Pacific Northwest Scouting Trip: From Portland to the Olympic Peninsula

After arriving at the Portland Airport, I picked up my rental car and set my sights on Hillsboro as my first stop. Navigating the city during rush hour was jarring--I'm just not used to that kind of traffic anymore. Still, I managed to make my way west through the city, passing through Hillsboro and up to Forest Grove, where I checked into a Best Western. Knowing the three-hour time difference would catch up with me, I was grateful to get a decent night's sleep.

The next morning, I fueled up at the hotel breakfast (probably a little too much) and headed south to explore a few properties near Gaston, in Yamhill County. I was genuinely surprised by how beautiful the area is--rolling hills, a mix of vineyards and forest, and a peaceful rural vibe. It was more diverse in terrain and vegetation than I expected.

From there, I pointed the car north to preview a house near Banks. The drive took me off Highway 26, first along a paved road and then onto gravel, winding into the forest just east of LL Stub Stewart State Park. I took the long way around on the gravel roads to explore, and I was struck by how perfect they'd be for gravel biking. I imagined morning rides looping through the woods, connecting back to the park for some proper mountain biking. It's a rugged but scenic part of Oregon, with plenty of forest and active logging.

I continued on through Vernonia and, due to a detour, took the scenic route to Astoria. That stretch between Vernonia and Astoria is especially lush and green--full of small farms, dense forest, and quiet country roads. Driving into Astoria brought back memories of doing medical work there in the past. The co-op has moved into a new building since I was last there, and the town still has that charming feel.

Crossing the two-and-a-half-mile bridge into Washington, I followed Highway 101 north to Aberdeen and then east toward McCleary. I made a stop at Capitol State Forest--a sprawling network of forest roads and trails that would be great for biking and exploring. From there, I continued along the western edge of the Hood Canal, weaving through small towns and eventually venturing into the Olympic National Forest. That area feels like one massive outdoor playground, with endless terrain to explore.

By evening, I made it up to Sequim and checked into a hotel. With a couple of hours to spare, I drove around and looked at a few properties nestled in the foothills between Highway 101 and Olympic National Park. Honestly, it wouldn't be a bad place to live--quiet, scenic, and close to nature.

Sequim also has a surprisingly well-stocked local market called Sunny Farms Grocery, featuring plenty of organic and local produce. And for more practical needs, there's even a Costco in town--definitely a plus.

Re-exploring the Pacific Northwest (PNW)

Our relocation search continues, and we're now planning our next scouting trip--this time back to a region we've always loved: the Pacific Northwest. When we left Bend in 2021, I was fairly certain we'd eventually settle on the Olympic Peninsula. That was our first destination, but unfortunately, the timing wasn't ideal. I was dealing with health challenges--likely lingering effects of COVID or its vaccine--which made it difficult to fully enjoy the experience. On top of that, the real estate market was in a frenzy. Inventory was scarce, prices were inflated, and the homes we did see were often overpriced and underwhelming.

After several discouraging weeks of poor health and fruitless house hunting, we pivoted. We headed south to the desert for some sunshine and then eventually made our way east, which is how we landed in North Carolina. While this chapter has had its merits, there's something magnetic about the American West that continues to pull us back. I think much of it comes down to the vast public lands and the quiet magic of the landscape--particularly in western Oregon and Washington, with their lush forests and strong agricultural heritage.

Over time, my lens has widened beyond just lifestyle preferences. I've become increasingly focused on climate resilience, especially as wildfire season intensifies in parts of the West and air quality continues to deteriorate in the Southeast. My research now includes insights from actuarial firms, insurance consultants, and environmental organizations like the Environmental Defense Fund.

One of the most powerful tools I've come across is the Climate Vulnerability Index (CVI), which evaluates how susceptible a region is to the impacts of climate change. What I appreciate most is its holistic approach--factoring in environmental, social, and economic variables to assess both risk exposure and adaptive capacity.

Encouragingly, my initial instincts have held up. Southwestern Colorado and several parts of the Pacific Northwest coast score well in terms of long-term resilience and environmental stability--especially when compared to the Southeast and inland West.

So this month, I'll head back to the Pacific Northwest on a dedicated scouting trip. The goal is to revisit familiar areas, explore a few new ones, and evaluate everything with fresh eyes.

Real estate inventory has increased dramatically across many parts of the Pacific Northwest--by 300% or more since 2021--which is an encouraging shift. Back in 2021, we were searching at the height of the COVID-era real estate frenzy, when record-low inventory and inflated prices made it nearly impossible to find a decent home at a reasonable cost. It felt like every property was either a bidding war or a fixer-upper priced like a finished home. Now, with significantly more listings on the market, buyers like us have a better chance to be selective, take our time, and negotiate more favorable terms. This shift in supply doesn't just reflect a cooling market--it opens the door to making a more thoughtful and sustainable home-buying decision, especially in areas we already love.

Relocation Reflections

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the different areas we’ve considered for relocation—staying here in North Carolina, moving to Southwest Virginia or Colorado, or even returning to Central Oregon. Each option comes with its own set of trade-offs, and that realization has shifted the way I’m approaching our search. It’s no longer just about picking a location—it’s about balancing the multiple dimensions that matter most to us.

We’re drawn to Central Oregon because it’s familiar. We spent ten years there, built meaningful connections, and understand the landscape and culture well. Southwest Virginia appeals to us with its gentler climate, lush greenery, and strong local organic farming movement. Colorado offers something different—vast public lands, dramatic natural beauty, and endless recreational access. And staying where we are right now keeps us close to excellent sources of organic produce, pasture-raised meats, and other health-supportive resources.

As I’ve weighed these qualities, it occurred to me that perhaps there’s a place that weaves together elements from all of them. That line of thinking brought me back to the Willamette Valley in Oregon. It offers the familiarity of returning to Oregon, the green landscapes and abundant food systems of Virginia, and proximity to public lands—not to mention some fantastic biking. Yes, wildfire smoke is a concern, but heading out to the coast during smoke season might be a workable solution. Real estate prices in Oregon also seem more favorable at the moment compared to Virginia or Colorado, which adds another point in its favor.

Returning to Floyd, Virginia: A Place That Keeps Calling Us Back

Although we first passed through Floyd, Virginia during the summer of 2011—while on our two-year full-timing adventure in the Magic Bus—it wasn’t until 2018 that we truly paused to spend meaningful time in this small mountain community. That year, we stayed at the Floyd Family Campground in our Leisure Travel Van Unity RV, en route from Florida to Robin’s mom’s home in Middlebrook, near Lexington.

Even that brief stay left an impression. Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southwestern Virginia, Floyd charmed us with its natural beauty and rich culture. Despite having just one traffic light, the town boasts a long-standing counterculture legacy dating back to the 1960s and ’70s. That era helped birth a vibrant local arts scene and a deep appreciation for bluegrass music, which continues today with Friday night jamborees at the Floyd Country Store and the renowned FloydFest, held each summer.

We returned in the summer of 2022, this time in our Outdoors RV travel trailer, with plans to stay longer. Over the course of several weeks—stretching from mid-summer into early fall—we lived in three different spots: the Floyd Family Campground, an Airbnb cabin in nearby Willis, and a larger Airbnb home along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Meadows of Dan. We worked with a local realtor during that stay, but due to limited inventory, we didn’t find the right property and eventually moved on to Charlottesville—but that’s another story.

Needless to say, Floyd County has been on our radar for quite a while. It checks many of the boxes we look for in a potential home base:

• A year-round farmers market offering local and organic produce
  

• A landscape ideal for gravel and country road cycling
  

• Elevations over 2,000 feet, offering some respite from lower-elevation heat
  

• Proximity to essential services in Roanoke and Blacksburg, including medical and veterinary care

More recently, I made another trip back to Floyd to explore the area further. I met with a local builder and realtor as part of our ongoing search for land—or, possibly, the right home to purchase outright.

Of course, Floyd isn’t without its drawbacks. Humidity is a persistent presence, and while the community is largely open and artistic, there are still pockets of intolerance that occasionally surface. Air quality is decent, but it doesn’t quite compare to the crisp, clean air found in southwestern Colorado—something we continue to weigh carefully.

Downtown Floyd is small, and yes, that single traffic light can cause a surprising amount of congestion. But once you get past it, the traffic clears quickly. The town is served by two-lane highways, and there’s a surprisingly excellent coffee shop called Red Rooster Coffee, which has become a favorite stop.

One huge plus: Floyd County received a grant to install fiber-optic internet, and the rollout has been completed. Having fiber-to-the-home throughout the county is a rare and valuable asset in a rural area like this.

In sum, we still like what Floyd County has to offer. It brings us closer to some family and friends in Virginia and holds a special place in Robin’s heart—it is, after all, her home state. Whether Floyd becomes our next landing spot remains to be seen, but it continues to offer enough promise to keep us coming back. 

Final Reflections on the Colorado Scouting Trip

This final post wraps up my Colorado Scouting Trip, covering the last leg of the journey and sharing some reflections on the experience as a whole.

I left the hotel around 4:30 a.m., just before the worst of the storm system hit. After loading up the truck, I did my customary “idiot lap” through the hotel—one last sweep to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind. Just as I re-entered the lobby, the wind howled to life, bending trees sideways in the parking lot. Moments later, a torrential downpour followed. I ended up waiting another 30 minutes for the worst of it to pass before getting on the road.

The morning was spent on I-40, and I struggled to stay alert. Despite getting rest the night before, I felt dangerously exhausted, so I pulled into a rest area and took a much-needed 30-minute nap. That short break, along with an iced coffee, was enough to carry me the rest of the way home—despite a couple of frustrating slowdowns, especially near Asheville where construction continues following the Hurricane Helene landslides.

I made it home around 9 p.m., greeted warmly by Robin and the pets. A quick bite to eat, a few stories shared, and I crashed—wired, but grateful to be back.

Thoughts From the Road

After logging thousands of miles across the country, one thing is clear: driving long distances on American highways is not for the faint of heart. Beyond the varied road conditions—some smooth, some cratered with potholes—it’s the behavior of other drivers that wears you down. Eighteen-wheelers will change lanes directly in front of you for no reason, even on an otherwise empty highway. Tailgaters rush to pass you, only to get boxed in by traffic ahead. It’s a strange blend of aggression and futility.

Reflections on Colorado

Could I live in Colorado? Absolutely—but not without compromises.

What I loved:

The access to public lands and recreation is unmatched. Riding through those wide-open spaces—gravel roads twisting through forest and mesa—felt like freedom. The small mountain towns have a vitality that’s hard to describe: a collective energy centered around health, outdoor activity, and quality of life. It felt refreshing, even inspiring, especially when compared to the often more sedentary vibe of the Southeast.

What gives me pause:

The cost of living in mountain towns remains high, and the winters are long—something we’d need to mentally and physically prepare for. The desert-like landscapes, while beautiful in their own right, lack the lush, green vibrance I’ve grown to love in North Carolina. And the access to fresh, local, organic produce just isn’t on the same level. Here at home, we’ve built relationships with small farmers and enjoy an abundance that’s hard to leave behind.

I also couldn’t help but notice the humidity returning as I crossed into Texas and beyond. It was like walking into a wall of wet heat—a stark reminder of what makes Colorado’s climate so enticing.

Closing Thoughts

All in all, it was a rewarding trip. I learned a lot—about the land, about what I value, and about what compromises I’m willing to make. I’ll be taking the next couple of weeks to let it all simmer, and Robin and I will talk through what this means for us moving forward.

Colorado has a strong pull, no doubt. 

Thanks for following along.

Homeward Bound: 944 Miles and Tornado Warnings

I opened my eyes this morning at around 3:45 a.m. and knew right away that sleep was done for the day. So I climbed out of the back of the truck, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the long journey home.

The roads were calm in the early morning light, and I made good time heading south toward Albuquerque. As I approached the city, I looked up and saw 10 or 15 hot air balloons drifting north across the sky. Albuquerque is known for its hot air balloon culture, but I wasn’t sure if this was part of a special event or just a typical Saturday morning spectacle. Either way, it was a beautiful and unexpected send-off.

Albuquerque was where I picked up I-40, and from there, it was a straight shot to Fort Smith, Arkansas for a total of fifteen hours and 944 miles behind the wheel.

Along the way, Robin called to warn me about tornado watches stretching from Oklahoma City to Fort Smith. I had planned to camp in a national forest outside the city, but after hearing about the severe weather, I took her advice and checked into a Holiday Inn Express for the night. Sometimes, the best adventure decision is the safest one.

After a long day on the road, the hot shower felt like a luxury. For dinner, I polished off the last of the food from my truck fridge.

There’s a lot to reflect on from the past two weeks—places visited, friendships rekindled, and the lingering questions about where “home” might be next. For now, I’m just looking forward to getting up early, finishing the final leg of the drive, and reuniting with Robin and the pets.

Home is close. And that feels good.

A Good Day with an Old Friend

Today was one of those quietly satisfying days—simple, full, and meaningful—because I got to spend it with my old friend Steve. He had just returned late last night from a work trip, so this morning felt like a reunion years in the making.

Steve and I first met in Bend, Oregon, and bonded over skiing on Mount Bachelor. Since then, we’ve logged countless days together skiing, mountain biking, rafting, and kayaking. When he and Lori moved from Bend to Durango back in 2022, our regular adventures came to a halt, and though we’ve stayed in touch through frequent texts, it had been three or four years since we’d last seen each other in person.

Today, we made up for some of that lost time. We tackled a few projects together, including updating the computer in his Ford F-350—something we both own and geek out about. We also diagnosed a pesky leak under his kitchen sink that had started dripping into the basement. Then came the big one: removing the old furnace to make space for a whole-house mini-split system, which will tie into the existing ductwork.

Lori made a delicious dinner, and we ended the day with good food and great conversation. It was a day full of small victories and meaningful connections.

I said my goodbyes and thanked them both for their warm hospitality, knowing I’ll be heading out first thing in the morning.

Durango Day Two: Exploring Valleys, Rec Centers, and Rural Beauty

Last night’s temperatures dipped close to freezing, so I had to experiment a bit to get warm—layering up until I found the right combo to sleep comfortably. Yes, I’m still sleeping in the back of the truck, even though I’m staying at Steve and Lori’s. The setup is just that cozy. Some might call this moochdocking—camping in a friend’s driveway while taking full advantage of their hospitality—but I like to think of it as driveway glamping.

This morning’s ride was a peaceful 15-mile loop through the Animas Valley. The terrain was gently rolling, passing through quiet neighborhoods and stretches of farmland. The scenery was stunning, but I was surprised by how much traffic there was for an area that carries a reputation for being laid-back and sleepy.

After breakfast, I gave Lori a hand troubleshooting their Wi-Fi extender at the new workshop. I managed to get it working again, which felt like a small but satisfying win. Then I headed into Durango to continue my scouting adventure for the day.

First stop: the Durango Community Recreation Center. It’s a well-appointed facility with everything you’d expect—lap pool, climbing wall, fitness equipment, and a full slate of classes. Definitely a plus if we were to live nearby.

From there, I explored several areas west and southwest of town. One spot that stood out was Falls Creek—a tucked-away neighborhood nestled in its own little valley, adjacent to Animas Valley. It’s an older area with larger lots and a secluded feel.

I continued out to the Hesperus area and then over to Mancos. These regions are much more rural than Durango itself but still offer lush surroundings and, in many places, long views of the mountains to the north. The quiet and space out there were appealing.

One of the things I love about this region is how quickly you can access nature. You can drive for an hour east to west and always be within a few minutes of the San Juan National Forest, with its network of trails and gravel roads. 

On my way back to Steve and Lori’s, I stopped in historic downtown Durango and walked the length of Main Street—seven to ten blocks lined with shops, galleries, and restaurants. I swung by the visitor center to ask a few questions and soak up a bit more local flavor.

All in all, it was a full and rewarding day. But I’m starting to feel the pull of home.

I miss swimming laps.

Durango Scouting Day: A Ride, a Bear, and a Bald Eagle

Durango has been at the top of my relocation list for a while now, so I woke up with a real sense of anticipation about exploring it more deeply today. But before launching into the drive, I wanted to start the day on my bike. Riding gives me a unique sense of connection to a place—pedaling through the landscape helps me imagine what daily life could be like, especially since cycling is such a big part of my joy and recreation.

This morning started with a minor hiccup: a flat front tire. I pulled the tube out expecting a clear puncture but couldn’t find a thing. I reinstalled it, aired it back up, and to my surprise—it held. Gremlins, maybe. Either way, I considered myself lucky to be staying with Steve and Lori, just down the road from the San Juan National Forest. From their place, I hopped on my bike and started climbing.

The ride began on pavement but quickly turned to gravel. I climbed for about an hour, passing a campground at the top where the road gives way to bike trails. My gravel bike, lacking suspension, wasn’t up for trail riding, so I turned around and descended. The switchbacks on the gravel road made for a thrilling and slightly nerve-wracking descent. One wrong move and I could’ve gone down hard. It was overcast, cold, and windy—but still a satisfying ride.

After warming up back at the truck, I kicked off my driving tour of Durango by stopping at a local café that doubled as a plant shop—something I’d never seen before. The place was buzzing. I ordered a café Americano, pulled up my real estate app, and pinned a handful of properties to check out. This has become a kind of ritual for me: picking houses gives my scouting days some structure, and it’s far more engaging than aimlessly driving through unfamiliar neighborhoods.

I headed northeast out of town along Florida Road, which climbs up through forested terrain toward Lemon and Vallecito Reservoirs. On the way, I explored a few subdivisions, including Edgemont—a beautiful area with large one- to two-acre lots and modern homes. While driving the perimeter, I spotted a cinnamon-colored black bear about 50 yards away. At first, it looked like it was fleeing, but then it ran parallel to my truck for a short while before darting back into the woods.

The drive up to Lemon Reservoir was peaceful. I explored Durango Hills, a remote subdivision up a rutted gravel road better suited for a four-wheel-drive vehicle. The homes are tucked away and private—ideal for solitude, though probably too isolated for Robin’s taste. Still, it had its charm. I watched a bald eagle soaring overhead, keeping pace with the truck for a few seconds. Just like the bear earlier, this eagle seemed to be accompanying me for part of the journey.

From there, I made my way to Vallecito Reservoir, where I toured a few more lush subdivisions. Some had small creeks winding through the properties and very pretty homes. But they’re high in elevation and quite a haul from town. In winter, these roads would be treacherous—snowfall here is no joke.

Eventually, I made it back to Durango and stopped in at the Natural Foods Co-op. It was on the smaller side but well-stocked with everything you’d need for a quality organic meal. I also visited Natural Grocers hoping to pick up some fresh salmon, but they don’t carry fresh seafood or meat. City Market was my final stop—it’s a regional chain and today, it was packed. Probably the busiest grocery store I’ve ever been in, with barely a parking space to be found.

By the end of the day, I had traveled about 120 miles. Despite the gray skies and the wind, the day was filled with memorable moments—wildlife encounters, a beautiful ride, and a deeper glimpse into life in and around Durango. It gave me a lot to think about.

Morning ride into the National Forest

View on the bike descent

Plant side of the cafe. No googly eyes.

Sunrise in the San Juans and a Warm Welcome to Montrose

I woke up early enough to catch the first light cresting over the mountains to the east--a soft, golden glow spilling over the ridges and welcoming in the day. My morning mission was to make it down to Montrose in time for a 7:40 a.m. telemedicine check-in with my primary care doctor. Since I'd been camping off-grid, I needed a reliable cell signal.

Before the call, I stopped at a local coffee shop for a café americano--just enough warmth and caffeine to get me centered for the appointment. Afterward, I headed to Baldridge Park, a large and vibrant community space in the heart of Montrose. It's an expansive park with soccer fields, baseball diamonds, and the Uncompahgre River running right through it. There's even a river play park with Class I and II rapids for kayakers, along with a dog park and a mix of paved and unpaved trails. The place was already alive with early risers walking dogs and enjoying the cool morning air.

That's where I met Margaret, a local dog walker accompanied by her energetic "Spanish mutt," Lolo, whom she adopted while living in Versailles, France. She and her husband moved back to the States with their two teenage kids three years ago and chose Montrose as home. She invited me to walk with her, and we struck up an easy conversation about life in the area.

Margaret and her husband are avid outdoor enthusiasts. Between biking, hiking, and all forms of skiing--downhill, cross-country, and backcountry--they've found Montrose to be a recreation paradise with access in all four directions. She described it as a quieter hub with proximity to big adventures.

She also shared that Montrose Airport has the second-largest tarmac in Colorado, behind only Denver, making it surprisingly easy to travel in and out. Most of her flights connect through Denver and go just about anywhere from there. Winters here, she said, are relatively mild. Snow might fall, but it tends to melt off quickly, and lingering ice isn't usually a concern.

We also talked about healthcare--something that's top of mind for me lately. Margaret said the local health system is exceptional, one of the best in Colorado. Her mother, a microbiologist, lives in Montrose and is equally impressed with the level of care available.

Margaret explained how a reservoir in the nearby mountains stores snowmelt, feeding the valley's river and canal systems. That water eventually makes its way into the Colorado River at Grand Junction. She also mentioned the weekend farmers' market, which features local produce, and said they regularly shop at Natural Grocers for organic staples.

She drew a comparison between Montrose and Durango, her other favorite town in Colorado. Both are similar in size, but Durango, she said, has a more refined, upscale feel, while Montrose leans more "cowboy." It was a great conversation, and I left the park feeling intrigued about Montrose's potential as a future home base.

I swung by the Community Recreation Center, which is impressive and clearly a focal point for the community. It features lap lanes, a full gym, rock climbing, pickleball courts, and a large space that was hosting a yoga class during my visit.

Before leaving Montrose, I made one last stop at a local bike shop--and I'm glad I did. I met Mike, a friendly and passionate cyclist who gave me a detailed rundown of the cycling scene in and around the area. Originally from Ohio, Mike moved to Montrose specifically for the cycling. He'd done his research and knew this town had something special--and now, after hearing from him, I understand why.

Mike pulled out a local trail map and grabbed a highlighter. He marked out several routes for me to consider--ranging from smooth pavement rides to scenic gravel loops that weave through the surrounding landscapes.

He also told me about the regular group rides organized twice a week by the local cycling community. These rides are open and welcoming, catering to a mix of abilities, and they've become a cornerstone of the cycling culture here. Mike clearly loves the camaraderie and energy of the Montrose cycling scene, and that passion was contagious.

Before continuing my journey south, I made a stop at Ridgway Reservoir. The views were stunning, but I couldn't help noticing how low the water line was. I struck up a conversation with a park ranger who confirmed that this year's snowpack has been very light, and as a result, the reservoir is unusually low. It was a sobering reminder of the ongoing water issues affecting the West.

By midday, temperatures were already climbing into the upper 70s--remarkably warm for early May at this elevation. From there, I headed south on Highway 550, a spectacular route that winds through the mountain towns of Ouray and Silverton. Ouray had that classic Old West feel--when I stopped into a local grocery store, a couple of shoppers were wearing cowboy boots and hats. Silverton still holds on to its historic mining-town character, and I took a slow drive through its rustic downtown before continuing toward Durango.

My final stop for the day was the home of my friends Steve and Lori, who relocated from Bend to Durango three years ago. I'm incredibly grateful for their hospitality and for letting me use their home as a launching pad to explore the area. Durango has been near the top of our relocation list for some time. I've followed the real estate market here closely and watched countless videos about the recreational opportunities in the region.

Rucking it through the park

Very nice community recreation center

I love me some lap pool lanes.

Most of the snow is gone and it’s only May. Yikes!

Crossing Monarch Pass and Moving West

Before leaving Salida, I took full advantage of the crisp morning air and cool mountain weather with one final ride up the mountain and back. Strangely, the climb felt easier today—maybe my legs are getting stronger after one day of hill training.

Heading west toward Gunnison means crossing Monarch Pass. As I crested the summit, I was reminded of my last time over that pass—coming the opposite direction, on a fully loaded bike during my Great Divide mountain bike ride. A snowstorm was hammering down, and I remember the climb feeling endless. Cars passed me slowly, some drivers honking their horns in encouragement, a sound I remember with surprising fondness. Today, I saw a woman climbing the same pass, also with a fully loaded bikepacking rig. I gave her a toot of the horn as I went by, and she gave a wave in return.

The stretch of Highway 50 leading into Gunnison was surprisingly serene—light traffic and a lush, peaceful valley lined with farms, creeks, and marshy wetlands. Even though Gunnison sits at over 7,500 feet, it feels relatively flat compared to surrounding mountain towns. The mountain views are stunning, but at this point in life, I’m not looking to conquer endless climbs on a bike. I find myself drawn more to open flats and rolling hills.

Gunnison itself has a quaint, walkable downtown and a well-stocked natural grocery store—always a sign of a town with a conscious, health-minded population. It’s small, but it has a strong cycling culture with several nearby trail systems. In winter, residents head up to Crested Butte for skiing, but Gunnison itself is known for its long, frigid winters. Despite its size, real estate prices are steep, likely due to limited inventory and high demand.

After exploring Gunnison, I continued west to Montrose—and almost immediately, it felt different in all the right ways. With a population around 20,000, it strikes a comfortable balance: not too big, not too small. The area benefits from snowmelt flowing down from the surrounding mountains, and some residents even have water rights. As a result, the landscape here is remarkably green and fertile.

A river winds through town, flanked by a bike trail, and there are several additional trail systems nearby. It’s clear that outdoor life is woven into the fabric of this place. Tonight, I’m set up in a dispersed BLM campsite, feeling grateful—for the road, the freedom, and the unfolding sense of possibility. 

Morning ride

One of the many trail systems in Gunnison

One of several trail systems around Montrose

BLM dispersed camping. Free.

Biking, Exploring, and Reflecting: A Day in Canon City and Beyond

I woke up to a beautiful, crisp morning. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, and the air had that refreshing mountain bite. I hopped on my bike and headed up into the hills behind the motel. The ride was demanding, climbing about 1,000 feet on gravel roads into Bureau of Land Management property. The climb was slow and steady, but the payoff came fast--literally. The descent was smooth, quick, and full of joy. A solid one-hour loop that reminded me just how good it feels to move.

After a well-earned shower, burrito, and strong coffee, I drove southwest along Highway 50 toward Cañon City. The route dropped about 2,000 feet in elevation, taking me into the high desert and red rock country. The temperature shift was immediate, and the landscape changed dramatically.

Before reaching Cañon City, I made a quick detour to check out the Royal Gorge Bridge Lookout. The view from the rim was impressive--steep cliffs dropping into the Arkansas River and the iconic suspension bridge spanning the gorge. But when I saw the $39 ticket price just to walk across the bridge, I passed.

Once in Cañon City, I explored a few mountain bike trailheads. There are some nice options, including a flat, paved river trail that hugs the Arkansas River. The riverfront area is dotted with green spaces and parks, and they were bustling with families, walkers, and cyclists on this sunny Sunday morning.

I wandered over to Main Street, which has a classic small-town downtown feel--though definitely less polished than Salida. A few storefronts sat empty, and many of the open businesses seemed aimed more at tourists than locals. The scene was eclectic: restaurants, gift shops, tattoo parlors, a candle store, a guns and ammo shop, and even a "Trump for President" storefront. It's a mix, to say the least.

One thing that stood out today was how intense the sun felt. You could feel the heat searing your skin--easy to get burned if you're not careful. It added to the sense that Cañon City sits on the edge of comfort for me, especially this early in the season. It was already 78°F on May 11th, and that felt out of sync with what I'm looking for in a place to call home.

To be honest, I don't think Cañon City is for us. There's nothing specific I can point to--it's more of a feeling. Something intangible doesn't sit right. It's interesting, but not inviting.

That said, I did stumble upon the Arkansas Riverwalk Park, which was a bright spot. It has a dog park with built-in agility equipment and a community garden--both signs of thoughtful public investment. And parts of the area near the river are surprisingly lush, thanks to irrigation from the Arkansas.

I checked out a couple of properties while I was there, but nothing stood out. Nothing worth calling home. A bit of a letdown, really.

From there, I looped back toward Salida by way of Silver Cliff and Westcliffe--two small towns nestled side by side in a stunning valley, seemingly out in the middle of nowhere. The views were incredible. I was curious why these towns sat so close together and learned that Silver Cliff was once the third largest city in Colorado during the mining boom. Westcliffe followed with the arrival of the railroad. What struck me most was how green and lush that valley was--greener even than Salida or Buena Vista. If we were aiming for true solitude, this would be high on the list. There are some large-acreage properties at surprisingly reasonable prices, but access to amenities would mean frequent trips back to Salida or east to Pueblo.

I ended the day with another session in the sauna and a much-needed visit to the laundromat--where I paid a small fortune. Seven bucks for one large load. Welcome to resort-town prices.

A view from my morning ride

Salida is down in that valley

This one of three trail systems I visited in Canon City.

Dog agility equipment in the Arkansas Riverfront Park

From the small town of Westcliffe, a view of the lush valley and Sangre de Cristo mountains

A Salida Return: Bikes, Burritos, and a Bit of Bliss

My original plan this morning was to rise with the sun, breathe in the crisp mountain air, and fire up my butane stove to make some instant coffee and hot oatmeal. But then I thought—to heck with it. I packed up and drove into Salida, CO to find a good coffee shop and grab a breakfast burrito instead. And let me tell you, no regrets. It hit the spot.

Salida is exactly the kind of town I remembered from my Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride back in 2019. That trip brought me through here tired, sore, and in need of a break—and some repairs. I stayed at a local hostel and rolled into a bike shop downtown. Not only did they recognize that I was just passing through, they bumped me to the front of the repair queue and swapped out my grinding bottom bracket, chainring, and tires. I was so grateful.

Even my gear got some attention. I was having trouble with my frame bag, and the bike shop pointed me to a local gear company down the street that actually makes bikepacking bags. I walked in and they treated me like family. It left a lasting impression, and I remember thinking: If we ever leave Bend, I could see myself landing here.

Today, I found myself back at that same bike shop. My derailleur battery had died, and once again, they stepped up. The technician dug through a pile of parts to find a protective derailleur cap that should prevent the issue from happening again. I bought a new charging cradle and cable, plus a spare battery. I plugged everything in, got a full charge, and later in the day, unloaded the bike for a spin around town.

Being on my bike brings me joy. There’s a kind of freedom and rhythm to it that nothing else matches. I wasn’t the only one out enjoying the day—downtown Salida was filled with cyclists, joggers, and dog walkers. What I love is that the main highway bypasses downtown, leaving the heart of town relaxed and human-scale. It sits right alongside the Arkansas River, which, by the way, has its own built-in whitewater park. I watched a surfer carving the standing wave while I walked the river trail.

Salida ticks a lot of boxes: there’s a Natural Grocers with a strong organic produce section (plus a Safeway and a Walmart), but beyond that, very few big-box distractions. I spent part of the afternoon driving through surrounding neighborhoods and even up into the hills to scout out a few properties. Most of the homes I saw sat on one- to two-acre lots—an appealing size—and while inventory was limited, I took mental notes for the future.

After a couple of days without a shower, I set out to find one. I first headed to the Aquatic Center, which offers a $12 day pass that includes showers—but it was closed for annual maintenance. I considered a campground, but while sitting in a café, I stumbled across great reviews for a small, family-run motel right across the street. Bonus: it had a sauna.

I booked a night, and the place didn’t disappoint. The staff were welcoming, and the sauna was exactly what I needed—a traditional dry sauna with the option to pour water over the hot stones for a blast of steam. I reserved a session and left feeling human again.

Dinner was just a few steps away. A little Mexican restaurant two doors down caught my eye, especially the sign in the window boasting the best margaritas in Salida. Naturally, I had to investigate. The verdict? Solid. Just tequila, Cointreau, and lime—clean, simple, no sugary mixers. Just the way I like it.

It’s good to be back in Salida. Some towns leave a mark.

Arkansas River running through Salida

Surfer hangin’ ten

Cute downtown

Cuteness in the other direction

Trails running through downtown. Good government at work.

Best margaritas in Salida

Cold Mornings, Quiet Trails, and Curious Creatures

I had a great night’s sleep tucked into my sleeping bag as the temperature dipped near freezing. The cold air was no match for the cocoon of warmth, and I slept long and uninterrupted, waking refreshed just as the sun began to rise over the horizon. Eventually, I crawled out of the back of the truck to stretch and greet the morning.

Truck camping has its quirks, especially in a setup like mine. The SmartCap offers protection and storage, but maneuvering in that tight space requires a lot of crouching—and more than once I’ve banged my head. It’s a small price to pay, but it does keep me humble.

The crisp mountain air called for a hot cup of coffee. I pulled out my camp stove and instant coffee only to realize I had forgotten both matches and a lighter. Just when I thought I’d have to start my day caffeine-free, I remembered my get-home bag in the back seat—always ready, always stocked. Sure enough, a small firestarter kit saved the morning. Soon I was sipping hot coffee, eating cold oats, and listening to the birds announce the day from my camp chair.

With gravel roads stretching in every direction through San Isabel National Forest, I was eager to get out on my bike. But not long into the ride, I discovered that my rear derailleur wasn’t working. A bit of troubleshooting revealed the culprit: a dead battery in my electronic shifting system, and of course, the charger was back in North Carolina. Lesson learned—don’t leave without the charging cable.

So, I pivoted to a hike instead, which turned out to be just as rewarding. The sunshine filtered through the pines, and the peace of the forest grounded me again.

Later, I drove into Buena Vista to walk through its charming downtown—just a few blocks of restaurants, coffee shops, and stores nestled at the foot of a mountain, with the Arkansas River rushing by. It has a relaxed, welcoming vibe that’s hard not to like.

While sipping coffee, I pulled up my map and scouted out a few properties I’d been curious about. I drove out to see them, but again found myself unimpressed. All were built in the 1990s—an era of construction I’ve grown skeptical of. Something about the aesthetics and materials just feels off. One red flag in particular: EIFS stucco exteriors, essentially synthetic stucco layered over foam, which is notorious for moisture intrusion and mold issues. I’ve learned to steer clear of those.

After some wandering, I explored south of town and stumbled upon Chalk Creek, which flows through Grouse Canyon and up toward St. Elmo, a ghost town that once housed 2,000 gold and silver miners in the 1880s. The old railroad is long gone, replaced by a rugged gravel road that now leads through National Forest land dotted with seasonal campgrounds—still closed for now, but incredibly scenic.

By evening, I returned to my dispersed camp in the National Forest. Despite my concerns that the weekend might bring crowds from the city, it remained quiet and peaceful—just as I’d left it.

As I sat eating dinner, I spotted a bizarre creature hopping across camp—something between a rabbit and a squirrel. It had long ears like a rabbit but the body of a squirrel, and it was jet black. My first thought? Mutant. Maybe the result of some nuclear backwoods experiment. Robin did a quick search and claimed it was an Abert’s squirrel, native to these parts. I chose not to believe her. It’s more fun to imagine a post-apocalyptic wildlife mashup wandering the woods. Maybe I’ve been reading too much dystopian fiction lately. 

Camp with awning, chair, and potty

Abert’s squirrel (image from the internet)

Exploring Colorado Springs, Manitou Springs, Woodland Park, and Buena Vista

Although Colorado Springs was never on my short list of relocation spots, my first impressions were unexpectedly positive. I stopped in the northern part of town to get some routine blood work done at LabCorp. Since I was a bit early, I took a walk through the surrounding neighborhood and was pleasantly surprised by how many rainbow flags I saw flying from porches and lampposts. Coming from western North Carolina--where those symbols of inclusion are far less common--it gave me a quiet sense of joy.

After the blood draw, I made my way a few blocks over to a local café. Sitting by the window with a cup of coffee, I watched runners, cyclists, and adventure vehicles stream by. I felt an immediate connection. 

A quick drive through downtown Colorado Springs only reinforced that impression. The city center felt vibrant, clean, and alive with character. I've always loved exploring downtowns--whether in sleepy villages or bustling cities--and this one told me something important: Colorado Springs has more to offer than I expected.

Today's journey began with a stop in Manitou Springs, a quirky little town nestled at the base of the mountains. Equal parts tourist hub and artistic enclave, it was buzzing with energy. I stumbled upon Wheeler Spring, established by Jerome Wheeler--an enterprising man who first struck gold at Macy's in New York before moving west and finding fortune in the mining industry. He built a home in Manitou Springs and marketed the mineral-rich spring water nationwide.

A sign posted nearby warns that the spring is unchlorinated and contains high levels of manganese--unsafe for infants and best consumed in moderation by others. I filled up two water bottles anyway. It has a tangy, mineral taste. 

From there, I climbed to Woodland Park, perched at 8,600 feet. The temperature drop was dramatic, and snow still clings to the ground, though the roads are well-plowed. Under a partly cloudy sky, I caught a breathtaking view about halfway up Pikes Peak--even just that partial glimpse was stunning.

I drove to a nearby trailhead to get a feel for spring hiking conditions. The verdict? Snowy, sloppy, and not ideal for biking--maybe a fat bike could handle it, but standard mountain biking is off the table at this time of the year. Still, it's serene up there, a quiet escape surrounded by snow-dusted evergreens.

I checked out a few local properties but wasn't impressed. Despite rising inventory, prices haven't come down. One house bought at the 2022 market peak is now listed for several hundred thousand dollars more--and it's nothing special. Between the inflated prices and lingering snowpack, Woodland Park is off the list for me.

Heading north, I passed the Centennial Trail, a well-maintained paved path that parallels the highway and stretches deep into Pike National Forest. It's a great community asset for walking and biking.

Later, I turned west toward 11 Mile State Park, following a gravel road past lakes and pine forests. I love moments like these--wandering unfamiliar backroads among Ponderosa pines and firs, soaking it all in. The campground at 11 Mile Lake looked inviting; if it had been later in the day, I might have stayed.

Instead, I pushed on to Buena Vista, a town I've been eager to explore. It's an adventurer's dream: mountain biking, gravel cycling, rafting, and kayaking in the warmer months; snowshoeing and skiing in the winter. The Main Street is full of charm--lined with small boutiques, restaurants, and coffee shops. Just beyond it is a new mixed-use development with homes, shops, a dog park, and an amphitheater that reminds me of River Ranch back home.

I explored some hillside neighborhoods like Game Trail, where gravel roads wind past impressive homes perched on the mountainside. Beautiful, yes--but Robin and I have always felt more drawn to valleys, preferring to look up at the mountains rather than down from them. There's something unsettling about houses clinging to steep slopes.

Tonight, I'm camped in a dispersed site in San Isabel National Forest, recommended by my friend Steve. I've got a pullout with a fire ring, sweeping views of the snowcapped mountains, and a refreshing 56-degree evening. Time to raid the fridge--salads, leftovers, and whatever else I can piece together for dinner.

Life on the road is full of contrasts--busy towns, quiet forests, tangy spring water, and snowy trails. And for now, I'm grateful to be out here, taking it all in.

Breakfast at Good Neighbor Meeting House

Snowy trails

Pike’s Peak

Spring water

11 Mile Lake

Extensive Buena Vista trail system

Bison running along side of me

Campsite mountain view

Rainstorms, Cracked Windshields, and a Much-Needed Hotel Room

Last night’s stay at the campground took an intense turn just as I was finishing up a quick shower—thunderstorms rolled in fast and hard. The rain poured all night, and I’m pretty sure I heard hail bouncing off the roof. The stainless steel SmartCap amplified every drop and ice pellet, making it sound like I was sleeping inside a snare drum. It was the first time I’ve slept in the truck during a storm, so my nerves were on edge. I wasn’t entirely sure the setup was watertight—and as it turns out, there was a minor leak at the tailgate.

Sleep eventually came, but I woke around 3 a.m. to the sound of even heavier rain. When I finally stepped out of the truck, my feet landed in 3–4 inches of standing water. A true deluge.

I kicked off the day at a highway travel center with a familiar comfort: my go-to Starbucks order—a café americano with cream. Spirits were high knowing I’d make it to Colorado Springs by noon, ready to dive into the scouting portion of this trip.

But, as any seasoned traveler knows, no journey is complete without a glitch. And just like flying—where mechanical issues, delays, and missed connections seem par for the course—the road had its own surprise waiting. Somewhere along the highway, a rock shot up and cracked my windshield. A starburst with a ten-inch fracture now stretched across the glass. Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for in Colorado.

Thankfully, I was able to get an appointment for a windshield replacement later in the afternoon. By that point, I was running on fumes after a three-day cross-country push. I decided it was time for a little self-care and booked a hotel room for the night.

Not only will I finally get some decent rest, but I’ll also get a real shower—something more relaxing than last night’s brief rinse, which I shared with at least six beetles crawling around the campground shower floor.

Cold Mornings, Long Highways, and JournalSpeak

I woke up around 4 a.m., bundled in my zero-degree sleeping bag--which, ironically, I had to climb out of bed to retrieve from one of the bins in the middle of the night. I didn't want to move. I was warm enough under the covers, and the idea of stepping into the cold air felt like too much effort. But I'm glad I did. I'm not sure how low the temperature dropped, but it turned pretty cold. Waking up rapped in that sleeping bag, I closed my eyes and spent some time meditating and reflecting on life.

Lately, I've been reading Mind Over Body by Nicole Sachs, a therapist who studied under the late Dr. John Sarno. Sarno became well known for his work on chronic pain and its deep connections to repressed emotional stress--how unresolved emotions can manifest as back pain, chronic fatigue, and other syndromes. Nicole takes this work further, offering a method of emotional expression called JournalSpeak. It's a raw, unfiltered approach to processing emotional trauma by writing honestly and privately. I've found it fascinating--and powerful. I highly recommend the book to anyone navigating chronic pain or emotional blocks.

Today's drive was uneventful but long. I hit a little traffic in Kansas City, but St. Louis and Topeka were easy. Driving across Kansas feels endless--second only, perhaps, to West Texas. The landscape rolls on in flat, repetitive stretches of farmland and prairie. It has its own quiet beauty, but it's definitely a test of endurance behind the wheel.

To pass the time, I've been listening to The Borrowed World series by Franklin Horton--a post-apocalyptic story that starts with a terrorist attack and follows a group of people trying to survive in the aftermath of societal collapse. I'm on book five now. It's not light reading, but it's compelling. As I listen, especially so far from home, I can't help but wonder: if something like that happened--how would I get back to Robin? Would I have the skills, the grit, the sheer will?

But for now, things are peaceful. Tonight I've landed at Cedar Bluff State Park in Kansas. I've found that state parks are often a great value--reasonably priced, safe, and you can almost always count on a hot shower.

Dinner was simple: a green-berry smoothie, a handful of nuts, and some dried fruit. I've already prepped breakfast for tomorrow--soaked oats with roasted pecans, sunflower seeds, cinnamon, and nonfat dry milk. I portion out a couple of cups, pour in some soy milk, top it with yogurt, and let it chill overnight in the fridge. It's one of my favorite road breakfasts--nutritious, easy, and ready to go in the morning.

Cedar Bluff State Park

Day One: Launching Westward

I launched my adventure this morning after hugs, scratches, and kisses. With the truck loaded, I rolled out with anticipation and a side order of jitters. But I didn't even make it out of North Carolina before the road reminded me that nothing goes quite as planned. Interstate 40 came to a dead stop for over an hour after an 18-wheeler crossed the median and struck a vehicle head-on. A sobering start to the journey.

Despite the delay, I managed to cover over 500 miles and drive more than 10 hours to reach tonight's destination -- a wild camping site at Dutchman Lake in the Shawnee National Forest. My first attempt at a campsite was at a trailhead just off a gravel road, but two vehicles parked nearby looked like they'd been camped out for a while. Trash was scattered around, and as I sat in the truck trying to get my bearings (while wrestling with a weak cell signal), one of the occupants wandered over -- clearly drunk -- and asked if I had any fishing hooks. He was probably harmless, but I wasn't thrilled about being without service and already attracting attention.

So I drove up the road and found a much better spot: tucked beside a boat ramp, right on the lake. My truck is off the main gravel road and out of view, and I've got one precious bar of cell service -- just enough to check in with Robin and let her know where I landed. I also tested my Garmin inReach satellite communicator, which has served me well on past adventures, and sent her my GPS coordinates. She was able to respond right away.

That inReach has always been a solid lifeline when I'm off-grid. We've used it for years when I've been out in the wild without any cell coverage. It's a simple thing, but it gives both of us peace of mind.

As tempting as it was to keep pushing west -- I tend to lock into "task mode" once I have a goal -- Robin's voice echoed in my mind, reminding me to enjoy the journey. I'm glad I listened. Looking out over the lake, the scene is peaceful. Blue herons glide low across the water. I found this location using the iOverlander app, which noted a mosquito problem, but there haven't been any tonight.

Dinner was simple but satisfying: a salad pulled together from the fridge, topped with fresh veggies and a generous scoop of hummus. I've been grazing all day -- nuts, apples, bananas.

There's a small part of me that feels uneasy camping here without a solid door and lock. But I remind myself: I've slept in hammocks, ultralight tents, and backcountry campsites with far less protection. And I always wake up just fine. I'm trusting that tonight will be no different.

The night is quiet now. The lake is still. The truck feels comfortable. It's the beginning of something -- not just the miles ahead, but the space to rediscover what I'm out here for.

Saying goodbye to T’Chat

Camping spot on Dutchman Lake in the Shawnee National Forest

Prep Day #2: Packing, Planning, and Preparing for Departure

Today was another full day of trip prep, focused on getting the truck organized and making sure everything has its place. I packed up the storage bins that slide neatly under the cot in the bed of the truck--each one serving a specific purpose to make life on the road smoother.

- Bin 1 (Tailgate access): This holds all the gear needed to set up camp--awning, tarp, and folding chair. Quick access here is key when pulling into a site.

- Bin 2 (The kitchen): I've loaded this with cooking supplies, dishwashing buckets, dry goods, a a butane stove, and silverware. Everything I need to make a decent meal at camp.

- Bin 3 (Clothing): This has all my clothing, including layers for colder weather. I've experienced a snowstorm in Colorado in May before (see my Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride blog), so I'm not taking any chances.

- Bin 4 (Bike gear): This one carries my biking essentials--helmet, shoes, bike pump, and even my zero-degree sleeping bag for colder nights.

I also stocked the truck fridge with fresh veggies and snacks. Next to it, I set up a smoothie station with all the powders I use regularly: whey protein, creatine, red raspberry powder, cocoa powder, psyllium, and collagen. I'll be running the Blendtec blender off my 2000-watt inverter tucked beneath the plywood platform.

For water, I'm bringing a container I can refill and run through a Berkey-style filtration system. Clean water is a must, and this setup will keep me covered.

On the tech side, I'm bringing my iPhone, iPad, and a spare old MacBook Pro. As always, before a solo trip, I made sure our estate plan is current and that Robin has full access to my accounts and passwords. It gives us both peace of mind.

I also prepped digital navigation tools. With fast Wi-Fi at home, I downloaded offline maps for both GaiaGPS and iOverlander. Gaia will help me navigate public lands, especially in remote areas without cell service. iOverlander will be my go-to app for finding stealth camping spots and community-shared tips.

Since I'll be spending a fair bit of time off-grid, I also downloaded a small library of entertainment--TV series, documentaries, and movies--onto my iPad. It's always nice to unwind at night with something familiar, and having a few favorites loaded up means I won't need a signal or data to decompress after a long day of exploring.

Not everything went smoothly, though. My first attempt at making privacy curtains was a flop. I bought some cheap fabric that started unraveling as soon as I cut it. I'll probably stop along the way and pick up some Reflectix--that silvery bubble wrap insulation. It's cheap, easy to trim to window shape, and adds a bit of insulation too.

While working inside the SmartCap today, I noticed just how much heat the black stainless steel absorbs. That might be a challenge once the sun's overhead in the high desert.

And now, as the departure gets closer, I can't help but reflect--this will be the first time in three years that Robin and I have been apart for more than a few days. It's hard to leave the comfort of our home, the joy of our daily routines, and the peace that comes from being with someone you love. But I also know that this trip is about exploring possibilities, stepping into new landscapes, and seeing if southern Colorado might be part of our future.

Ham and GMRS radios mounted to the dash for alternate emergency communication if no cell service

Fridge and smoothie station (in red bin). Inverter next to red bin.

Old man steps

Supplies and gear

Toilet

Water filtration

Colorado Scouting Trip Prep Day #1: Dust Seals, Crossbars, and Locking Down the Bike

Today marked the first serious day of preparation for my upcoming scouting trip to Colorado. The original plan was to hit the road tomorrow—Sunday—but given everything still left to do, that’s looking a little optimistic. Still, I made solid progress today and can see the vision starting to come together.

This trip isn’t just about adventure—though there will be plenty of that. I’m heading out on a mission to explore southern Colorado and evaluate whether it might be a place we’d want to relocate. Robin will be staying back, holding things down at home with the gang.

My plan is to drive west through Colorado Springs and down through areas like Salida, Alamosa, Pagosa Springs, and ultimately Durango. We’re drawn to this region for a few key reasons: it offers elevation for cooler summer temperatures, relatively low year-round humidity, and clean air.

Ever since I experienced a significant mold reaction a few years ago, I’ve been cautious about living in humid climates. It turns out that many others in the mold-sensitive community have also gravitated toward the Mountain West—and with good results. For us, that adds another layer of appeal to the Southern Rockies.

The region is also a recreational paradise. There’s no shortage of biking—both road and mountain—as well as endless hiking trails and public lands to explore. The access to nature is unprecedented, and that’s a major factor in our lifestyle considerations.

Back at home, we’ve been watching the Colorado real estate market closely. Inventory is slowly recovering, but prices remain at record highs. That’s why this trip is so important—I want to get a feel for the vibe of these towns, explore local food options (especially organic sources), and get boots-on-the-ground insight that online listings just can’t provide.

As for the travel setup, I’ll be stealth camping using the iOverlander database to find overnight spots. I’ve outfitted the truck for comfort and practicality. Today I installed tailgate gaskets to reduce dust intrusion—essential for keeping the bedding and gear clean when camping out of the truck bed on unpaved roads. While the SmartCap does have a vent system that creates positive pressure to limit dust, I’m playing it safe with extra sealing.

I also installed the Yakima crossbars on top of the SmartCap. The rail system required some pedestal modification since it’s different from my previous setup, but everything fit in the end. This allows me to attach an awning off the rear crossbar, creating a covered space to cook or relax in the rain.

Lastly, I secured the bike inside the truck bed on the custom plywood platform. I opted against using a rear-mounted rack due to theft concerns. With it locked inside, I can travel without worry.

Southern Colorado also has a great track record for air quality, with average weekly AQI values in the high 10s—something that’s hard to find in much of the country these days.

I’m genuinely looking forward to this trip—not just for what it might uncover about the future, but also because it scratches that long-standing itch for exploration and adventure.

New SmartCap mounted on the back of the truck with a Yakima rack on top

Early stages of the sleeping configuration with a cot, air mattress, and fan

The gravel bike is securely mounted on the backseat platform. The black bag is my “Get Home Bag.” Below are radios and an emergency medical bag with basic life support supplies.

The Yakima rack and a rooftop vent. The two black poles sticking up are radio antennas.