me even with member and car VIN numbers as well as my name, address, and phone. There’s no way that family could have filed a service request with these computer system blocks. Indeed no call was registered at either company. Had I refused the help I might still be stewing in my own vulnerable pot of pride and self-sufficiency.

A week earlier when I entered the deep forests, meadows, creeks and cliffs of the Black Hills I immediately felt peace, safety and belonging in my marrow. My sleep has been deep and filled with adventurous dreams of close-knit family living here for generations. My camp in the pine and spruce forest has been busy with visitors of all kinds. The same bumblebee lived with us for three days. Two majestic bucks visit the raspberry field by the river every evening while I’m fly fishing for leaping brookies. Hummingbirds dive for my morning maple syrup. Angels dance with fairies and family long gone embrace me with a smell, a warm breeze, and memories of laughter and love. In all my travels it’s the longest I’ve stayed in one spot and I have no desire to leave.

It is exquisite living even with the occasional hassles and bummers. I do keep my guardian angels on their toes.

The West Family of Watertown, South Dakota appeared within minutes of my need and blanketed me in quiet efficiency, gracious humor, and willingness to make my problem theirs without batting an eye.

I briefly explained to Mother West how I came to be found solo on the back roads in need. She quietly listened and to my great surprise and delight she observed, “You are free! Having many adventures! And you are a writer aren’t you?”

In that instant I felt her unity with my journey in the very empty seat beside her. Yes the blessing of close, loving, grown children surrounded her. But she too knew unbearable loss and lonely, dark grief. I’ll never forget the glow of her face when she observed “you are free!” I think like me, she lives a celebrated recovery beyond the losses with a grateful mindfulness of the gift of each breath every day simply because we are alive.

Dear West Family and blue pick up George know that I still feel your infusion of safety, reassurance, and rescue. Your big medicine is now a part of me available to ground and guide me during the next calamity. May your blessings return to each of you in the gentle breeze with my grateful hug.

This One’s For You Daddy

I practice a Native Hawaiian active meditation I learned long ago. When someone you love is suffering you can help by having a grand adventure and intentionally sending the vital life force to the one who needs help. It is powerful medicine.

When I began traveling solo Daddy longed to go with me. Growing up my friends called him the Marlboro Man because of his outdoorsman persona, rugged good looks, and obvious membership in the Man’s Man Club. He was definitely someone who loved a wilderness adventure.

Advancing arthritis began to block his path to hike mountains and fish rough rivers. I knew I could send magic mojo home to infuse Daddy, ease the pain, and lift his spirits. What I didn’t realize is how much he was responsible for my growing wilderness skills.

Daddy would start trip planning in the dead of winter to cure our cabin fever. “Trip foreplay” was the best part of any adventure he’d say. He scouted out coordinates of some of his favorite mountain trails and streams, camping spots, even archery ranges. He’d send satellite images and I’d chart the maps first with orange dots that I would later connect at the end of each leg.

He lived vicariously through my trips in mountains, deserts, and rivers. I used his courage to head out on my own and navigate tough spots, trusting that he would find me if I didn’t report in.

Every time I got back on grid I would call and send pictures. He tracked me via satellite and always had specific questions about “that hole in the stream by that stand of oaks” or “the switchback trail to the peak.” He often warned me about tornadoes heading my way on prairie drives. The more details I could give him about the flying trout at dawn in a mountain lake or the razorback hog my dog blocked from my path the more he would belly laugh or quiz me on my marksmanship.

During a bout of vertigo on a fly-fishing trip in Basalt, Colorado he alone knew why I didn’t come home or go to the doctor and he never nagged. Instead he taught me – over the phone – how to fall down a mountain without breaking anything. Soon after I was hiking down a steep, gravel ravine with a guide when a spell hit and I rolled and skied my way through it. “Man you fall like a 30-year-old!” the guide noted. At the time I was 50 and still don’t know if that was meant to be a complement.

Our talent of living vicariously through each other expanded over the 14 years of this particular partnership. I believed in him and he believed in me. He had raised me to hike, hunt, fish, shoot, track, and live in Nature. If he ever worried about me he never mentioned it. Any bravery I had was because of his confidence in me. Our shared stubborn trait forced me to make a way out of some impossible situations just so I wouldn’t have to worry Daddy.

When life as a single mom got me down Daddy pulled out “The Plan” to roam the country full-time in my retirement. He supported every step including my home and lifestyle downsizing to free me to retire early, buy an RV, and expand opportunities. Last winter we began charting my first outback adventures in the teardrop. He didn’t live to see my launch in the spring.

This first Father’s Day without him I look at those orange dots on the map and grief gut kicks. Control urges me to fast forward, avoid the pain, and just connect the orange dots! But control is a dangerous trickster and shortcuts in grief can leave big marks.

For now I lean into my old, honest companions Death and Time. I trust the divine alchemy these two create if I can muster the patience and courage to stay right here, right now.

When my heart soars down a mountain pass drive, or at the pull of “OMG it’s a monster fish!” Daddy is no longer stuck in his rocking chair waiting to hear my stories. His surge of joy feels stronger than my own and I often exclaim “Oh Daddy LOOK!”

If I ever do get in over my head I know I won’t face it alone.

Happy Father’s Day Daddy! Thank you!

Boondocking Sedona

Arizona’s Red Rock Country Oak Creek River parallels HW 89A curving through miles of breathtaking canyon vistas and shady oak forests between Flagstaff on the North and Sedona on the South.

But on Sunday Oak Creek Canyon reminds me of ants at a summer picnic. Sedona tourism has tripled in the last decade with over two million annual visitors. On any given weekend thousands pack the roadway, parking lots overflow both sides of the highway, and bumper-to-bumper one-lane traffic inches through the gridlock. The highway flows into downtown Sedona and every artery is an organized bottleneck thanks to abundant roundabouts.

Yet even here you can camp alone for free with spectacular views of colorful cliffs, soaring pinnacles, juniper and pinion forests, and abundant wildlife.

If you’re willing to take the roads less traveled.

It’s 20-30 minute drive from town to campsite. The road is part gravel with some wash boarding, but is very passable. (In a rain the mud becomes goo so plan to settle in and wait for things to dry out rather than bog your rig in headache and heartbreak.)

Take HW 89A west from Sedona to mile marker 365. Turn right on Forest Rd 525 – Red Canyon Road. From entry to Palatki Ruins are many clearly marked pullouts. Some can accommodate numerous rigs while others are perfect for a small tent.

I prefer the area north of the Boynton Pass Road between the Honanki and Palatki Heritage Sites. Nestled in Lincoln Canyon of Red Rock Secret Mountain Wilderness you are encircled by the Mongollon Rim with Secret, Bear, and Lost Mountains on the east and Black, Sugarloaf, and Casner Mountains on the north and west. Like all of Sedona it can get crowded and it’s worth venturing past the first spots. The area has many OHV trails so the biggest drawback is abundant Jeep and ATV traffic during business hours.

But sunrise and sunset offer gorgeous slivers of solitude and silence in stunning natural beauty and fragile desert wilderness. The dark night skies envelop you in a velvet blanket of dazzling stars, planets, and galaxies that seem close enough to touch.

There are other dispersed camping sites closer to town, but like the private RV parks they appear to remain crowded. Veteran boondockers say many of these sites are in the process of being temporarily/permanently closed. Even the dispersed camping sites on forest roads are becoming sparse as forest officials try to balance human access with protection of natural resources.

Motor Vehicle Use maps show dispersed camping options in Coconino National Forest. Be sure to get a new map as many areas have closed. These are available at any of the three visitor centers – Red Rock Visitor Center, the Sedona Chamber of Commerce Visitor Center, and Oak Creek Canyon Visitor Center. Also look for the free recreations guides for area maps, hiking trails, plant and wildlife guides. The Sedona Outdoor Recreation Map by Beartooth Publishing is an excellent waterproof, topo shaded relief map. (Oak Creek Visitor Center has copies for $11.95. Amazon is $17.95)

Other Camping Options

The Forest Service operates Pine Flat, Cave Springs, and Manzanita Campgrounds along Hwy 89A north of Sedona in Oak Creek Canyon. Pine Flat and Cave Springs are open seasonally, and Manzanita is open year round for tent camping only.

South of Sedona are Arizona State Park Dead Horse Ranch and National Forest Service camps Clear Creek and Chavez. These are all open year round.

National Forest campsites are larger than the private RV parks, but remain booked solid. National Forest camps are reservable at (877) 444-6777 or rec.gov. Dead Horse can be reserved at (520) 586-2283 or azstateparks.itinio.com/deadhorseranch. Some sites are walk up reservations. Best time to secure those is early on Sunday through Wednesday.

The best private camping option I’ve found is Camp Avalon. Once an organic farm Camp Avalon is now a nonprofit spiritual retreat center with private, “dry” camping options by Oak Creek. There are fire vaults and portable toilets. It can accommodate small RV’s and tent campers on acres of open pasture and forested shade. Rates range from $20-$35/day. Camp Avalon is located at 91 Loy Lane in West Sedona off of 89A. Reservations available at www.avalon.camp.

Passes

The hiking trails of Sedona are some of the nations best so it’s worth the realities of camping in a heavy tourist area. The Red Rock Pass is required in most trailhead parking lots. A one-day pass is $5.00, a weekly pass is $15.00, and an annual pass is $20.00. The Coconino National Forest Recreation Guide also lists the few areas where the pass is not valid and an additional $9.00 per-vehicle parking fee is required.

The Federal Interagency Recreation Passes are honored. These annual passes are honored at most federal forest fee areas and many other federal fee sites. The annual pass is $80, or $10 for seniors (62 and up), free for any US citizen who is disabled and any active duty military and/or dependents. The “Every Kid in a Park Pass” is free to any us 4^thgrader and accompanying passengers in a private vehicle.