By MT Cozzola

We spent the day in Santa Fe meeting dogs and dog people everywhere. Nola was welcome in most stores, including one where we met the wife of a man we’d met earlier at the dog park. This felt like a place where we could conceivably live, until I remembered the tarantulas.

Driving east out of town, our windshield was beset by a few and then a horde of large moths thwacking to their deaths. Their corpses were large, yellow splotches all over the windshield. It was like driving through moth rain.

We pulled into Santa Fe Trail RV Park at seven, exactly when the lady on the phone had said they closed. Jumped out without my coat and ran up to try the office door. It was locked but there was a sign telling us where to park. It looked like something my mom would write if she were alive and ran an RV park.

I took a picture but before I could run back to the rig to decipher it with Dave, the door opened and Mildred came out. “I’m so glad you actually came,” she said. “I saved you a spot. I'll show you.”

She walked me slowly, in a stiff gait, along a tightly but tidily packed row of RVs. “It's just up there,” she pointed, puffing a little. I couldn't imagine what she meant because every spot was full. Then she stopped abruptly. “Here?” I asked, staring at a narrow gap between two trees that could maybe fit a Kia Soul.

“Yep,” she panted.

Dave was out of the rig by now and had caught up with us. “This is it?”

“Yep, and I'll show you how to get in.”

He’d already scoped out the signs nailed to various trees and said, “I just take the loop around, right?”

“Yes, but you don't have to do the big loop, you can just do the smaller loop. I’m going to show you.” She started walking back and I wondered what we would do if she had a heart attack. The only other business off this exit was a prison. Would they have a medical clinic we could call? Why hadn’t I taken CPR? “I think I can get in there,” Dave murmured, staring at those two trees.

“Now I’m going to show you,” called Mildred, and we hurried to catch up with her. But as she pointed to the preferred loop, I noticed a much larger space on the end. “Is that available?”

“That’s a back-in site,” she warned.

“No problem,” Dave said, pulling out his wallet.

Mildred gave a little smile, her furrows deepening. “Oh I’ll take your money, but let’s get you checked in first,” she said, apparently not minding the fact that she couldn’t breathe.

I followed Mildred back to the porch while Dave returned to the rig and drove to our new site. She had me wait at a little table out there while she went into her warm living room. The table was covered with a plastic flowered cloth. Mildred returned with a receipt book and started filling it out. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“Chicago.”

She may have been one of the many people on this trip who follow that up with, “Right in the city?” “Yep.” They always look sobered, maybe impressed but more likely perplexed as to why we would smile about it. “How about you,” I said shivering. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, me?” She suddenly laughed, giving me a merry glimpse of who she might be when she’s not single-handedly running an RV park that shares an exit with a medium-security prison. “I'm just from Albuquerque. I didn't go far. How do you spell Chicago?”

“C-H-I-C-A-G-O.” I almost added that I always have to check how to spell Albuquerque, but she didn’t seem apologetic, so I didn't.

She tore off my little rectangular receipt and told me to have a nice night. “I hope you get the rest of the evening off,” I said.

“Oh, I hope so,” she sighed, “but sometimes people come late, and they can’t find the spots on their own.” She went in and I imagined her half-listening for tires on the gravel while she slept or knitted or watched TV, her normal routine in a life where she’s never really off-duty. She had a kind way about her, and I hope she has a happy life.

When I got to the site, Dave had already leveled the RV by himself—only one wheel! I fed Nola and then we walked her around the small loop and then the big loop. Outside one rig, a couple was sitting down to a proper dinner, with multiple plates and a battery lantern on the table between them. They said hi and we said hi, and Nola tried to join them for dinner. It was nice to see some RVers who didn’t seem to be white, especially after we talked yesterday about how homogenous it feels. I don’t want the RV community to be all retired Trump supporters plus two Canadians, but that’s my secret fear.

We were too hungry to cook out, so we had egg salad sandwiches and then ice cream sandwiches. Dave practiced violin and I looked on RV Parky for possible stops tomorrow. I learned that the world’s largest hand-dug well was four-and-half hours away.

While I washed dishes, Dave read from the Thrifty Nickel. Stolen welder. RVs for sale. Frogs, limit of twenty.

Gas: 39.9 gallons. Miles: 252.8. MPG: 8.18 Next stop: Dodge City, Kansas.