Trains, walls, sandworms and home is wherever we park it

Reflections of the Sonoran Desert sunset at Gilbert Ray Campground outside Tucson, AZ (Photo by John Kelly Green)
Reflections of the Sonoran Desert sunset at Gilbert Ray Campground outside Tucson, AZ (Photo by John Kelly Green)

You see a lot of things when you are on the road. You drive for hours, stopping for gas, the bathroom, or a meal, and in between there’s the long ribbon of highway stretching out ahead. Sometimes you marvel at the big things. Clouds sailing like ships across a sea-blue sky. Massive wind-carved sandstone boulders scattered on mountainsides. The surprising descent onto a flat plain edged by distant dark mountains and punctuated by swirls of sandy clouds kicked up by trucks and cars on gravel roads. Sometimes we notice the smaller things — vultures, hawks and crows circling overhead, a fuzzy black tarantula crossing Oklahoma or Texas backroads (Why? To get to the other side, of course) and, once, a family of coyotes out for a roadside stroll in Arizona.

On Tuesday, Oct. 15, we started a three-day, nearly 900-mile sprint from Los Angeles to the City of Truth or Consequences, NM. We took Interstate 10 East and jumped onto California 86 to head south along the Salton Sea before taking I-8  to Arizona. We passed through Salton City with its billboards advertising unimproved lots for around $2,900 and improved lots for $3,400. Some flat-roofed buildings along the stretch of open land toward the shrinking accidental lake were being used and others were abandoned, hand-painted signs of former businesses fading and peeling in the hot sun. Somewhere along the way — where, I’m not sure — I noticed a great blue heron standing stock still along an irrigation channel, eyes scanning for its next meal amid the flowing blue water.

Near sunset on that Tuesday, the beautiful Imperial sand dunes glowed gold, offset by dark shadows cast by wind-ravaged edges. To the south, we caught a glimpse of the US-Mexico border wall, snaking black along the dunes. It looked like a sandworm slithering up and down through sandy waves on the arid planet Arrakis from the novel Dune. Later I read that the wall sits atop the sand. Buttresses that look like caterpillar legs keep it stable but the entire structure can be shifted, if necessary, to accommodate the ever-moving sand.

Imperial Dunes, U.S.-Mexico border wall and Border Patrol, Arizona (Photo by John Kelly Green)
Imperial Dunes, U.S.-Mexico border wall and Border Patrol, Arizona (Photo by John Kelly Green)

Before the sun completely set, we reached our destination — a property owned by a nice couple who split their year between Alberta, British Columbia, and Yuma, AZ, and let us stay overnight. (We had electric and water hookup — better than many campgrounds!) The next morning, we thanked them for their hospitality and headed out for a hearty Cracker Barrel breakfast that would sustain us on our 237-mile jaunt to Tucson. Soon after we were on I-8, we saw a military helicopter and a jet circling over the highway and two tractor trailers hauling sand-colored tanks up the off-ramp. Luckily, their exit was one before ours.

Back on the road on Wednesday, we noticed the first group of photographers with tripods at a train crossing to the south of I-8; a west-bound freight train blew its whistle in greeting as it went by. Later, we saw a school bus parked along another stretch of track with kids and teachers milling about. Everyone was looking to the west.

Further along, we saw stopped trains, long linked rail cars on side tracks. At one location, several cars held stacked long square-ended metal bars (structural components for a fence, perhaps?) and half a dozen or so sand-colored camouflaged tanks. For the border wall? Maybe.

Soon after, we stopped for gas at the Love’s station near Gila Bend and saw more people peering down the tracks.

What was going on with all the photographers and gawkers? J. asked at the Love’s and found out everyone was waiting for an old steam train to come along. It was the 150th anniversary of the transcontinental railroad. In celebration, Union Pacific was sending a Big Boy 4014 steam locomotive on a  journey that passed through Arizona — in fact, it had been in LA when we were there and was roughly following our eastward route. We reluctantly traveled on. We had to get to Tucson.

We joined back up with I-10 and the landscape around the road opened onto wider terrain that got rockier, drier and more hilly along the way. Cholla cactus, palo verde trees, smoke trees, organ pipe cactus and probably still-green tumbleweed bushes dotted the route. We felt like we were home when we finally arrived at Gilbert Ray Campground located in the rolling Sonoran Desert outside Tucson. At sunset, J. took a few (stunning, as usual) pictures and I strolled around. Looking back at our campsite, I saw some tourists taking photographs of our Airstream against the crimson sky. They wandered away after a few minutes, happy with their shots.

Sunset at Gilbert Ray Campground, Sonoran Desert, outside Tucson, AZ (Photo by John Kelly Green)
Sunset at Gilbert Ray Campground, Sonoran Desert, outside Tucson, AZ (Photo by John Kelly Green)

On Thursday, we got a relatively early meal at the Coyote Pause Café at Cat Mountain Station (our favorite!) and dashed the last 300 miles to the town of Truth or Consequences, NM. In addition to our usual stop breaks, we also went to the Texas Canyon Rest Stop, where I went back to the trailer and made J. some strong coffee — the jasmine tea from the café wasn’t caffeinated enough. The rest stop has to be the most gorgeous rest stop anywhere — it’s at a pass in the mountain punctuated by huge boulders, carved smooth by wind and erosion, perched on top of each other. They seem steady enough, but you never know.

Defying gravity at the Texas Canyon Rest Stop. (Photo by John Kelly Green)

Further along the way, we climbed higher and higher, over mountains and into flat valleys and up again, finally getting to the 4,585-foot-high Continental Divide, 20 miles from Lordsburg, NM. After that, there are some downhills but you’re mostly up on a 4,000-plus-foot plateau for the rest of the journey to I-25 and the Rio Grande rift. I especially love driving through the town of Hatch where I adore the smell of the green chilies roasting. J. thought it smelled like pot. It was chilies. I swear.

On Thursday, Oct. 17, we finally reached Elephant Butte Lake State Park, where we spend a lot of time in the colder months. After three days of travel and repeated hitching and unhitching, settling in becomes very quick and welcome. J. handles detaching the Yukon and I rearrange the inside of the trailer so that we can live normally. When we are towing the Airstream, I put a lot of stuff on anti-skid pads on the floor. Saves a lot of problems later.

Outside the trailer, the sand comes up to our site’s asphalt pad and desert plants surround our site. A tiny rabbit looks at us for a few moments until we move and scare it away. Quail scuttle from under one bush to another. The wind blows around the curves of the Airstream, rocking it slightly. We can crank down the stabilizer pads but it’s late and we’re pretty beat.

There’s so much I can’t capture in writing about our journey because the observations are fleeting and when I’m driving, I can’t write them down. I am trying to keep a notebook near the front seat, for frantically taking notes when I have a free moment, but that’s a recent idea and not yet a habit. I would love to capture the names of creeks, rivers, and washes, mountains and hills, towns and cities, but they are gone from my brain soon after we pass them, like sand filtering through my fingers. I think, “Oh, that would make a great name for a character or a place in a novel” but the thought is gone as I notice something new along the open road.

Maura C. Ciccarelli

Our story on

Cochiti Lake campground, Fall 2018. (Photo by John Kelly Green)
Cochiti Lake campground, Fall 2018. (Photo by John Kelly Green)

On Friday, Jan. 18,  my essay, entitled, “Airstream Dreaming: A different take on finding the perfect home,” was the lead story on, a smart and fun online community for readers of all ages to dive deep into contemporary issues.

As a freelance writer, I’m more used to talking with other people about their stories, but telling our own story has been fun. When we say we don’t have a “bricks and sticks” home anymore and that we travel full-time, people are fascinated, often saying, “You are living the dream!”

Yes, we are.

Read our “origin story” at  Enjoy!


Pita Problems

The other day I was cruising through food videos on Youtube and came across a Chef John who made pita bread  in a cast iron pan on the stove. Folksy and chatty, he made it look so easy to prepare the Middle Eastern staple. After the dough rose and was formed eight dessert-plate-sized circles, he cavalierly tossed them into a hot, lightly oiled pan. After a minute or maybe two, magic: the center of the dough started to puff up and in a few seconds, there was a balloon-shaped, perfectly grilled pita that collapsed on itself when taken off the heat. Houston, we have pocket bread!

Ah. A miracle of physics and just the answer to my need to work with flour, yeast and water. If you know me, you’ll understand. If you don’t, know that making bread — and eating good bread — is one of my favorite things.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a working oven right now. BUT, I have a four-burner stove and a fabulous new carbon steel pan that John gave me for my birthday. Stove-top bread? Why not!?

Out of the gate, the recipe and I were winners. In five out of eight cases, the pita puffed right up. Fresh, homemade bread was now on our menu!

Perfectly puffed pita bread in the carbon steel pan on the stovetop. Yum!
Perfectly puffed pita bread in the carbon steel pan on the stovetop. Yum!

The pitas that morning were delicious stuffed with scrambled eggs and a scattering of cheddar cheese. John kept his breakfast sandwich at that, but I added more to mine — sour cream and sautéed tomatoes, onions, and corn. It channeled both Middle Eastern and Mexican cuisine because…delicious. I treated the three pouchless pitas like flatbread in the subsequent days. Despite their age, they still were really, really good. I scooped up yogurt, homemade hummus, and guacamole one day — don’t knock it until you’ve tried it! — for breakfast. I also made fattoush salad with toasted and torn up pita, tomatoes, cucumbers, garlic, feta cheese, za’atar spice blend, and a lemon-olive oil-pomegranate molasses dressing. (I made the pomegranate molasses myself and you should too.)

When I ran out of pita, I knew I had to make more. After all, it was so easy the first time. What could go wrong?

Turns out that, unlike the sun, the pita doesn’t always rise.

I re-read the recipe, to make sure I had the process right. I followed all the instructions exactly. I set my timer for proofing the yeast. I let the dough rise for two hours until doubled. I formed eight proto-pita dough balls and let them rest, too. I rolled out the dough and let it rest for five minutes, as instructed. I heated the steel skillet and wiped olive oil across its surface.

I carefully laid the dough in the pan and then…


Don’t get me wrong. The pita browned very nicely on the first side. I flipped the dough and waited for the pita to fill up with hot air like Professor Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs‘s balloon before it accidentally floated up to leave Dorothy seemingly trapped in the Land of Oz.

Just a first try, I told myself. No harm done. It is a great, fragrant flatbread anyway.

The second try will definitely work. I’ll adjust. I’ll let the pan heat up a bit more.


Houston, I think we have a problem.

And now, my friend, you ask if third time was the charm?

Not on your life.

Maybe I was letting the pita rest TOO long? Maybe I was rolling it out too thin? Or too thick? Maybe the pan still wasn’t hot enough?

I cast a jaundiced eye on the fourth flat disc. It looked right. It hadn’t been sitting for too long. Maybe, maybe, this time…?

I held my breath and placed the dough in the pan and — VOILA! — we suddenly had puffage! Oh, happy day! I cracked the problem!

Well, not quite. If this was a blockbuster movie, I would have had perfect pockets for the rest of the cooking session.

The sad truth of that day’s pita production is that only one — yes, ONE — inflated correctly.

Don’t despair. The flat pitas won’t go to waste. I’ll find more ways to enjoy them.

I won’t give up trying to achieve maximum puffiness, though. It just may take a few more times. The first time may have been beginner’s luck but the next times will be informed by experience and using Dr. Google to diagnose the flaws in technique and get tips from more pros. Or, maybe I’ll just have to try making them again, and again, and again.

In the end, I’m eventually get the hang of this ancient food staple. I’m determined.

A successful first-round pile of pocket-containing pita bread.
A successful first-round pile of pocket-containing pita bread.

Last night, we hung out with our Lansdowne friends Marty and Elliot in the amazing countryside near Abiquiu, New Mexico, where Georgia O’Keefe spent time painting and creating (including food!) at her home on Ghost Ranch.

The four of us sat under the bright stars and cloudy milky way and had a snacky supper. We tore the failed pita…um, I mean, the successful flatbread into pieces and scooped up various combinations of hummus, red pepper sauce, olives, feta cheese, and slices of turkey or ham cold cuts that Marty and Elliot provided. The pita bread was delicious and perfect even after being stored in a plastic bag (at room temp) for a few days.

Even though the three of them caught sight of shooting stars that night, I didn’t. Still, I kept looking to the stars and thanked my lucky ones that we were able to share a meal with friends under the amazing heavens while enjoying the earthly delights of food nurtured by the sun, water and the soil.

Life is good.

Time Flies: Happy Airstream Anniversary to us!

Back to our shiny home in the Bisti Wilderness!

On Sept. 28, 2014, we became the proud owners of a 25-foot 1985 Airstream Sovereign travel trailer. It was the start of our dream of traveling the country, visiting family and friends, and living a mobile lifestyle that was light on the land and let us appreciate the little things.

Flash forward to today, four years later. We have been in New Mexico for a few weeks now, working our way south as the weather gets colder up north, and it’s been cozy and comfortable in our renovated Airstream. We are celebrating this anniversary (which we didn’t know about until Facebook told us!) by staying at the Cochiti Lake Recreation Area, operated by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, a 35-mile trip south from Santa Fe.

When we drove the Airstream home, it had all the original fittings, which included a plaid Herculon nylon sofa bed in the front, wall-to-wall carpeting, and a double bed in the back, and one major upgrade: two solar panels.

Maura at her mobile office on the 2015 trip.

John worked hard that year and in the intervening time to make it into a home that fit us perfectly. A master electrician, carpenter, and problem solver, he removed the couch and cabinets to refit the entire front space with a desk with storage space for me and a long sofa with storage underneath and a clever pull-out shelf that lets it become nearly a queen bed.

He also designed a queen-sized bed for us that converts to a sofa with the push of a switch. Since then, he’s replaced the hot water heater, fixed a broken weight distribution yoke up by the hitch, installed four new solar panels on the roof, and found out how to fix other problems that have cropped up.

As for the decor, we got help from two sewing geniuses: Heather made all the curtains and Charlotte sewed the cushion covers for the new sofa.

As for me, I washed and painted the inside walls white, decided on the fabric for the drapes and sofa and pulled up all the tacks on the under-flooring so John could install the Pergo wood floor. My biggest job was to organize and pack the trailer’s cabinets and storage spaces with everyday necessities. I also used bins, drawer units, and other containers to corral the food, linens, toiletries, cleaning supplies, cooking equipment, and, of course, my jewelry-making and art supplies. Clothing is easiest: we have two closets and four overhead storage cabinets in our “bedroom” area. Off-season clothing gets put into a bin in our Yukon’s trunk, along with other stuff we don’t use on a daily basis. Frankly, if we didn’t have the large SUV, we would have stuff piled up to our ears in the trailer. Not a pretty sight.

A Day in the Life

When we tell people we travel full-time, most say, “You’re living the dream!”  We agree, but it’s not as dramatic as that sounds.

We live a low-key life, despite the glorious scenery that changes with each new park or campground. The  days run pretty much like any other for people who work from home. An early start and hot tea let me get cracking early with my writing projects since most of my clients are on East Coast time. John and I usually have two meals a day: a late breakfast and an early dinner. The rest of the time includes the usual — working, meals, cleaning up, and relaxing by reading or streaming shows on our computers. On the days when I’m in between projects, I’ll set up my art supplies at my desk or outside on the picnic table. Art keeps me sane.

While I’m working at my desk, John sits on the sofa behind me, editing his photographs on his laptop, which sits on a foldable table that doubles as a desk and our  dinner table. He also works with a few website design clients so updates to those sites take up time.

When we come into a new area, we visit museums and historic/natural sites. We both love archaeology, anthropology and nature. And rocks… We frequently can be seen walking through the campground fields looking for a piece of quartz, mica schist, or jasper that strikes our fancy. Some make their way into my jewelry while others are stored with my craft supplies, waiting for a purpose.

On days when we don’t have work to do, there’s still work to do. Living in beautiful wilderness areas usually means we have to travel a bit to do shopping and errands. The fridge and freezer are small, so I buy groceries a couple of times a week. We refill the two propane tanks every month or so. We keep a careful watch on our waste tanks; they have to be emptied when they are full and that means hitching up, which takes time. The Yukon needs oil changes every few months since we travel so far every year pulling our 6,000-pound Airstream. We’ve also had to get repairs done on occasion. The most dramatic was when we broke down in Altus, OK, with a busted water pump right after a Thanksgiving Day 2015 ice storm.

That was our first — but not our last — experience with the kindness of strangers and the importance of passing it on.

The next morning at Great Plains State Park, OK, ice covered everything in sight, including our 1985 Airstream. We couldn’t get the door open.

All this is to say that a mobile lifestyle is NOT like being on a vacation. Yes, we still work. We have chores and projects. We have days when  nothing exciting happens at all.

We also have ordinary days that turn into extraordinary experiences in just an instant.

A couple of days ago, it was cloudy all day long. Just before 7:00 p.m., we looked out our window and saw a slash of golden amber light from the west cut underneath the storm clouds to illuminate the mountains all around. We ran outside and joined our three next-door campground neighbors to watch the light show change minute by minute.

The storm before the calm and wonderful sunset

We saw western clouds with salmon pink underbellies. A stubby rainbow rose from slate-grey clouds over the rocky hills to the east. Feathery torrents of rain fell onto the mountains to the south.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over. But, we stood in the fast-fading light, learning each other’s stories. John and his wife Wally are retired and are full-time travelers. Her sister Linda, who has a home back in Connecticut, joins them for their trips as well. Wally and Linda are Austrian. They travel in a 45-foot Class A RV (aka a really big bus) with slide outs that give them more room inside, including enough space for grandkid sleepovers. They tow a small silver car to do local sightseeing. They enthusiastically tell us about the lunar eclipse they saw in this park in 2015.

Yes, sometimes we stay in a place where we never talk with anyone else. In others, we meet people who have become not just friends on Facebook but also friends in real life.

Most people hear about our travels on Facebook but that just mostly shows the spectacular views we’ve seen or celebrated the experiences we’ve had. This blog is taking a while to get up off the ground, mostly because we’re too busy living every day to update every day. As we go forward, we hope to share more posts more often with you, dear reader.

One thing we’ve learned, though: Life is an adventure, if you want it to be.