Bio - 34 in My Bio

On Friday, June 11th, 2004, one day before our move-out date, I tearfully walked out of the house for the last time and into the RV. I had lived in Arizona for exactly twelve years and two days. Tom locked the doors behind us, placed the keys in the lockbox on the side of the house, and we left.

What should have been a ten-minute drive took nearly an hour as we slowly navigated Maricopa’s bumpy dirt roads. The last thing we needed was for our stuff to get jostled, though it was impossible to keep some things from falling. We constantly had to pick up fallen boxes and items. It’s a miracle most of our stuff wasn’t broken by the time we reached Oregon in what would turn out to be the most stressful trip of our lives. We were particularly worried about the box Tom built to hold things on top of the truck, which was covered with a tarp. I kept glancing back to check it, wondering if it had shifted or if it was just my paranoid imagination.

Our first scare happened when a reckless driver nearly ran us off the road, causing the RV and truck to wobble. Fortunately, Tom, being the skilled driver he is, managed to regain control.

The first day was miserably hot because the RV had heat but no AC. Not wanting to drive after dark, we spent the night at a rest stop somewhere between Buckeye and Quartzite, Arizona. I couldn’t fall asleep until close to 5 a.m. due to the intense heat. It never cooled down that night—not even a faint breeze.

The air brakes of a truck parked nearby would hiss loudly every so often. I lay there, enviously eyeing the sleeping compartment of the truck, knowing it had air conditioning and imagining how cool and comfortable it must have been. I could see the flicker of a TV through the curtains. Meanwhile, I was sweating and wondering if things would really change for the better. Would we stop struggling? Would money finally cease to be an issue? Or would financial security remain forever elusive?

After barely an hour or two of sleep, Tom got up, we had breakfast, and then we headed for the California border.

California.

It’s a state that’s fascinated me for as long as I can remember. Many New Englanders dream of moving there, though some retire in Florida, and most never go anywhere. For reasons I could never explain, something about California called to me. I never thought I’d live there, especially after watching so many of my other dreams fail to come true. But I made it to Arizona—just one state away—and that had been good enough for a while.

On the second day, we reached Barstow, California, where we stayed in a motel to shower and rest. Unfortunately, it was incredibly noisy. At first, I thought the people above us were workers bringing in new furniture, as the motel was being remodeled. The racket went on for hours, disrupting my sleep.

Although we planned to arrive in Oregon on the 14th, I had a feeling it would be the 15th—our 10th anniversary.

As we continued our journey, we enjoyed the beautiful scenery as the desert gave way to greener landscapes with more trees and bodies of water.

Our second scare came in Merced, California, when we were suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of burning rubber. At first, we thought it was coming from another vehicle, but then a loud clunking sound soon followed. Tom quickly pulled off the road and into a small business parking lot. Of course, it was closed—because it was Sunday.

It turned out that the center bearing had broken. While Tom quickly figured out the problem, we were delayed by a day. Thankfully, his brother Steven, who lived in nearby Madera, came to our rescue, so we didn’t have to walk or spend money on cabs. He took us to a much quieter motel.

As bad as the situation was, it could have been worse. We didn’t need to be towed, and the part we needed was only $16.

“Maybe something’s testing us to see how badly we want to get to Oregon,” Tom mused.

“Or maybe something’s trying to tell us to stay out of Oregon,” I countered.

Lying in the motel bed that evening, I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought that, years ago, I’d have loved to be “stuck” in California.

The next afternoon, we reached Willows, where the weather was cooler and much more comfortable. We spent the night at a truck stop and set out early the next day—on our anniversary.

The most breathtaking sight of the trip was Mount Shasta. Unfortunately, our camera wouldn’t focus so I didn’t get any good shots! The mountain is so massive that it can be seen from parts of Klamath Falls and even from the street we would eventually live on for ten months.

We weren’t sure exactly when we entered Oregon because the signs weren’t very clear. But once we did, I was impressed with the sprawling farms and the mountains covered with ponderosa pines, aspens, evergreens, and junipers. I didn’t like them as much as I liked cacti and palms, but if they could shield us from noise and trash, they were good enough for me.

Our final scare came when we reached Bly Mountain, where our land was, at over 5,300 feet in elevation. We took a wrong turn down a gravel road surrounded by dense trees and underbrush and ended up facing a locked gate! It took a while, but Tom managed to get us turned around, even though we were nearly forty feet long with both the RV and truck.

Soon afterward, we arrived at what we believed was our lot since the numbers were confusing. The view was stunning—a drop-off to another mountain across a huge valley. The area was filled with butterflies and wildflowers.

The only downside to the natural beauty was the large brush piles scattered around to prevent forest fires. Chipmunks, rats, mice, and rabbits burrowed in them, though we didn’t see as many rabbits here as we had in Maricopa.

I was both amazed and delighted by how smart the chipmunks were. Over time, they grew bolder, often climbing the RV’s steps and even scaling the screen door, begging for treats.

On moonless nights, the stars were far more vivid than they had been in Arizona, thanks to the sparse population in the area. I saw many shooting stars during those nights.

We were a bit concerned about a trailer we could see through the woods on the neighboring lot. Had that parcel been sold? I wondered. But after checking, it turned out to be abandoned. We dubbed it the “packrat trailer” because it was clearly inhabited by rats, as evidenced by the droppings scattered around it.

What amazed me most about the land was how remote it was. Our nearest neighbor had to be at least a mile away. It was so peaceful and quiet. Occasionally, we’d hear gunshots or barking far in the distance, but it was nothing like Maricopa. There was no trash blowing around constantly, even though it didn’t get as windy as Maricopa did. Weeks would go by without anyone driving down our little dirt road.

We contacted a guy named Bob, who was an associate of Michael’s, to verify whether or not we were on the correct lot. Bob and his wife arrived the next day on ATVs. His wife seemed okay, but we weren’t impressed with Bob’s attitude. He bragged about complaining about people just for the sake of complaining, even if they weren’t actually in the wrong. He also made it clear that he kept himself well-armed after being attacked by someone he’d angered, and he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot anyone who crossed him.

A few months later, they returned one morning before I was up, informing Tom that “someone who complains about everyone” had reported us for using a gas-powered generator instead of a diesel one. We quickly realized they were just messing with us, probably because they had nothing better to do than ruffle other people’s feathers. We refused to let it scare us, even though the rising gas prices and mounting costs made life more difficult.

The RV was simple but much too small. We both found ourselves missing Dennis’ trailer, especially since we knew we’d be living in the RV for a while. The RV made the smallest places we’d ever lived seem huge in comparison.

My sleep, as always, was cursed. I couldn’t go more than a few nights without something waking me up—whether it was Tom’s movements, the cold nights, the airbed springing a leak, or the wildlife moving about.

Tom became increasingly overwhelmed by the cost and effort involved in living so far out. He constantly had to refill the water tank, propane tank, and an astronomical amount of gas for the generator, which we needed to charge the RV’s battery, our phones, and other devices. It was also the only way I could vacuum or go online.

The mountain was volcanic, making tasks like digging for a septic system nearly impossible.

As the expenses piled up, we followed Mary’s advice and asked his mother for help. Dave initially tried to ignore my email messages, but after I pointed out that I knew he was receiving them (thanks to the receipts I got confirming their delivery), he passed the message on to “the queen,” as I came to refer to his selfish mother.

She sent a few thousand dollars but then told us, “No more.” That was when I began to loathe her more than ever. A mother’s responsibility to her child and their family shouldn’t end just because they’re older or have needed help before. That was part of the reason for my anger. The other reason was that Tom had done so much for her over the years, at his expense. She would use him for projects that cost him hours of his time and tons of money—money we needed. She lived in the old shack she’d shared with his dad before he died, always promising to “pay him back later.” During those years, she was more like a dependent than a parent. Tom had always had a hard time saying “no,” and she took advantage of that until he finally stood his ground.

I also lost all respect for Miss Perfect, as I began calling Mary, due to her rudeness and superiority complex. Initially, she seemed to care about others and didn’t want to offend anyone with her words or actions. But eventually, she stopped caring. Then she actually went out of her way to be offensive.

I was surprised by how cold the nights were, even in the summer. We could open the windows during the day, but at night, we often had to run the heat. Only in August did it stay warm enough at night and the days started to feel a little too hot.

I usually slept from 2 a.m. to 10 a.m., waking when the sun and heat filtered through the window beside the bed. I spent most of my time reading, writing, and listening to music. There wasn’t much else to do, and I wasn’t about to roam too far, knowing how easily I could get lost in the woods. All the trees looked the same, and with miles of forest around us, there was always the possibility, however remote, of encountering a mountain lion or a bear.

Even though we put up a screen room and a shed for extra space, living on the mountain was becoming tougher by the minute. The long commutes were wearing down the truck, and repairs cost us money we didn’t have. Tom got a job making computer cables, but it only paid minimum wage.

By September, we knew we had to leave the land. I was devastated. Tom and I even discussed the possibility of committing suicide together, though he wanted to “wait and see” what would happen next. But I didn’t want to wait. I was tired of living in a constant state of crisis, of building ourselves up only to be torn down again. I was sick of losing everything and being forced to start over. We lost a lot of money and possessions during this time, pawning, selling, or giving up things just to survive—while his mother sat on her pampered, spoiled ass doing absolutely nothing to help despite the letters we’d send detailing our struggles.

I began to wonder if we were destined to struggle for the rest of our lives.