Heading north from Mississippi meant a long day in the truck—one of those stretches where the miles blur together and you start to question your route choices. Every move brings a decision: take the freeway and make time, or choose the backroads and actually experience the places in between.

Somewhere along the way, a fellow camper offered us a simple rule: the 3-3-3—no more than 300 miles, arrive by 3:00, and stay 3 nights. It sounded almost too easy. But once we began to follow it, everything shifted. Mornings slowed. Roads curved instead of rushed. Evenings ended with a drink in hand and the sun slipping quietly behind the trees. It felt like we had finally stepped into the version of this trip we had imagined all along. As we map out our route through July, we’re holding tightly to that rhythm, hoping it carries us up the East Coast on roads that don’t show up on the fastest route.

Our first stop out of Mississippi took us to Cheaha State Park in Alabama—the highest point in the state. And it felt like it. Views opened up quickly from the trails, sweeping out over dense forest just minutes from our campsite. We chased a little adventure too, driving out to nearby bike trails where the riding was as warm as the welcome from the local riders. But the heat lingered. Even in spring, it pressed in just enough to make you wonder how anyone rides here in the height of summer. And yet—it was beautiful in a way that made you forget, at least for a while.

From there, we made a short hop into Georgia, landing at Blanton Creek Campground. It was a quiet stop—just enough time to find a trail, ride for a couple of hours, and settle into the simple rhythm of being outside. But it was F.D. Roosevelt State Park that left a lasting impression.

Built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps, the park carries a kind of quiet dignity. Stone buildings rise out of the landscape as if they’ve always belonged there, softened by time and framed by tall trees. Inside, warm wood tones tell a story of craftsmanship that feels almost lost today. There’s a swimming pool carved from stone, miles of trails weaving through the forest, and a lake that seems to gather it all together. It felt like stepping into a piece of history—one that still holds its purpose.

We had chosen this stop for more than just the park. Balin needed to fly to Bend for an electrical walk-through, and I had my own reason for being there. The novel Theo of Golden by Allen Levi is set in a nearby town—a place described with such charm and detail that it almost felt real before we ever arrived. A promenade, a fountain, a river, a bookstore filled with portraits. It was enough to draw us in.

So we went.

And somewhere along that quiet walk, I was reminded of something subtle but true: sometimes the places we imagine are more alive than the ones we find. Columbus felt a little worn, a little quieter than expected. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe spring break had emptied the streets. Still, we lingered. Coffee in hand, we studied the portraits, walked the promenade, and sat on the bench where so many imagined conversations had unfolded. It didn’t match the picture in my mind—but it didn’t need to. I was still glad we came.

A day later, Piper and I headed into Atlanta in search of something entirely different—furniture for the Bend house. Something timeless. Something that would feel just right. Instead, we found a city that moved faster than we expected. Sleek, busy, modern. Not the quiet, charming Southern city I had imagined. After a few hours, we found ourselves heading back to the campground, relieved to trade traffic for trees. The rest of our time there was exactly what we needed: hiking, painting, reading, and letting the days unfold slowly again.

Once reunited with Balin, we continued east with a stop at Watson Mill Bridge State Park. Bikes came out again, along with long walks with Piper, before we moved on to Hard Labor Creek State Park near Greensboro.

This landscape felt different—softer somehow. Rolling water along Lake Oconee, forest stretching in every direction, and small towns that seemed to belong exactly where they were. But what brought us here wasn’t the setting—it was the people.

We were meeting up with friends—Brad and Trisha Nelson. Brad and Balin had met years ago in Spokane, and what started as a simple connection had grown into something more meaningful over time. We had shared a week together in Costa Rica, full of conversation, laughter, and the kind of connection that doesn’t happen often.  This time, we picked it right back up. Over dinner, we caught up on life and found ourselves dreaming out loud about the future. The kind of conversation that lingers long after the meal ends. Balin even carved out more time with Brad over lunch a few days later. It was one of those reminders: relationships like this are worth going out of your way for.

And of course, we rode. The more I ride, the more I realize just how much I love it. There’s something about being on a bike—following a trail, following Balin—that feels simple and right. I’d do it every day if I could. (Which makes the move to Bend feel even more exciting.) Flat trails, winding paths—it doesn’t really matter. I’m just grateful to be out there.

Then the week shifted.

We received news that my Uncle Tommy had passed away at 93. He was married to my mom’s sister, Doris, and had spent his life in Spokane. The funeral was just days away, and without much hesitation, I booked a flight.

The trip was quick—Thursday to Saturday—but full. I stayed with a friend, squeezed in time with a few others, took care of a doctor’s appointment, and picked up a handful of things for the trailer before heading to the wake.

My uncle was a member of the Spokane Tribe, so the services were held on the reservation, about an hour northwest of Spokane. We gathered first at my aunt’s home and then drove together in procession. At the church, we joined around sixty members of the tribe and family to share a meal and remember his life.

The following morning brought breakfast with family—my siblings, cousins, and those who had traveled in. Then we made our way to the Catholic church, arriving just in time for me to step into the service and read Psalm 23.

It was a beautiful, honoring gathering—but it was what followed that stayed with me most.

At the gravesite, the pallbearers had dug the grave that very morning, using only shovels and their hands. After we said our goodbyes and the body was lowered, they began to fill the grave themselves. No machinery. No distance. Just presence, labor, and love.

There was something profoundly human about it. Something right.

By that evening, returning the car to my friend, heading once again to the airport. I was back on a plane. It was a short trip, but it felt full—intentional, grounding, life-giving. I was deeply grateful to have been there.

I landed in Charleston, where Balin was waiting. Together, we stepped into the ease and beauty of the Lowcountry—stories I’ll save for the next chapter.