The Caboose, the Copper Tub, and the Hammock That Lived To tell the tale

At around mile 1,430 of walking across America (because, yes, I’m still doing that), I found myself in a place so magical it felt like I’d walked straight into a storybook—or at least a very well-curated Pinterest board.

Railhead Ranch, Texas.

Let’s talk about the caboose. Not metaphorical. Not whimsical storytelling. A real, vintage, painted-red-like-a-dream train caboose, parked peacefully under Texas skies, surrounded by fields, trees, and creatures with more personality than most dating apps.

Inside this fairytale on wheels? A copper bathtub. Not a regular tub. Not a “fill it halfway and don’t move too much or the hot water’s gone” kind of tub. This was deep. Wide. Glossy. It radiated main character energy. The kind of tub that makes you sigh before you even get in. The kind of tub that whispers, “Hey babe, let’s fix your life.”

I soaked in that divine copper masterpiece like I was Cleopatra after a long battle. It was pure, golden-hour bliss. All the road dust, exhaustion, and chaos of the outside world just melted off. My skin said thank you. My soul said hallelujah.

But the real drama? The hammock.

I’ve carried this hammock across multiple states. It’s my mobile nap nest, my mental recharge pod, my emotional support fabric. So you can imagine my reaction when Pac-Man the horse—who thinks he’s a golden retriever—decided my hammock looked like a chew toy and a challenge.  Pac-Man saw it and immediately thought, snack.

We had words. (Well, I had words. He had… chewing.) It started with a sniff. Then a nibble. Then, full-blown attempted hammock abduction.

But I defended my beloved nap sling like a warrior.  I now know two things to be true:

1. Hammocks are stronger than you’d think.

2. So am I.

And I’m proud to say: I still have the hammock. Pac-Man may have the charm of a puppy and the teeth of a medieval weapon, but I won that round. (Barely. There were some frayed edges. Mentally and fabric-wise.)

In the end, I kept my hammock—and some of my dignity.

I also met Franklin the tortoise, who observed me like a wise old man deciding if I was worthy of his backyard. Two goats adopted me like I was their slightly wayward niece. The donkeys and alpacas checked in occasionally, and the cows just cow-ed, because that’s what cows do in Texas.

But the real magic came from the humans. A generous, big-hearted ultra-marathon family who made me feel like I belonged. We were introduced by a mutual friend I once batted bats out of an attic with 21 years ago (because obviously), and somehow their home became a landing pad for my tired feet and open heart.

I didn’t want to leave.

But I did want to be invited back.

So, I keep walking—with copper-tub serenity in my bones, hammock victory in my soul, and the lingering smell of horse breath on my sleeve.