Bringing Her Home

After almost two months of waiting, we finally picked up our Bourbon and Backroads in Rice, Texas.

She felt smaller than I remembered. Lighter, somehow. But when we hitched her up for the first time, she felt enormous in the rearview mirror.

We spent our first night in Coleman, Texas — not far from where we picked her up. It wasn’t about scenery. It was about making sure everything worked. We unpacked bins, tested lights, learned where things fit, and tried to find storage space for all the “must-haves” we had convinced ourselves we needed.

The next morning, I slid into the driver’s seat. Terlingua was waiting.

I was nervous — more than I wanted to admit. The wind picked up. Rain started to fall. Every gust felt like a test. Every passing semi felt like a decision point. But I was determined not to back out.

It was time to put on the big girl panties, put on a smile, and drive.

The First Drive West

About thirty minutes in, something shifted.

The rain began to let up, the wind softened, and I felt myself settling into the rhythm of it. Pulling something bigger than our teardrop felt different — heavier, more present — but not overwhelming. I kept checking the rearview mirror, almost instinctively, making sure she was still there, still steady, still tracking straight behind us.

After a while, it stopped feeling like something we were towing. It started feeling like something we were traveling with.

That’s when I knew this was a good thing.

We weren’t just upgrading campers. We were stepping into a new chapter of how we wanted to travel.

Rolling Into Terlingua

I didn’t quite know what to expect as we drove into Terlingua.

In my mind, I had pictured something artsy-fartsy — curated, colorful, maybe a little precious. And in a way, it is artistic. But it isn’t curated. It isn’t structured. It certainly isn’t polished.

Buildings and homes sit wherever there’s an open stretch of desert. Nothing feels planned. Nothing feels uniform. It’s as if the land decides first, and everything else simply settles in around it.

It’s raw. And that felt right for a first trip.

The First Night

We chose a small private campground just outside of town — far enough from the busier parks and the handful of storefronts that make up Terlingua, but close enough to feel part of it.

It wasn’t glamorous or refined by any stretch of the imagination. But it was exactly what we needed.

We were still learning her systems — flipping switches, checking tanks, figuring out what went where. That first stop wasn’t about adventure. It was about confidence. About making sure everything worked before heading further into the desert.

And then we celebrated.

Steak and lobster — because if you’re going to mark the beginning of something new, you might as well do it properly.

As night settled in, the desert grew still.

The wind that had tested us earlier disappeared. The sky darkened in layers, and one by one, the stars began to show themselves. No city glow. No traffic noise. Just quiet.

And in that quiet, we understood the draw.

Not just of Terlingua – Not just of the Casita.

But of this slower way of moving through the world.

That first trip didn’t just introduce us to our Casita. It reminded us why we travel the way we do — slowly, intentionally, and willing to learn as we go. What began with a nervous grip on the steering wheel that ended beneath a desert sky, we were certain this next chapter was exactly where we were meant to be.

And when we’re not living in the motorhome, the Casita gives us something different — the freedom to reach places the motorhome simply can’t. Smaller roads. Tighter turns. Quieter corners of the map.

It isn’t a replacement. It’s an expansion.

And that first night in the desert made that beautifully clear.