Chronicles of the Northbound Circus: Gas, Crocs, and Cautious Driving

Good morning, Chroniclers! How’s the caffeine situation? Cup full? Half full? Emotionally dependent? Excellent—let’s proceed.

It’s my favorite time of year, which means the HB and I have once again pointed ourselves north and declared, with great confidence, “Let’s go see a couple hundred of our closest friends.” By “closest,” of course, I mean the kind of friends where you recognize faces, forget names, and spend the first hour pretending you absolutely remember where you met them last.

We’re headed to the Western Regional Rally in Coos Bay, Oregon—six states’ worth of campers, stories, snacks, and highly competitive camp chair arrangements all coming together. And because every good road trip needs a cast of characters, we are traveling with the Professor and Yoko Uno. Now, this started as a delightful surprise for the HB—she knew Yoko was coming—but when she discovered the Professor would also be joining us, there was a brief moment where the entire trip nearly got vetoed. Cooler heads prevailed, largely due to Yoko suggesting they both lean into their roles as passenger princesses. That idea stuck immediately, and I can confirm they have committed to it with admirable dedication.

Meanwhile, Yoko prepared for this trip like the professional she is, getting her nails and toes done in advance. Aaron noticed and offered a compliment, remarking on how nice they looked, which was very sweet—except for the minor detail that he thought this was the result of her upcoming appointment later that day. What he had actually complimented was her previous trip to the nail salon. The look she gave him was something remarkable, a delicate blend of appreciation, mild disappointment, and a silent acknowledgment that expectations had once again been set too high. Still, she accepted the compliment with grace, because we are all trapped in a moving vehicle together and diplomacy matters.

Our first stop was Frasier Park, where we made the bold financial decision to fuel up. We needed 46 gallons of gas, which at $7.90 a gallon felt less like a purchase and more like signing closing documents on a small mortgage. I half expected the pump to ask for my social security number and offer me financing options. As if that wasn’t enough excitement, we then had to navigate a pothole in the parking lot that wasn’t so much a pothole as it was a developing inland sea. I’m fairly certain it had depth, structure, and possibly its own tide schedule. You didn’t drive around it—you negotiated with it.

Back home, Commander McCroc elected not to join this adventure, a decision he now

regrets deeply. The man is in full FOMO mode, calling Aaron and me no fewer than six times a day. At least one or two of these calls are video chats, during which he proudly presents his latest Crocs acquisitions like a runway model for rubber footwear. Yesterday’s pair lit up—lit up, Chroniclers—like a nightclub for your feet. He has also assigned us the task of reporting any Crocs outlets we encounter and providing updates if anything “interesting” appears. We are now unwilling correspondents on the Croc beat, and this is apparently our life.

Now, as of today, we’ve hit Day 4 of the journey. We should be pulling into Coos Bay, but not before making a stop in Medford, Oregon, which included a necessary and entirely predictable run to Walmart. Due to a minor battery situation and the logistics surrounding it, I was unable to pilot the Shiny Marble, so Aaron took over as chauffeur. Let me just say—there are different driving styles, and Aaron’s is what I would describe as “extremely respectful of every possible traffic scenario, real or imagined.”

We approached every single traffic sign like it was a legal document requiring full review. Stop signs were not just stopped at; they were observed. Yield signs were treated like philosophical questions. Even green lights felt like suggestions that needed further consideration. At one point, I’m fairly certain we slowed for a leaf. My former life instincts—lights, sirens, urgency, hair metaphorically on fire—were doing laps in my brain. I finally had to offer a gentle reminder that not everything in a crosswalk qualifies as a pedestrian. If an insect is making its way across the asphalt, we can, in fact, proceed.

And yet, here we are—still smiling, still rolling, still mildly caffeinated and significantly entertained. With four more days of camping, storytelling, and reconnecting with our wandering tribe ahead of us, things are shaping up exactly as they should: a little chaotic, a little overpriced, and entirely worth it.

That’s all for now, Chroniclers. No doubt there are more hijinx to follow! We’ll report back once we’ve landed in Coos Bay, set up camp, and figured out who brought the snacks worth knowing about.

Until then… Drink ’em if you got ’em.

#coffeehousechronicles