Why I Drove 650 Miles in One Day to Taos, New Mexico, and Back

I've been looking for a camper trailer since before the pandemic hit. This virus has only fueled my desire to obtain a camper trailer. They're self contained, thereby reducing viral exposure to/from others. I have looked at a dozen different trailers in person since March. And I've perused hundreds of ads. I've messaged 30-40 trailer owners selling theirs, asking questions such as, "Do you have a clear title?" "When is the last time the bearings were packed?" I'm not entirely sure what the second question means, but I was advised to ask it, so I do. If nothing else, it makes me sound just a little bit more informed.

Perception is everything.

Most everything I saw in my price range was in need of some work, and I'm not a DIY fixer-upper sort by any stretch of the imagination. Then, I rented a thirty year old Scamp trailer to drive around on a recent family reunion in the mountains. I never towed a trailer before so I was a little apprehensive, but it all worked out. My vehicle was able to tow the trailer and I was able to manage towing a trailer on the road. After this experience, I became laser-focused on wanting a small Scamp-like trailer.

I realized I was going to have to increase my budget to get such trailer, and that I was probably going to have to travel out of state to find one. I saw used Scamps for sale in Texas and Utah, and a few in California, but none in Colorado. Then! One such beauty popped up on Scamp Finder site in Tres Piedras, New Mexico.  I looked up Tres Piedras on the map and saw it was thirty miles northwest of Taos. Taos is a five hour drive from Denver, so this meant I could, conceivably, drive to see the trailer, buy it and drive back with it, all in the same day. I don't drive after dark, so I always have to plan my road trips around sunrise and sunset times.

I messaged the owner LOTS before making the trip. She sounded like a lovely young woman. She and her two goats just moved to Tres Piedras from Spokane. She wanted to sell her Scamp to raise money for projects on new little New Mexican ranchette she purchased. She had a clear title. The bearings were just packed last summer. She said she had maintenance records for all the professional maintenance and repairs she had done to her Scamp. The trailer sounded PERFECT. The woman sounded honest. She revealed, after plans to come see the trailer were already made, that the cover to sunroof and cover to battery had both blown off. She offered a $500 price reduction if I'd receive as is, as getting the part in her remote part of the world was not easy.  I called around. The cover, and labor to replace, would run me approx $175. Her $500 price reduction seemed more than generous. She assured me it had been stored water tight since loosing the sunroof cover and that she'd be sure to make the opening in the roof road-worthy before I arrived.

On Wednesday, I got a cashier's check for our agreed upon price and fully serviced my own vehicle in preparation of hauling my new Scamp trailer home with me the next day.

On Thursday, Zoey and I left the house at sunrise and drove from 5:30 - 11:30 all the way to Tres Piedras, with two brief potty breaks along the way. About an hour and half from our destination, I texted the owner our status. She texted back that her dad was there making sure the sunroof was all sealed and she was busy gathering all of her maintenance records and other paper work.

Excellent, I thought.

Shortly after sending that text, we entered an extended No Service Zone for cell reception. I was glad I texted her when I did. I followed her directions, continuing south on the two lane highway about five minutes beyond Tres Piedras, to FSR 222. Then I drove along a poorly maintained rocky/dirt road about a quarter mile until I saw the sign directing me to her site number. Over a rock and down a steep short hill later, I spotted the Scamp in front of a rustic wood house (?) and knew I was in the right place.

The road leading to her ranchette.

An older man met me as I drove towards the house structure. Her father, I assumed. Nice man, but he had lost quite a bit of his hearing and all conversations with him were a struggle, always culminating in screaming the key words of whatever was being said.  Dad showed me around the trailer for the first five or ten minutes, with the young woman not making an appearance. After asking more questions than he could answer, he went into the house to retrieve the young woman. She was as friendly in person as she had been on the phone. She had a ladder positioned next to the trailer so I could see how they had sealed the sun roof.   

This was my first serious disappointment. The 16 X 23 inch hole in roof was covered with only a couple sheets of saran wrap and secured with masking tape. I immediately expressed concern. I brought duct tape with me. I mean, who doesn't bring duct tape with them on road trips, right? I got up on the roof to try and secure the plastic wrap. I was on the very top step of ladder and extended half a body length across the roof. Eventually, the young woman offered to help.

Then she showed me how the hot water heater worked. She said she didn't want to demonstrate turning it off, as it was busy making hot water in that moment. I didn't understand but decided to let it go, for now. I asked how to drain the hot water tank if I didn't want to haul the extra water weight. She confessed she had no idea. Inside the trailer, she showed me how water comes out of the sink. I asked how to drain that tank so I didn't carry that water weight. Again, she didn't know. I was disappointed to see that the shower dominated the floor plan. It was the first thing seen when entering the trailer. It also took up critical space if two people wanted to sit at dinette. The shower rendered the 2nd dinette seat inaccessible. I was less and less impressed with this hot shower feature. Also, of the four interior lights, three didn't turn on. This led to a screaming conversation with Dad about what he had done with the battery to make the lights not come on. After much yelling of repeated words it was determined that he didn't know what he had done with the battery to make the lights not work. Maybe the fuse was blown again? (All I heard was, "again".) The young woman screamed back at her dad that she didn't know where the fuse box was.

As she and her dad tried to troubleshoot the lighting situation, I sat at the cramped dinette to examine her maintenance records. Of the large pile of paperwork she left for me, it only contained two maintenance records from the previous July. That was all. No other records. When asked about prior records,  she said that she spent nearly $1,000 to make the trailer road-worthy as she had never taken it anywhere in the two years she owned it. I was under the impression she owned this trailer for many years. Her short-term ownership brought to rise a whole bunch of other unknowns. I looked under the trailer and saw worn our wood, exposed screws and rust. I was starting to get worried.

It was decided that, maybe, if we hook the trailer up to my van, it might cause the battery to turn on the lights. That didn't make any sense, but it didn't matter as it was then we discovered my electrical hook up in my van was not the same electrical hookup she had for the trailer. There was NO WAY I was going to try hauling this trailer 325 miles back to Denver with no brake lights. It was suggested I might get a converter at the U Haul in Taos. The young woman called the U haul place and, despite the poor phone connection, was able to discern that they did have such a converter. Zoey and I drove the thirty-two miles on into Taos to get the converter.

This thirty-two mile drive was thru a lot of desolate nowhere. But we did pass by an interesting "Earth ship" colony of half-buried berm homes. It seemed like a hold-over either from old bomb shelter days or the hippie era. As one looked across the stubble and sage brush covered range, houses like these popped up much like prairie dogs.  Here are some pics:

Earth ship (top) and berm home (bottom)

We also drove across a bridge that spans what is called The Rio Grande Gorge. This was the only time in our thirty mile road trip that we saw signs of humanity. Otherwise, this land is barren and almost other-worldly.

It took a bit of time to locate the Uhaul place. I was becoming cognizant of how much daylight I was burning trying to get this converter. Once back at the ranchette with the converter, it was quickly evident that this was the WRONG converter. The dad wanted to know why I bought the wrong one. I felt defensive. It was suggested that the dad go back to Taos and get the right converter from WalMart and that me and Zoey could "camp" there at the ranchette and wait for morning.  By now, clouds formed overhead. An afternoon rain shower was in the making. I went back inside the trailer to examine the sunroof one more time. I remained concerned how I was going to keep this trailer dry should the clouds open up.

It was all too much. I no longer felt excited. Instead, I felt only concern for this purchase. It was going to cost me every dollar I had managed to save to buy this. I wasn't willing to let go of all my savings for a trailer that only gave me concern.  I told them my decision to not buy the trailer, put Zoey back in the van and headed home. I decided to try and drive the entire distance before sunset as I didn't want this profoundly disappointing road trip to last a minute longer than necessary.

On the drive back home, I went thru the five stages of grief before coming to some clarity. I decided I really did want to own a camper trailer and that I really did want this camper trailer to be small and manageable with minimal frills. More important, I didn't want the stress and worry about what might break or fall off while using this camper trailer. I realized that feeling confident about my trailer is more important to me than saving a few dollars.

On Friday morning, I called Scamp Trailers in Backus, Minnesota and ordered me a brand new, thirteen foot Scamp that will be built per my specifications. Scamp only builds to order. There is no show-room or dealers. My trailer should be ready for pick-up in late March. Ayla likened this timeline to me being pregnant.

Long story short: I am expecting a new trailer in eight months... and I am so excited!

My First Baseline Dementia Test

Both of my parents died from dementia. More specifically, they died from complications brought about by the dementia.  This insidious disease doesn't kill the body, but it shuts down signals to other vital organs, which then kills the body. I think both died from some version of kidney/renal failure. By the time each passed, the disease had progressed to a point where it didn't really matter which vital organ function failed. I'm not sure who was relieved more when they died: Each of my parents, or those of us left to witness their decline.

I was rather clueless about the disease when Dad was diagnosed. Unfortunately, he was diagnosed after the disease had significantly progressed. We were made to feel that, "if only" he had been diagnosed sooner, maybe there would be more that could be done to intervene. So when Mom began to display different yet similar cognitive decline, I was quick to get her into her primary care physician. Nobody wanted the diagnosis, but I didn't want to be told I waited too long with her, as I had with Dad.

Dementia is a slippery slope. Cognitive decline is inherent with aging, so it is difficult to discern between what is "normal" and when the decline should be of concern. Mom was given "The Dementia Test" - - for lack of a better reference.  She was asked the day of the week, what city she lived in, who the President is and to count backward from 100 by 7's. Once you make it to 58, you are allowed to stop. Midway thru this test, the examiner lists five random objects and tells the patient they will be asked to recall these five objects later in the test.  The first time Mom was given the test, she struggled with the counting backward and recalling all five objects. Yet she scored high enough on this first test for us to be told there were no red flags. That her occasional forgetfulness and confusion were right on track for her age (80).

A couple of years, and more instances of forgetting later, she was administered her second Dementia Test.  It was the exact same questions asked before. But, this time she scored higher than she did two years previous. "How is this possible?" I asked her doctor. She clearly was starting to slip in my mind's eye, yet this rudimentary test did not support my observations. "Highly educated people such as your mother," the doctor explained, "are frequently able to pass this test. They are able to disguise their dementia for longer periods of time." At my insistence that SOMETHING be done, Mom was subjected to an MRI. Mom hated the MRI process: The confined space; The loud banging and clanging. And I felt awful for insisting she have one, but I was desperate to find help for her. I did not want the regret and guilt I had for my father's un-monitored decline to be duplicated with my mother's decline.

The scan was summarized as having normal amount of plaque build up for a woman of her age. Normal? Really?  We all KNEW, KNEW, KNEW something was up with Mom, but we were given no tools to address. Two years later, and another try at the Dementia Test indicated that now at 84 that the disease was probably present. We tried to keep her in her own apartment for as long as possible before moving her and her cat to assisted living. A year after moving into assisted living, her decline was so great that she lost the ability to keep her beloved cat with her. We basically sat back and watched over the next seven years this disease consume my mothers wit, intelligence and insight. She was reduced to a confused woman with only three or four stories about her life that she shared over and over (and over) again to anyone who might listen. When she finally died at the age of 92, most of her grandchildren and all of her great grandchildren had no idea what an extraordinary and vibrant woman she once was. Such is the true pain of this disease.

This is a legacy haunts me and my sisters. When one of us can't recall something or gets confused, we quietly confess to one another, or try to joke about how "it's" probably starting to happen to us now. I decided to take the proverbial bull by its horns, and get a handle on my own cognitive status. I wanted to have a game plan for how to address should the disease be present in me. I wanted to know what all they had learned about this disease in the twenty some years since initially navigating its' waters with Dad and then later, with Mom. I made an appointment with a neurologist. As I had no real symptoms or pressing brain concerns, I was given an appointment four months into the future. I'd like to say I almost forgot about this appointment by the time the date finally came along, but my truth is, I thought about this appointment nearly every single day since making it.

Ironically, the day of my appointment, I drove to the wrong office location. I

arrived early enough at the wrong location to still be able to drive to the correct office location, with enough time to still be seen by the neurologist.  After hearing my perceived justifications for making the appointment, the neurologist offered to get some baseline data on me. I was eager for this. Yes! Some data!  And then out came the same worn out and tired Dementia Test.  Seriously? Nothing else?

The five objects I was asked to remember were: Face-Velvet-Church-Daisy-Red. I am pretty sure these are the same five objects Mom was asked to recall back in 2002.  And, between you and me, I have been practicing counting backward by 7's from 100 for many years now. When the test was done, the neurologist said I scored a perfect 30 out of 30 score. "Good baseline data," she said. The neurologist commended me for already doing all the anecdotal things we are told to do to keep our brains pliable. I practice yoga, I (try to) learn new skills. I socialize and stay active.

And nothing else. The appointment was over.

In the nearly twenty years since first having Mom take this test, absolutely nothing has advanced in how we diagnose, or stave off the effects of dementia. NOTHING.

Face-Velvet-Church-Daisy-Red is my new mantra.
My plan is to fake them out for a few years, just like Mom did.

What a long, strange trip it's been: My Night as a Hospital Patient During a Pandemic

I was admitted into St Anthony's hospital via their ER on Tuesday. I spent Tuesday night and most of Wednesday there before being discharged yesterday evening. This is April 2020. We are in the midst of a world wide pandemic. The last thing I wanted to do on Tuesday was go to a hospital, much less be admitted into one and spend the night in one. Yet, this is what happened.  


It all started quite suddenly Monday night. Out of blue, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my lower right abdomen. This same pain radiated around to my lower back.  "Like a hot poker," I would hear myself say multiple times when asked to describe the pain.  After several hours of struggling to find a comfortable position, I took a rogue hydrocodone - - left over from a previous dental procedure - - which allowed me to lie down, but sleep eluded me all night.  

At dawn, I took another pain pill and wondered what to do. "Maybe you should call your doctor,"  Ayla texted.  When she texted this, the second pill was still taking the edge off, so I stored her suggestion away for another time.  

But the edge soon returned.  And the third pain pill took longer to kick in. Feeling a little scared now because the pain was that bad, I did call my doctor.  Much to my surprise, I was scheduled for a face time appointment with her. She listened to my story and asked me to describe my pain.

"Like a hot poker," I said.
 Fever? she asked. No. 
Nausea? No.
Blood? No.  

She recommended I go see a doctor in person who was in the same medical group but in a different office location. An hour later , Ayla drove me to Dr. Ellis' office and waited for me outside. I shook off my sudden vision for how Ayla's next thirty years were starting to unfold, and waited for the nurse to unlock the office door.  Dr. Ellis listened to my story. Yes. The pain came on quite suddenly, I said. Like a hot poker, I said next.  No. No fever. No nausea. No blood. He manipulated my right leg in one direction and then in the other. I didn't moan, scream or wince. He had me hop up and down. Then he took his fingers and poked and prodded around in my soft belly flesh until he found The Spot. I moaned, screamed and winced. Dr. Ellis looked perplexed. He felt it was probably my appendix but given how the pain presented itself, more diagnostic testing was needed. I was offered either going to an independent diagnostic provider or to the hospital. He then presented me with all the reasons why going to the hospital was the preferred option. It basically came down the hospital offering one stop shopping: the hospital could both diagnose and treat whatever was the source of my debilitating pain. He assured me that if any place knew how to keep my potential exposure to the Covid virus to a minimum, it was the people at the hospital.  He would call and let them know I was on my way.

Ayla drove me to the emergency room entrance of St Anthony's hospital. Once confirmed Dr. Ellis had prepared them for my visit, I waved Ayla on home and proceeded to be processed and admitted so quickly that I was left a little breathless. The attending physician heard my hot poker story. When he asked about fever, nausea or blood, I already knew my negative response to each would not be well received.  They collected some blood and urine,  and then wheeled into the CT Exam room. As explained beforehand, the contrasting dye put into my IV for the test, filled my mouth with the taste of a penny and made me feel like I wet my pants. I was grateful for the forewarning.

At some point I was given Fentanyl for my pain. I cannot recall if it was before, or after, the CT scan. But I do recall that as this notorious pain killer started to ooze into my veins, every speck of pain I ever had in my life washed away with it.  Not only was my hot poker pain gone, but so was every other ache and pain in my body. No more achy shoulders, feet or knees. No. Pain. Whatsoever. It was glorious. 

Soon, the attending physician presented me with the results of the scan. It was most definitely NOT my appendix. It also didn't appear to be my ovaries or diverticulitis. In short, the CT scan had not revealed a source of my hot poker pain. However, the scan did reveal ANOTHER potentially serious problem. At the base of my stomach there appeared to be something pooching almost thru my stomach lining. He said he consulted with the GI team and all were agreed that this was a concern. Then the doctor paused, pulled up a chair and sat down next to me at eye level and leaned in a bit when he said his next words. "I want to admit you for the night here in the hospital and have the GI team run additional tests in the morning. I don't advise you going home until we have a better idea what this other issue is." 

And that is how my overnight stay happened. I was no closer to knowing what had caused my excruciating pain that got me there, but I now had another issue that seemed to require immediate and aggressive attention.  

I took a minute to process all that he said. If the fear of this unrelenting hot poker pain got me to the hospital, the potential of whatever was in my gut possibly puncturing my stomach while I slept convinced me to stay there. 

In short order I was wheeled from ED UNIT 1, Room 30, to ED UNIT 2, Room 20. The entire hospital had been rearranged to accommodate the Covid crisis. Room 20 where I was to spend the night, wasn't a real hospital room. It was a converted examination room. The examination table was replaced with a hospital bed. A TV was crammed up high next to the ceiling. My bathroom was somewhere down the hall. The room had no windows. The nurse who wheeled me there tried to up-sell the room by pointing out how it did have a window on the door. I could at least see out to the hallway. I didn't have pj's or a toothbrush or a comb. Just me and my cloth mask and my phone. No visitors were allowed. I didn't want to ask Ayla to drive all the way back to the hospital just to bring me overnight provisions. She already took half a day from work to chauffeur me around and now it fell to her to figure out how to care for my many animals. I slept in my underwear. 

That's a lie. I did not sleep this night either. The many tubes attached to my body, the intermittent beeps from the host of machinery surrounding my bed, and the near constant noise from the hallway beyond my closed door, in addition to all the noise inside my own head, kept any hope of sleep at bay.

Blood was taken at various intervals throughout the night. I felt the twinge of the hot poker pain trying to make a reappearance during the night, but by morning it was all but gone. In the morning, a series of doctors and other medical professionals came to room to poke and prod on my belly and to ask the same set of questions about fever, nausea or blood. The fact that I have been taking 600 mg of ibuprofen regularly to address all my usual aches and pains became a focal point. I was scheduled for a series of tests that didn't allow me to have anything to eat or drink. The scope down thru my mouth to my stomach and upper intestine revealed my stomach lining was inflamed and there was some bacterial infection on my upper intestine. This is what appeared in the CT scan as something about to perforate my stomach.  I'm still waiting for more details from the biopsy, but the end result is that this potentially fatal condition in my gut - - that was found quite by accident - - was found early enough for a successful intervention. 

An ultrasound test confirmed my ovaries were not the cause of my hot poker pain. My right ovary appeared quite healthy and my left ovary was no longer visible. What? I asked. Yes. Ovaries shrink after menopause. Some shrink so much that they shrivel up and are undetected. Such was the fate of my left ovary.  Who knew?!   

In the end, my original hot poker pain remains undiagnosed. Possibly an inflamed adrenal gland. Or an aggravated ligament. I was given a Class 5 narcotic to take should that extreme pain ever return. Enough drugs to ride it out. I was discharged later that evening.  

When I returned home, I was drained. My animals were delighted to see me, but I only had enough energy to feed them and go to bed. I can't believe I didn't shower or put my clothes in a plastic bag to be laundered.  I was just too tired.  

And I slept again most of today.  I'm trying to find my new normal without ibuprofen. I'm trying not to grieve the loss of my left ovary. I'm trying to find peace with needing to lean on Ayla more. I'm counting fourteen days into the future before I'll feel like I survived my night in a hospital during a pandemic.

Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me
Other times, I can barely see
Lately, it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it's been