On the Road in the Pandemic
By: Nancy Peckenham
Tags: Illumination, Socialdistancing, Travel, Covid 19

Our goal is to avoid coming in contact with people and the virus.

The midday sun struggling to be seen through the fog. Photo by the author.

We made the decision back in July to spend the winter traveling in our van. At the time, we were prowling for direction that would get us back on course after the shock of losing a close family member. We had to find a new home in a hurry and picked one that, while beautiful, didn’t have the central heating required to get us through a winter in northern Maine. Besides, we had long ago pledged not to live where it’s cold.

“No problem,” my husband and I told each other. “We’ll take the Sprinter van and head to the southwest.”

We had spent four years living on the road and knew how to live without interacting with a lot of people. We always ferreted out remote desert spots where the wildflowers bloomed or perched off twisting mountain tracks that rewarded our effort with spectacular views.

Although we had self-isolated since March, I felt encouraged when the coronavirus pandemic dropped from its peak in the spring. I knew to expect a second wave of infections, but no one could not predict just how hard it would later rage.

“You’re lucky,” friends said when we packed up the Sprinter in mid-November just after the first snowfall. They were looking at a winter of isolation and imagined that we would be free and fanciful on the road. We’re not.

After an admittedly pleasant stay in a rental house at a beach on the Outer Banks, we moved back into our home-on-wheels and headed southwest. Meanwhile, the pandemic grew.

No longer studying highway maps, we study Covid maps to find places where the infection rate was low. We pick our route and identify grocery stories that offer curbside pickup. We shop once a week and practice social distancing but life sometimes throws a curve.

Charles fixed our busted tires but we worried if he could give us Covid, too. Photo by the author.

Early in our road trip our van developed two flat tires on an Interstate exit ramp in South Carolina. After waiting for an hour — with exasperated drivers beeping endlessly and flipping us the bird — we were excited when the tow truck finally appeared. So excited that we later worried that we had broken our social distancing protocols. Neither the tow operator or later, the tire repairman, wore a mask.

We entered Georgia figuring that we had dodged a bullet and drove through the state fast. New Orleans reported a relatively low Covid rate so we booked a night in an RV park on Lake Pontchartrain and the next day drove into town.

The live music from The Spotted Cat Music Club used to spill out onto Frenchmen Street all day long. Photo by the author.

We’ve spent a lot of time in Nola in the past but the boarded-up music clubs and near-empty streets in the French Quarter destroyed any prospect of joy. I did see one group of men, laughing and carrying six-packs of beer, pass before me and I froze, not wanting to get anywhere near carousers who, it goes without saying, were not wearing masks.

On the Mississippi River, Natchez was nearly deserted and even the Christmas decorations looked sad.

Photo by the author.

East Texas towns reported relatively low rates of Covid and we drove west on secondary roads. Where we once might have stopped in to visit a local museum, taste some local food and chat, we crossed the street if we saw anyone approaching and skittered back to our van.

We canceled our plans to go to Big Bend National Park on the US-Mexico border because of the high covid rates, pushing west instead. We knew it was the right decision but still shivered when we read just how dire the pandemic in that area was.

The New York Times, December 8, 2020

We kept on, pulling off the road at night to cook dinner and sleep. We were able to find incredibly isolated spots to park where we didn’t see a soul.

Photo by the author.

A week in, we had established a routine.

We stop to pump diesel, my husband wearing his mask, gloves and eye protectors even when we were alone in the gas station. I stay inside, thankful that our van has its own toilet and shower.

Ten days into the trip we arrived at a temporary destination, an Airbnb in southeast Arizona with wifi that my husband needed for an important business meeting. The rental is located half-way up a canyon where the Native American leader Cochise established his redoubt while defending his land against invaders.

Ready for anything. Photo by the author

But before we drove up the long dirt road, we needed to get some fresh supplies. Armed with a shopping list, I put on an N95 mask and on top of that I put a plastic shield. I felt awkward, isolated behind my protective armor, the world no longer welcoming, now a threatening place.

What we’ve found is that moving around makes us anxious, even when we maintain our distance from everyone. We’re no different from tens of millions of Americans who feel trapped by the pressure to withdraw from most every routine. We know we are going to get beyond this and mix freely once again. But right now we want to find a house or an isolated spot in the desert where we can wait out the winter in the middle of the cacti and grasses before making our way back north.