Get back in your house. Do not follow us.
We are the last of a kind. We are hunters/gathers. We are snowbirds chasing the sun, searching the horizon for the mountaintop experience -- and a place to get our prescriptions filled.
Only the toughest survive the semi-annual trek from north to south, from lefse to Tex-Mex. We won’t even discuss lutefisk or mountain oysters.
I know. You have romanticized the open road all your life. But remember that Jack Kerouac and Willie Nelson wrote that stuff while still in their thirties. And if he were alive today, Marlon Brando couldn’t mount a Harley with a footstool.
Forget the images of Errol Flynn and Maureen O’Hara in rut. Clear your mind.
Now, imagine Gabby Hayes in his trusty Conestoga bitching about his sore backside and looking for a Best Western before sundown.
Get ready for the rigors that start with making 42 contacts (via phone, computer, post card, or smoke signal) regarding change of address. Hell, I doubt I still have 42 friends still living.
Besides, the Post Office is going to screw it up for the first six weeks no matter how many Forever Stamps you buy.
Pioneers are always intense.