The only reason I can now opine on my struggles is because they’re behind me. It’s difficult to be inspired and creative in survival mode, hoarding every fleeting thread of sanity, only to be used to untangle four dog leashes in one hand as I hold their caca-doodle bags in the other. This isn’t hyperbole for the ha-ha’s. This was my life for five weeks.
By the way, I judge those of you who camp. On purpose. And pay money. Willingly. I do not understand packing way too much shit into what is basically a trashcan with wheels, driving to someplace that was once remote until —what was likely a dude — concocted a money scheme for city folk to park right on top of each other so you can have a wee fire at night, surrounded by people who are closer than in the city. Not to be confused with boon-docking. That I understand. But campsites? What the actual fuck?
I camped with four cats and four dogs for five weeks. I was crawling out of my skin. To be fair, most camping enthusiasts didn’t have the barnyard menagerie I did. To be fair to me, this wasn’t my plan either. I’d ordered a dog kennel and cat kennel for my Plan A where I was to stay on land with horses. Where I would interact on the daily with age-appropriate horse girls with approximately my level of insanity. The kennels were so my critters could be safely housed while I did whatever I needed to do without them breathing on top of me. As already documented, this plan disintegrated like single-ply toilet paper confronted with a bout of violent diarrhea.
The kennels remained at Home Depot until Home Depot would store them no more. Not patiently. Many calls, texts and emails where sent asking when I was coming to gather my crap.
At the time of parking at campsite numero uno, I thought my camping time would be limited. Oh Courtney.
I thought because the land I had in mind had owner financing listed on its terms that would mean I could owner finance with haste and I’d be ensconced on my new California land faster than you could say “Gavin Newscum.”
No.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once parked at the new campsite, mom, four dogs (cats were still in my Airstream) and myself headed to a parcel that lived rent free in my head. I’d only walked the front of it a few weeks prior during a special trip to California to vibe check with the gal I intended to stay with. Money down the drain.
Moving on.
Mom wanted to see this land and I wanted to see the rest of it. The realtor was also the owner. I gathered he was older. I’d texted with the seller weeks prior about wanting to walk his whole parcel. He seemed decidedly uninterested in putting any actual effort into selling the land. This I also gleaned from the lackluster photos he had on the listing. Instead of him heading out there to meet me, he told me about an app called Regrid which displays boundary lines as the parcel is traversed.
Incidentally, a note to realtors: you all suck at selling land. You are truly, truly bad at this. Drones. Property lines. Multiple angles. Views of and from the land. You need to include at least some of that, Jesus Christ.
Anyway, the seller hadn’t even originally bothered to put a FOR SALE sign on the property. This is basics, but I am so grateful he didn’t even try for the bare minimum. My dude didn’t know what he had.
When mom and I got there, we parked at the bottom of the hill. I’ll remind midwesterners you can’t comprehend hills. You don’t have them, it’s not your fault.
The front of my property has hills. Grades. Steep enough to cause the huffage and puffage. This isn’t even an identifiable part of my property it just means it’s in a part of California that is not the Central Valley. So I can say it without fear some whack-a-doodle-doo will find me.
We got about half way up the hill when Daisy, my Texas ranch girl dog, leapt out of the car and tried coming with us. So we had to skuttle back down to contain her before she saw a hare and ran for it.
Rather than deal with dogs leaping out of my car, we drove to the backside of the land, left the car running for the AC (yes, it’s warm in SoCal even in December), to walk the north side of the land.
It did not disappoint.
In 2021 I looked at exactly one place in Texas. I bought my ranch there for the land. My land in Texas was spectacular. It was spectacular land wherever you put it. I knew then that I wouldn’t find anything like that anywhere else (this was a key strategy of mine when I sold it, by the way, more on that later). I fell in love with it instantly. The house… meh. The land? Big love.
My land search in California was much different. I’d made several trips looking for a place to move with my horses. If you want flat land in California, you either have to pay enormous sums or move to the Central Valley. I went to school in the Central Valley. I don’t need to live there again. It’s hot, flat, foggy, the cities are lackluster.
I looked at many different areas. I saw a few different parcels. I spent days driving around seeing if I liked areas or hated them. Often I would drive to a parcel and never get out of my car, seeing that the real reason it was still for sale was a shit location, bad neighbors, too steep, too rocky, too far, too windy, too dry, or too expensive. In many cases, too hard to actually get to. Steep rutted out dirt roads not even one car width.
No way.
One of my favorite parcels was located in an area I was pretty confident housed meth cooks and those who imbibed. The land was wonderful, it already had a well, some nice little pads for my Airstream, but for sure Walt and Jesse were out there making the baby blue.
Some photos of the land I rejected:
Not pictured were all the dwellings nearby that could explode because someone shook a beaker.
So when I got to the backside of what is now my land, not only was I relieved to find it, I fell in love. The kind of love I felt for my Texas ranch. The “Oh!” kind of love.
It had a panoramic view, was mostly dirt and decomposed granite (not boulders or rocks that ran so deep into the ground they’d need to be dynamited out), rolling hills, some steeper than others, and a nice little flat area in the back for the horses and me.
This was it, I knew it was it. The land had been waiting for me to find it.
The next step, buying it, would turn out to be the next unforeseen hurdle as I fought for my dream life to become a reality.
Outside of my personal writing, I consult through Thornback Creative, helping brands sharpen their language and direction. I take on this work selectively, so my creative practice remains my top priority.