It’s a rare day when you experience a blissful less-traffic filled drive down Interstate 5 between the San Francisco Bay Area and Southern California—but it was. It didn’t hurt that it was Mother’s Day, one of the few days a year truckers take the day off. I have driven that highway many times in the past several decades, and if you time it right, it’s as good an interstate drive as you can have, with stunning clear skies and perfect weather.
My destination was the Palm Springs area, actually an RV park about 15 minutes north of Highway 10. The locals say, “north of the dime.” It sounded good online, as so many things do. The place was nearly empty of residents because that’s what people do in the desert—they leave for the summer. And here I was, just arriving.
The park was minimalist—simple—without the fabricated facades of most towns in Southern California. It redeemed itself with several mineral spas and a pool, which I used every day. There was only one problem.
The wind. Eight days straight. Day and night. Forty to fifty mph gusts. It was like living through an eight-day earthquake in my little trailer. Then it stopped for a few days, only to pick up again for another seven days. I ended up staying much longer than originally planned because I was afraid to tow in those conditions. Day after day, I analyzed weather forecasts, looking for a 24-hour break so I could hitch up and leave.
In the meantime, I waited it out by going to the Joshua Tree Music Festival, exploring the Integratron—a geodesic dome built in the ’70s and claimed to be one of Earth’s vortexes—shopping El Paseo, and visiting the many museums and art galleries in Palm Desert.
One particularly gusty afternoon, as I sat in my trailer trying to enjoy a book, the wind decided to flex its muscles. A sudden, ferocious gust hit with such force that my little home swayed like a boat on a choppy sea. Moments later, I heard a thwack-thwack-thwack and looked out the window just in time to see my patio rug take flight. I’d forgotten about the rug hanging out there in the wind. I had anchored it with a few rocks but that didn’t hold this time.
This was no ordinary gust—it was textbook aerodynamics at play. The rug caught the wind perfectly, creating enough lift to send it soaring like a desert-bound magic carpet. I watched in disbelief as it sailed thirty feet through the air, slamming into the side of a neighboring trailer with a loud whump. It stuck there, flapping dramatically like a banner advertising my newbieness.
Mortified, I rushed out to retrieve it, only to find the trailer’s owner already stepping outside. He was a nice-looking guy in his mid-50s, with salt-and-pepper hair, firm body, a tan that revealed he’d spent some time in the sun, and an easy smile that immediately put me at ease.
“Well,” he said, peeling my rug off the side of his trailer, “I was wondering when I’d meet the new neighbor.”
That moment turned into a conversation that would last until 2:00 a.m., accompanied by a campfire and expensive scotch. As the fire crackled and I admitted I was a newbie at trailer life, he gladly shared camping tips—how to keep food safe from curious raccoons and why bungee cords are underrated—and laughed about the time he mistook a skunk for a stray cat. As I discovered throughout the two years, travelers always have a fascinating perspective on life and his stories soon slid into something deeper. “Travel,” he said, swirling his drink thoughtfully, “isn’t about collecting miles; it’s about losing the boundaries of who you think you are. It’s freedom like nothing else.”
For the next few days, he’d drop by to check on me, asking if anything else had taken flight. It turned out that the relentless desert wind didn’t just blow my belongings around—it also brought a new friendship. Sometimes, it takes a random event to remind you that even in the middle of nowhere, life has its ways of connecting people even if it’s only for a few days.
The earth has its own rules. We are visitors.