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It’s a familiar feeling. When I haven’t been on the road in a while, I start to get antsy.

Thus, not having been out of Georgia since June, and facing a two-week period when nothing of consequence was on my schedule, I decided an RV trip to Arizona was in order.

I made no advance arrangements, which was a rarity. I simply would drive to Grand Canyon and back, camping along the way. The details would take care of themselves.

I headed west via I-40 (the northern route below) and returned home across southern New Mexico and central Texas on non-interstate highways. In Shreveport, I picked up I-20 back to Georgia. About 3,600 miles, round trip.

Other than the unpleasantness of the Interstate driving, it was a terrific trip. All good, all enjoyable. Free of trouble and disappointments.

A few times, campgrounds weren’t convenient, so I got a motel room. Not exactly a calamity. I also had genuine good luck a few times, as I will explain.

I’m home now, and the adventure is over. My co-pilot Jake was worn out from adventures of his own at the kennel, the nature of which will remain a mystery.

Here are some recollections and observations from the trip.

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Jasper, Alabama

By the time I crossed into Alabama on Day 1, a light rain was falling, and it was obvious that my windshield wipers needed replacing. To deal with that, I stopped at the Walmart in Jasper, just west of Birmingham.

The lady at the automotive counter wrote up a work order. I handed her my keys and went into the waiting room, hoping they would be quick. They were. I was back on the road in 30 minutes.

Two people were in the waiting room: an African-American woman and her daughter of about four. The girl was a tiny thing. The soles of her shoes were 12 inches above the floor. I sat down, nodded to the mom, and smiled at the little girl.

The little girl waved. “Hello, old man,” she said cheerily.

“Alicia!” the mother barked, “That is rude! You shouldn’t call this gentleman an old man!”

Alicia’s chin dropped to her chest. She made a sour face and began to cry.

“You’re wrong, Mama!” she said amid the blubbering, “I was not being rude! He IS an old man! I was just saying hello to be friendly!”

The mom was working on a reply when the little girl turned to me, blinking back the tears. “What’s your name, old man?” she asked.

“My name is Rocky. And you’re right, I’m pretty old.”

“See, Mama! See!”

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Forrest City, Arkansas

At the end of the day, I camped at a state park in eastern Arkansas. I took the above photo of the waning twilight as I sat at the picnic table, having a toddy and watching the bats fly around.

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Acoma, New Mexico

The people of Acoma Pueblo are an admirable and interesting bunch. Much of their pottery, jewelry, and other art is tasteful and elegant. Sky City, their historic home atop a remote mesa, is a fascinating place to visit.

And, like many tribes these days, they are savvy and enterprising. To take advantage of — make that cater to — the tourists traveling on I-40, they operate a major complex at Exit 102 consisting of a travel plaza, restaurants, a campground, a snazzy hotel, and a modern casino.

At the end of Day 3, I stopped for the night at the Acoma campground. After hooking up the RV and having dinner at the hotel, I decided to do a bit of gambling at the casino.

When I gamble, which is a rare thing, I stick to the slot machines because they require so little skill. And I have a system of sorts that has served me pretty well over the years: (1) I play the dollar slots, (2) I always bet the maximum for the machine, usually three dollars per spin, and (3) when I’ve lost $100, I walk away.

With slot machines, the payoff is puny when you bet the minimum, but much higher when you bet the maximum. To make a lucky spin count, you bet the maximum. Simple and logical.

I chose a machine, sat down, and, in the course of 15 minutes, played my way through two $20 bills. I won a little and lost a little until the machine bested me.

On the third $20 bill, I won $75, which I cashed out in the form of a voucher.

I continued playing, still betting the maximum. On my last $20, I got lucky again and won $200, which I also cashed out as a voucher.

A few minutes later, my original $100 was gone. I got up, took the $75 and $200 vouchers to the cashier, and departed the casino $175 richer than when I entered.

The campground cost $15, and dinner was $20, so, technically, my take was $140.

I’m sure my modest good fortune didn’t ding the tribe’s profits that day too badly.

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Gallup, New Mexico

When visiting the Southwest, I’m on the lookout for pottery, rugs, baskets, kachinas, and other treasures for my collection of Native American arts and crafts. I don’t need more stuff, but I like it, and I rarely go home without something new.

A great place to find such items is Gallup, which probably has 40 or 50 retail stores and trading posts that sell the work of regional craftsmen — Zuni, Navajo, Hopi, the pueblo tribes, and others.

When I arrived in Gallup on Day 4, I was open to anything appealing and priced right, but I was especially interested in silver rings. Namely, this inlaid, continuous-band style:

The design is Zuni. Hopi and Navajo rings tend to be silver without inlays.

Prices range from $10 to $300, depending on the quality of the work and the artist. $50 is about my limit, but good deals are everywhere.

By the end of the morning, I had purchased these three rings for about $30 each:

When you’re out west, it’s important to take advantage of the authentic Mexican cuisine. For lunch, I went to El Sombrero, a favorite place of mine in Gallup.

El Sombrero serves an excellent chili con carne made with red and green chiles from Hatch, the legendary chile town in the southern Rio Grand Valley.

This is the good stuff, people. The genuine taste of New Mexico.

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Zuni Pueblo, New Mexico

After lunch, I left Gallup and drove south to Zuni, which is probably the least pueblo-like of the New Mexican pueblos. No offense, but Zuni is drab and unremarkable. It is, in reality, just a small, dusty town.

Signage isn’t their thing, either. Small retail shops are plentiful, but you have to look hard to find them.

In one such hole-in-the wall establishment, I made a great deal on this handsome Zuni pot, which, FYI, is 4″ tall and 3″ in diameter.

Nothing else in my collection features a butterfly, so I’m pleased.

From Zuni, I drove west into Arizona, turned north, and by suppertime was in Flagstaff, one of my favorite towns anywhere.

In my next posts, Flagstaff and beyond.