Visiting the Burros
We rolled straight through Kofa National Wildlife Refuge without even lifting our foot off the gas. We’ve been through there a few times now, and while it’s still beautiful, this was one of those keep-moving days. Quartzsite was next. We’ve been here before too. In fact, everyone has been here before. Quartzsite is the Mecca of full-timers — where dreams go to idle, solar panels breed in the wild, and every conversation starts with, “So what kind of rig do you have?” We stayed just long enough for fuel, water, and ammo — the holy trinity — and escaped before someone tried to sell us a gently used folding chair or explain their Starlink mounting philosophy. Lake Havasu got the same treatment. Been there, done that, moving along before we accidentally buy jet skis or adopt a motor-boat.
Once we hit Interstate 40, we headed west just long enough to peel off at the Oatman Highway exit—happily ditching California asphalt in favor of Nevada desert roads. The pavement climbed gently into the hills, rolling and winding through classic desert mountain scenery, the kind that feels empty in all the right ways. After poking down a handful of dirt roads on public land, we finally found a level patch with a wide-open view of the desert stretching out forever. Marcel parked himself, and we settled in for another calm night under the western sky. Just an overnight this time—still too many miles ahead and not enough days left in this year’s wandering.
We broke camp early the next morning for a short drive into the tiny tourist town of Oatman. Why Oatman? Simple: burros. Oatman itself was exactly what you’d expect — an Old West tourist town where every shop sells the same imported trinkets, all proudly pretending they were handcrafted during the Gold Rush. The burros, however, were legit. They roam the streets like tiny, dusty landlords, aggressively negotiating snacks from tourists who absolutely should not be feeding them. You can walk right up and pet them, which we did, because if you’re going to stop at a tourist trap, you might as well pet the locals.
Back on the road, we headed north along the Nevada-California border. Just past Searchlight, Nevada, we took a hard left and the pavement left us behind once more. The gravel road carried us back across the border into Castle Mountain National Monument, tucked inside the greater Mojave National Preserve.
Castle Mountain is relatively new on the monument map, and neither of us had ever been there, so hopes were cautiously optimistic. The landscape was wide open desert—beautiful in that stark, honest way—but campsite options were few and far between. Before we knew it, we’d driven straight through the entire monument without finding a place that felt right for a few nights. No big deal. Out here, there are hundreds of miles of dirt roads still waiting. One of them always delivers.
