WHY? WHY? WHY?
I have a clue, but is it valid?
During COVID, Melanie and I built a beautiful house on a hill with acreage overlooking a wide part of Lake Eufaula. About three miles south of our house is the Walter F. George Lock and Dam, which created what is more commonly called Lake Eufaula.
Since the house was built during COVID, Melanie and I did a large portion of the work ourselves. Since I have a huge respect for electricity—translation: I’m scared shitless of it—I hired licensed electricians to do that work. I also figured I’d rather not burn the new house down.
Gypsy’s Retreat was born.
The story of why we built it starts in a very different place.
In March of 2020, we were riding south through Portugal, headed toward Africa. Melanie had just had eye surgery and was flying into Porto, Portugal. We were going to meet there and continue south.
Then the world got turned upside down.
Borders closed. Campgrounds closed. Everything closed. We found two new best friends, Ricardo and Sandra, who graciously agreed to keep our motorcycle for us while we returned to the United States.
All we had was a small camper, and almost every campground we found was closed. Everyone was scared of this new virus. We eventually caught COVID ourselves and decided we needed a base.
But where?
I figured that if nobody knew what was coming, we needed some parameters.
We needed to be remote.
We needed to be able to take care of ourselves.
Our kids lived about 600 miles apart, so I figured we should be somewhere roughly halfway between them. That would make it easier for them to visit us.
Then came the checklist.
Fresh water. A lake with filtration.
Meat and vegetables.
A way to collect water for irrigation.
Solar power.
An energy-efficient house.
We clicked all the boxes, found the property and started building.
And then COVID went away.
And we had a house.
A really beautiful house.
And almost no bills compared with what it costs to live most places. Insurance, electricity, water and fuel. That’s about it.
The problem with living here is that you collect toys.
A car.
A truck.
Three motorcycles.
A camper.
A boat.
Another motorcycle stays in Europe.
And a small van camper stays in Chile.
Apparently, when you give two people who like to travel a bunch of space and very few expenses, they find ways to fill the space.
Then there is the bigger problem.
We still want to travel.
Which means leaving the house empty. Or finding a friend to stay here while we are gone.
And when we are home, almost nobody comes around.
Not even our kids.
I understand it. I was a working parent once, too. When you finally get some time off, visiting your parents probably isn’t at the top of the list.
Besides, we aren’t from here.
We don’t have a circle of friends here.
Maybe that’s part of the problem.
Maybe another part is that we have traveled so much and seen so much that it has changed us. I have a hard time listening to some of the bullshit that goes from people’s minds to their lips around here. The lack of a filter. The racism, bigotry and hatred that somehow gets forgiven by a Sunday visit to church.
It’s rampant in parts of the rural South.
So what do we do?
I only really enjoy being here during certain times of the year. It feels more like a vacation home than a permanent home.
December through March can be cold.
April through June is damn near perfect.
July through September is hot, humid, hurricane season and love-bug season.
October and November are beautiful.
And the irony is that the months when this place is at its best are also some of the best months for riding and camping in the mountains.
So we’re torn.
Do we stay and enjoy the house? It’s the only place I have never minded returning to.
Or leave it behind and go enjoy the world?
During the months we don’t particularly want to be here, we want to be gone somewhere anyway.
So, for now, we hold on.
Thirty miles to a grocery store and gym.
Fifty miles to the nearest small city.
Doctors, hospitals, shopping, movie theaters—all a long way away.
And I’ve started thinking about something I never really wanted to think about.
If something seriously bad happened to one of us out here, getting help would be a problem.
It’s happened before.
We love this place on the lake.
That’s the confusing part.
We really do.
But how long do we hold on?
And where do we go?
Everything in the United States feels uncertain right now. Hatred seems to be at an all-time high. Prices keep climbing. And I probably couldn’t afford to live in the places where I might actually want to live, even if I knew where that was.
I don’t want neighbors right there.
I’ve done that.
I didn’t like it.
Melanie needs people around her. That’s something this place doesn’t provide.
And then there is the thought that bothers me the most.
If something happened to me, I don’t want Melanie left with all this stuff.
A house in the middle of nowhere.
A bunch of toys.
A property that needs maintaining.
And not much support nearby.
I’d rather leave her with a van and a motorcycle.
I’d rather have the two of us with just enough stuff to keep moving.
Seeing everything.
Meeting people.
Riding roads we’ve never ridden.
Waking up somewhere different.
Enjoying every day.
Maybe that’s the clue.
Maybe Gypsy’s Retreat was exactly what we needed when we built it.
Maybe it saved us during a time when the world had stopped.
Maybe it gave us a place to come home to.
But maybe it was never supposed to be the place where we stayed.
Because every time we return home, the drum gets louder.
And louder.
And louder.
The question isn’t whether we want to travel.
That’s never really been the question.
The question is:
When do you pull the plug and just… GO?
Here’s to freedom.
Cheers,
WANDRR
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