Driving from Cave Creek into southern New Mexico was not a stretch of road that invited wandering. Long ribbons of windy highway, the trailer tugging steadily behind us at 65 mph, demanded focus more than awe. It was the kind of drive you complete rather than savor. Arrival in the Las Cruces area didn’t exactly spark enthusiasm. The land felt stark and spare — a palette of dust and muted green. Mountains stood in the distance, but they weren’t the lush, layered kind we’re used to in the Pacific Northwest. We pulled into a state park and committed to three nights — though if I’m honest, we nearly left after two. 

The campground mirrored the landscape: wide open, dry, exposed. The second day we set out to ride what was touted as the best trail system in the area. Twelve miles later, I was still waiting for it to “get better.” It never did. It was hot. Windy. Predictable. Check. We’ve ridden in southern New Mexico. To be fair, northern New Mexico holds a very different kind of beauty — one that feels layered and storied. The south? It asks more of you. It doesn’t perform. 

 We made a pilgrimage to Hatch, the self-proclaimed birthplace of the famous chile. The town itself felt as sun-worn as the surrounding fields — quiet, tired, unpretentious. We considered pulling up stakes that afternoon and heading out early. But there was a small, steady whisper reminding me that the desert rarely reveals itself to the impatient. So we stayed. And in staying, something shifted. 

 Thursday morning I dropped Balin at a coffee shop in Las Cruces for a client meeting. Piper and I used the time to do laundry and get the car cleaned out — simple errands, but deeply satisfying ones. There’s something grounding about tending to ordinary life in the middle of a road trip. It felt like a reset. 

 By Friday we were ready to head east toward Texas. Driving through El Paso was striking — Mexico visible just across the Rio Grande (which, surprisingly, isn’t very grande). The contrast between the two sides of the border was immediate and sobering. Geography may be shared, but infrastructure tells a very different story. We landed that night in Junction, Texas — an RV park that served its purpose. No unhooking the trailer. No exploring. Just dinner, a place to sleep, and the hum of highway rest. 

 This morning unfolded slowly, which felt like a gift. We made our way to Fredericksburg for lunch — and what a shift in energy. The town was alive, bustling, distinctly European in flavor thanks to its 1800s German roots. There’s a softness here the desert didn’t offer. Window boxes. Bakeries. Wine tasting rooms. (Yes, we’re planning to contribute thoughtfully to Balin’s growing collection.) From there we continued on to Pedernales Falls State Park, nestled along the river of the same name. The contrast is striking — water cutting through limestone, trails weaving through trees, swimming holes that invite you in. After the austerity of the desert, this feels generous. We’ll be here for six nights. And I’m curious what this landscape will teach us next.

 Here's a quick video of our time: https://youtu.be/sze93bChQFE?si=BVN0I_D3FChw1t7x