February – April, 2026
There are no safe paths in this part of the world. Remember you are over the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go.
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
In one of our last hangouts with our small group (shout out to “Best Small Group Ever”!), someone suggested that our very last-minute sabbatical be called our Gap Era, which we immediately accepted as a fantastic idea. Just two months ago, we were not clear what changes this new year would bring, though we had an increasing sense.
One can ‘tuck in’ a vocation much like tucking in a child (or a puppy), it’s a similar sense of sentimentality, the tip-toeing out of a room with joy and a bit of grief of knowing how quickly things change. It’s the love of that one particular moment where you see something or someone and recognize that nothing lasts forever and just want so much to be in-every-aeon-second-of-this-moment.
On February 22nd we had a final Sunday. About six weeks prior, one of us had mused to the other: we should hit the road and just drive! About a week after that, Eric asked to borrow a sixteen-foot pull-behind, fiberglass caravan for a couple of months (shout out to the Craig Pickerills!).
So as we were preparing to do some very weighty goodbying, we were also preparing to do some much needed sabbatical helloing: there were brakes to replace, hitches to install, water pumps to fix, and generally all sorts of life-on-the-road-in-a-caravan things to plan for.
We decided we’d bring our puppy, Rembrandt.
We did meal planning for seven weeks of meals. Eric planned a route with anchor points and a lot of in-between space for wild rambling. We explained to our kids we’d be off-the-grid for a deep breath. We packed, re-packed, then did a final pack.
And we prayed, re-prayed more, then did a final Sunday preach.
Two days later we drove west.
We stopped first in Cincinnati to say hello to our daughter, Gloria, at university and show her the caravan that we affectionately named Van Gogh (van go!). It was cold and snowy. She was possibly impressed and/or possibly worried about her parents ;).
Eric immediately demonstrated a strong proclivity for camp-life cooking. This is literally the best and healthiest we’ve eaten in at least five years.
We drove 8,000 miles, stopped at so many Costcos for gas (nothing like taking a road trip while gas prices are spiking), and visited fourteen National Parks. We boondocked in multiple parking lots.
We stayed at State Parks and National Parks and one-or-two RV parks along the way. We lost control-ish of Van Gogh’s brakes on the downward side of a mountain pass that we didn’t know we were on until we hit the top (Snowcloud, New Mexico; also, Google Maps should show elevation and not make it look like all roads are flat!).
We almost ran into a small herd of wild horses looking to cross the highway.
Remy would wake us up each morning by putting his chin on the caravan bed and wagging his tail. Then he’d hop in and snuggle.
A few days in, past Hot Springs, Arkansas, the heat dome domed and the temperatures for the rest of the trip were not the 55–75 that we expected. It got hot. Real hot. 85–105 every day from there onward unless we got altitude.
We realized it was a VERY GOOD IDEA that Eric had to get Rembrandt groomed before we left. He’d have had heatstroke on day one if not.
Eric got dive bombed by a real-life angry bird in Big Bend, TX.
My mom texted me as we were driving through Alamogordo because that’s where she and my dad were young marrieds. They had our location, and would drop a line about their memories of where they saw us driving.
I had an accidental lemon tree shower in Tucson after a huge storm. I wiped my face down with rain-soaked leaves from a lemon tree in a parking lot and felt cleaner than I ever have in my whole life.
We learned that Rembrandt is a great driver during a hard press westward. Not a driver, I guess. Passenger. And a great camper.
Joshua Tree was… Well, there-are-no-words-for-Joshua-Tree.
We camped on the Pacific Ocean in Jalama Beach. You drive a fourteen-mile road through the mountains to nowhere but one place, follow that bumpy road up and over and eventually rightward over some railroad tracks and then: the whole world opens up and the sky sinks into ocean like you’re at the end of the world.
We drove up to Yosemite, over to Sequoia, then down and around and up to Alabama Hills, which is the coolest place you’ve probably never heard of. Felt like apocalypse in a sublime way. Camped under the shadow of Mt Whitney, the tallest peak in the contiguous US.
It kept getting hotter. Gas kept getting mucher.
In 105 heat we’d sit in a creek by the campsite in freezing water looking up at Mt Whitney where the very glacier water we were sitting in was coming from.
Pro tip: driving through Death Valley is overrated unless you are Mad Max. It’s also scary, especially if you’re in a 2006 Lexus with 220,000 miles, because you start thinking real quickly, “it would realllllly suck to break down here.”
Utah. If I could live my life driving through Utah, I think I would.
Zion is great but Kodachrome State Park is even better.
Camped among the hoodoos.
Met our oldest, Connor, in Moab for our first Easter Weekend ever (in 33 years married!) not leading a congregation into Easter Sunday.
I watched the sun rise sitting on this rim at Dead Horse Point State Park. Eric read the Easter Liturgy to us, then he and Connor rode side-by-sides through the desert.
Three of us plus the puppy spent three nights in Van Gogh and it was joy.
Brakes started to grind so we got our brakes fixed in Moab, too. (Should have listened to our mechanic who said maybe 40% won’t be enough to get you all the way.)
The Eastward turn post-Easter felt like a catch in the throat.
Eric’s camp cooking kept getting better. Our set-up / tear-down routine got faster and became a little silent dance.
Stopped in Ouray. Eric and Rembrandt drove up the pass. It’s called “the Switzerland of America.” I don’t like passes, hairpin curves, or 10,000-foot drops with no guard rails. I stayed at camp. Been there, done that, no thanks. Give me a hammock instead.
We accidentally found ourselves in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park and could have cried for the beauty.
Fire had raged there the year before. One ridge was burned to a crisp, the other ridge was totally lush and green.
How long will it take to regrow? I asked the ranger.
Just time, he answered.
We kept driving east.
Had an unplanned stop to put new tires on Van Gogh in Abilene, Kansas, where it turns out the fastest-tire-replacement-shop is literally down the street from the Eisenhower presidential library, so we visited that too.
Kept driving east.
The scenery gets waaaayyy worse this side of the trip. Saw a sign on 70 East for “Effingham” and thought: that about sums it up.
Indiana roads are not great. Indiana traffic is not great. Generally, driving through Indiana is not great.
Got back to the house with 8,000 more miles on the car and a soul that felt like chrysalis. The yard was overdue for a mow, a dear friend had cleaned our house and wrote a welcome blessing on our chalkboard, and our kids were dealing with car issues that brought the line from Soul II Soul’s song, back to life, back to reality, to mind.
We left in winter, only it quickly became summer, then we came back in springtime which felt like summer too.
The geography in Ohio is different for sure, but it includes family, which is the most beautiful and orienting geography there is.
The day after we got back my dad sent me a poem called My Book of Delights, by Arielle Hebert.
My father (who flew fighter jets before I was born, wore a uniform until I was in high school, and is one of the most kind-hearted people I know), I’ve learned lately, is a poet himself. One of his poems, written decades ago, was recently published in the newspaper.
Fathers are funny things, aren’t they? You think you know them, but they’re always full of surprises.
Here are a few lines of Hebert’s to leave you with:
I want to believe that this is true power, That kindness is the only weapon worth wielding,
And I wield it, Land blow after blow to my enemies, Without mercy.
Mercy. Bring the wine. Set the table for surprise guests.
No matter the plates don’t match And we’ve run out of chairs, Only that there is bread and laughter, Enough to go around.
Onward and Upward, Julia & Eric