Sweet Home Alabama

Pre-dawn awaking to an Arctic blast on this blurry eyed departure morn. How cold is it? So very frigid Paul wielded his equally frigid crowbar to coerce the RV jacks to release. First hurdle cleared full steam ahead Captain. A solid glazed sheet creates a personal ice rink in our Court, Old Red groans as the camper shoves us down the driveway across the frozen arena swerving boldly out of our sleepy berg. A jealous neighbor waves a teary goodbye reminded of the warm breezy sunshine she will not experience, hmm maybe that wasn't exactly a wave. Streaks of blue hover atop frosted alabaster beams spanning the Mighty Mississippi, adios frozen muchachos.

Snow, ice, sleet, rain pounds most of the country except for our uncharacteristically hazard-free route, outrunning almost a foot of snow in St. Louis, rain misting the roads into Memphis, funky soul blues warming old crabby bones, arriving at dazzling pristine beaches bordering the Gulf of Mexico. Not particularly a “weather” person, no crops at stake, no layered Carhartt’s to keep me toasty warm at work but I do keep my eyes to the sky as navigator of our rolling entourage, forecasting and praying, either is backup for whatever doesn't work first. I could be in one of those “turning into your parents” commercials, "Gonna be a real doozy" or "Look at this photo collage I captured of that storm yesterday". Now a dozen weather and radar apps later, tracking Mother Nature, check her mood for the day, if she's cranky or bored disaster is just about guaranteed. Today we are magnets of sunshine, clear skies, happy campers, a bonafide miracle. Thanks Mother.  

Heading home through Colorado last year we rolled Old Red's odometer over 200,000, that's a lot of zeros and as many stories too scary to tell. Paul's truck has seen more of this country than the Flying Wallendas, and broken down in almost as many, persistent road warriors. Elevation is something Midwesterners don't necessarily fear when driving across the state of Iowa, tall corn is not much of a threat and the only issue with giant windmills is when the blades are travelling down the interstate at 75MPH, warily maneuvering off ramps. Obviously we didn't consider elevation through mountainous Colorado when our route steered us directly into an enormous snow tunnel, heavy white stuff feet taller than our humble wheeled abode. You know you took a wrong turn when a cross country skier passes you on the left. Colorado’s treacherous Wolf Creek Pass over San Juan mountains, elevation about 19,000 mercury drops from 54 to 30 and holding, made famous in 1975 by C. W. McCall’s wild over the road Smokey bustin’ melody belting out the lyrics "37 miles o' hell – which is up on the Great Divide." We didn't recognize that classic trucking tune playing on the radio until the old Dodge blasted through that wicked snaky tunnel and made it out alive on the other side. Thanks for the assist C.W. 

Alabama is our home sweet home for a while, Royal Red shrimp, sweet tea, toes sunk deep into a gorgeous seashore to pass our lazy days. Don't expect blizzards to find us but we will be ready to run if Mother Nature meets C.W. McCall here in the Gulf of Mexico.