6 Days to Go: Red Dirt Rainstorms, Blackstone Pizza, and Sleeping Through the Night

We pulled it off. By 1:00 PM yesterday, just an hour behind our most optimistic target after the morning doorstep surprise in Denver, the truck was hitched, the trailer was secure, and we were rolling south.

Living in and out of a camper is a dizzying amount of physical labor. It means hauling bins in and out of the house, trotting up and down the stairs, packing, securing, unlatching, and repacking. My spine complains bitterly about every step, but my brain craves the constant motion. It suits my spirit. And watching our tiny rolling home slowly coalesce over the past year has been deeply satisfying. Thanks to Matt’s birthday, the cabin feels more like a sanctuary than ever. The faux trailing vine plant brings a soft wash of green inside; our light blue, white, and gray quilt dresses our remarkably comfortable bed; and a patterned throw rug warms up the floor. Matt handles the exterior wizardry; solar inputs, generator cables, inverter batteries, and his dialed-in Blackstone griddle setup. I tune out the wattage talk, but I reap all the rewards.

We pointed the rig down I-25 with cold drinks in the cup holders, road-trip snacks within reach, and a new Michael Connelly audiobook queued up. Once we realized highway concentration was fighting the narrative, we swapped the detective mystery for an easy playlist and good conversation.

We cut west past Cheyenne Mountain, leaving the interstate concrete behind for the winding approach toward Cañon City. To many Coloradans, Cañon City carries the gray institutional stigma of the federal penitentiary, but geographically it sits on the doorstep of rugged, breathtaking wilderness.

The two-lane road curved away from town and narrowed into the Shelf Road canyon corridor. The highway asphalt gave way to high-desert drama: towering limestone and reddish-sandstone cliff bands flanking the road, dotted with dark green pinyon pines, twisted junipers, and vibrant swaths of red dirt. Every bend carved deeper into the canyon, with limestone amphitheaters rising up against an enormous sky.

We pulled into Sand Gulch, a primitive BLM campground tucked against the rock with just sixteen individual sites. We had picked Site 2. Backing the RV into it was tricky business, but we had chosen it specifically for the framed panoramic view right out the back kitchen window.

Right as we leveled the rig around 5:30 PM, Jerry, the camp host, another conversationalist, like so many campground hosts we have met before him – drove over in his a.t.v. to welcome us. He brought immediate news: a massive storm cell was bearing down directly over the ridge.

We raced against the clock, locking everything down, rolling the awning shut, and tossing the outdoor gear under the rig, just as the sky split open.

A torrential late-summer downpour hammered the roof. We retreated into our snug, tiny home: Matt stretched out on the bed, I settled into my chair, and Rindo curled into a contented ball on the rug. The deluge drumming against the roof, the soft light glowing across the floor and windows, and the mineral-rich smell of drenched red earth drifting through the cracked windows was pure heaven. Our tiny family was sheltered, warm, and entirely safe.

When the storm softened to an easy drizzle, Matt fired up the Blackstone outside. I tossed together a crisp dinner salad while he made a hot Blackstone pizza. We ate, exhaled, and called it a night early.

Then, an unexpected miracle: I slept straight through until 6:00 AM.

This morning, my spine still flared with its customary morning ache, but underneath the pain was a genuine, rested lightness.

Today is cool, overcast, and lazy. More rain is rolling through the canyon, keeping the red rock slick and the air clean. The sun will break back out for the weekend. Until then, there is no master plan. We will stroll with Rindo, stay cozy, and maybe film a long-overdue RV tour or a quick day-6 surgery update for our online community.

No push, no rush, no agenda. Just the canyon walls, the sound of the rain, and six precious days left to breathe.