From Tax Panic to Trout Patties
Chapter 154: Certified Mail & Concrete Walls
We spent the previous night parked at our future home site and woke up to the sound of people talking right outside the van.
This was deeply unsettling for two reasons.
Firstly, we don’t exactly have neighbors. Secondly, it was before 7am, which automatically makes every sound feel threatening.
I peeked out of the window in confusion and saw actual humans walking around the construction site. After my brain slowly booted up for the day, I realized these were construction workers working on our foundation. They probably looked at our van hidden amongst the trees and assumed we were some dodgy people secretly living in the woods. Which, to be fair, was not entirely incorrect.
Still in my pajamas, I climbed out of the van to greet one of them and explain that we would be leaving in a few minutes. The guy smiled politely and managed to tell me, “My boss… coming with big car.”
I attempted to explain that perhaps the “big car” should wait a few minutes so we don’t get trapped inside our own construction site, but unfortunately my request exceeded the limits of our shared vocabulary.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, “the big car” arrived.
It was a pickup truck hauling a giant trailer full of concrete mixing equipment.
I walked over to the driver to ask if they wanted to move slightly so we could escape without driving into a bush-filled ditch. The two men inside stared at me expressionlessly. They also did not speak English. I don’t think they understood we owned the lot. I’m fairly certain they thought we were forest-dwelling van goblins trying to negotiate road access.
Thankfully Nelson somehow maneuvered the Don Don Van through the microscopic gap between the trailer and the ditch without scratching the van or launching us into the wilderness. We drove away both impressed and mildly traumatized.
As if the morning wasn’t stressful enough, the tax deadline was now one day away and we still hadn’t heard back from our accountants despite uploading everything back in February. This year involved federal tax, New York State tax, New York City tax, New Jersey tax, and Arkansas tax. Apparently we had collected states like Pokémon cards.
Every year our accountants operated with the same mysterious strategy of “ignore everything until panic becomes unavoidable.” I kept sending follow-up emails and getting vague reassurance that things were “in progress,” which is corporate language for “please stop emailing us.”
By late afternoon my stress level had risen to a medically interesting level, so I finally emailed the owner of the accounting firm directly. I tried to sound polite but I’m fairly sure the email carried the emotional energy of someone gripping a steering wheel too tightly.
At 11pm, the tax documents finally arrived.
I reviewed the summary pages half asleep, approved the filing, and crawled into bed feeling deeply unsettled.
Then, naturally, a massive storm rolled in.
I woke up sometime after midnight to booming thunder directly above us. The entire van shook every few seconds. I opened Facebook and saw the local meteorologist livestreaming severe weather coverage, which they only do when things are potentially tornado-y.
Nothing says “peaceful vanlife” like lying inside a metal rectangle during tornado season while a man on livestream circles angry blobs on radar maps.
Meanwhile Nelson slept peacefully beside me, snoring through thunder that sounded biblical.
I stayed awake until after 1am watching the livestream and mentally preparing emergency plans that realistically involved absolutely no practical survival skills whatsoever. Eventually the worst of the storm passed and I finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted and jealous of my husband’s ability to remain unconscious during atmospheric collapse.
Chapter 155: The Exclamation Point Broke Me
After barely sleeping thanks to taxes and tornadoes, I woke up determined to properly review the tax documents “just in case.”
This turned out to be an excellent decision because I discovered... to my horror, that our Arkansas tax payment had to be mailed physically via check by the end of the day.
Not paid online.
Not auto-withdrawn like every other government agency these days.
No. I had to physically write a check like someone living in 1997.
I was furious the accountants hadn’t mentioned this tiny but extremely important detail.
In a sleepy rage, I dug out my checkbook and carefully wrote the check while praying I wouldn’t accidentally ruin it. And of course I didn’t have an envelope.
So I rushed to the post office, terrified I’d arrive during their lunch break where they literally lock the doors and disappear into the void for an hour.
Miraculously there was only one person ahead of me, and she wasn’t even there for tax reasons. What a luxury.
I asked for certified mail because after our forwarding mail saga, I now trust the postal system about as much as I trust a pigeon with the check tied to its claw.
The postal worker kindly told me regular mail would already be postmarked with today’s date anyway and I could save a few dollars just posting regular.
Sir. Respectfully. Absolutely not.
I paid extra for certified mail because emotionally I needed a receipt.
Since I was already there, I asked whether there happened to be any mail sitting forgotten in the back room that was supposed to be forwarded to us.
There was.
An Easter card from my dear friend Andrew had apparently been hanging out there for over two weeks. Easter had long passed by then.
I left feeling both relieved and irrationally annoyed at every institution in America.
Eventually I arrived at Blowing Springs, my safe space, where Debbie the campground manager is competent and reliable and therefore basically family at this point.
Ready to finally relax, I attempted to connect to the campground WiFi and was immediately told my password was incorrect.
Impossible. Debbie had texted me the exact same password they always used.
I messaged Debbie and she investigated. An hour later she informed me that apparently someone had changed the password without telling her.
She sent me the new one.
Still didn’t work.
At this point I genuinely felt close to losing my mind. Debbie insisted the password was correct. I trusted Debbie completely. So either my phone was broken or I had become too psychologically damaged to operate WiFi.
Then suddenly I realized the issue.
The exclamation mark at the end of the password was not Debbie being enthusiastic.
It was part of the password.
That tiny misunderstanding somehow felt like the final boss battle of the entire week.
Naturally, after finally connecting to the WiFi, I checked the weather app and discovered we were under ANOTHER tornado watch.
 |
| I am. Over. This. Already. |
At this point I had developed full storm fatigue and simply stared at the notification with the emotional response of a Victorian woman too exhausted to faint.
Chapter 156: Fish Cakes, Feather Wealth & The Quiet Mennonites
It's the weekend! We both slept in a little before heading to CCC Lodge for this month’s free fly tying class. David was teaching the Wooly Bugger, which felt a little funny because this was actually the very first fly pattern I had ever learned to tie. Since then I had tied a few more and felt mildly experienced now, which is a dangerous level of confidence to have in fly tying because the hobby will humble you immediately.
Still, I learned something new within about five minutes.
Apparently there is a difference between rooster hackle and hen hackle feathers. To me they all just looked like… feathers. But according to David, rooster hackle is stiff and works well for dry flies because it helps them float, while hen hackle is softer and moves more naturally underwater, making it perfect for streamers like the Wooly Bugger.
This revelation sent me into a frenzy. I immediately dug through my feather collection and realized I owned BOTH kinds.
Not to brag, but at that moment I felt like a very wealthy woman.
After the Wooly Bugger lesson, David very kindly agreed... after what I would describe as persistent begging, to teach us how to tie Wally Wings using mallard feathers.
Honestly, even after watching him demonstrate it twice, I still think the technique borders on witchcraft.
You somehow peel tiny sections from the middle of a feather and magically create delicate translucent wings that look exactly like a mayfly’s. HOW did someone invent this? Imagine being alive 100 years ago, staring at a duck feather and suddenly deciding: “Yes. This can become an insect.”
Fly tying is honestly half fishing hobby, half Victorian craft sorcery.
In my excitement I pulled one of my carefully made wings too hard and snapped it in half. I felt disproportionately devastated about this. Tiny feather tragedies hit differently when you spent fifteen minutes trying to separate microscopic fibers while holding your breath like a bomb technician.
The Wally Wings before I broke it!
After some fishing, we headed back to camp to attempt yet another trout experiment. I have now fully committed myself to the mission of rehabilitating trout’s culinary reputation. People act like trout can only be pan fried with lemon once before becoming boring. Absolutely not. Trout is a lifestyle.
This time I made trout fish cakes.
Because the weather was super windy, I wanted something I could cook inside the van instead of battling charcoal outdoors. I carefully scraped the trout meat from the butterflied fish and mixed it with fried onions, panko crumbs, egg, milk, and a generous amount of Old Bay seasoning. Then I fried the patties until golden and crispy while a pot of hot soup simmered beside them.
Verdict? Incredible.
It was one of those cold evenings where the van fogs up slightly from cooking steam and suddenly your tiny home-on-wheels feels impossibly cozy.
Our neighbors that night were a huge group that fascinated me the entire evening. There were probably fifteen of them squeezed into one campsite between a trailer and two massive tents. The women wore long dresses and white bonnets, while the men looked clean-cut and tidy but not quite Amish in the way I imagined Amish men to look.
After some Googling, I became fairly convinced they were Mennonites.
The whole group moved around with this calm, organized energy that made me feel like an overstimulated raccoon by comparison. The girls rode bikes in long dresses. The adults cooked and sang together softly. The children somehow never screamed.
I genuinely don’t know how they achieved this.
Sunday started beautifully. Sunshine, blue sky, cold air... perfect fishing weather according to Nelson, who disappeared early in the morning to “relax,” by which I mean obsessively pursue trout with the intensity of a man working a second job.
By noon he had already caught three pretty large fish.
Normally this would have been excellent news. Unfortunately it was also checkout day.
This meant we now had under two hours to clean the fish, butterfly the fish, carve out the meat, turn the fish into fish cakes, cook them, cool the stovetop enough to shut the glass lid safely, pack up the van, and vacate the campsite like civilized people.
Meanwhile Nelson casually went to shower while I remained in the van doing emergency trout surgery.
At one point I realized I was muttering swear words continuously under my breath while aggressively picking bones out of fish meat and swearing louder by the minute.
Outside, the Mennonite family sat peacefully in a large circle around their picnic tables. Completely calm. Completely silent. Even the baby barely made a sound.
Meanwhile from inside our van came a steady soundtrack of:
“OH FOR F**KS SAKE.”
“CRAP ARE YOU F**KING SERIOUS NOW”
“NELSON THIS IS YOUR FAULT.”
The contrast felt spiritually significant.
I became painfully self-aware that this entire campground was probably witnessing one deeply frazzled Asian woman rage-cooking trout while a wholesome religious family observed the Sabbath in perfect tranquility ten feet away.
After finally escaping the campsite, we moved to another section of the park and spent the rest of the afternoon by the river. Earlier that morning I had also made a pot of beef stew, so between the stew, sautéed spinach, and trout fish cakes, we somehow ended up with an incredibly comforting dinner spread sitting beside the water.
As the sun started dropping lower through the trees, Nelson packed leftovers into a lunchbox for work the next day while I sat there feeling strangely grateful. This is peak luxury for the vanlife ....down by the river!
It's the weekend! We both slept in a little before heading to CCC Lodge for this month’s free fly tying class. David was teaching the Wooly Bugger, which felt a little funny because this was actually the very first fly pattern I had ever learned to tie. Since then I had tied a few more and felt mildly experienced now, which is a dangerous level of confidence to have in fly tying because the hobby will humble you immediately.
Still, I learned something new within about five minutes.
Apparently there is a difference between rooster hackle and hen hackle feathers. To me they all just looked like… feathers. But according to David, rooster hackle is stiff and works well for dry flies because it helps them float, while hen hackle is softer and moves more naturally underwater, making it perfect for streamers like the Wooly Bugger.
This revelation sent me into a frenzy. I immediately dug through my feather collection and realized I owned BOTH kinds.
Not to brag, but at that moment I felt like a very wealthy woman.
After the Wooly Bugger lesson, David very kindly agreed... after what I would describe as persistent begging, to teach us how to tie Wally Wings using mallard feathers.
Honestly, even after watching him demonstrate it twice, I still think the technique borders on witchcraft.
You somehow peel tiny sections from the middle of a feather and magically create delicate translucent wings that look exactly like a mayfly’s. HOW did someone invent this? Imagine being alive 100 years ago, staring at a duck feather and suddenly deciding: “Yes. This can become an insect.”
Fly tying is honestly half fishing hobby, half Victorian craft sorcery.
In my excitement I pulled one of my carefully made wings too hard and snapped it in half. I felt disproportionately devastated about this. Tiny feather tragedies hit differently when you spent fifteen minutes trying to separate microscopic fibers while holding your breath like a bomb technician.
 |
| The Wally Wings before I broke it! |
After some fishing, we headed back to camp to attempt yet another trout experiment. I have now fully committed myself to the mission of rehabilitating trout’s culinary reputation. People act like trout can only be pan fried with lemon once before becoming boring. Absolutely not. Trout is a lifestyle.
This time I made trout fish cakes.
Because the weather was super windy, I wanted something I could cook inside the van instead of battling charcoal outdoors. I carefully scraped the trout meat from the butterflied fish and mixed it with fried onions, panko crumbs, egg, milk, and a generous amount of Old Bay seasoning. Then I fried the patties until golden and crispy while a pot of hot soup simmered beside them.
Verdict? Incredible.
It was one of those cold evenings where the van fogs up slightly from cooking steam and suddenly your tiny home-on-wheels feels impossibly cozy.
Our neighbors that night were a huge group that fascinated me the entire evening. There were probably fifteen of them squeezed into one campsite between a trailer and two massive tents. The women wore long dresses and white bonnets, while the men looked clean-cut and tidy but not quite Amish in the way I imagined Amish men to look.
After some Googling, I became fairly convinced they were Mennonites.
The whole group moved around with this calm, organized energy that made me feel like an overstimulated raccoon by comparison. The girls rode bikes in long dresses. The adults cooked and sang together softly. The children somehow never screamed.
I genuinely don’t know how they achieved this.
Sunday started beautifully. Sunshine, blue sky, cold air... perfect fishing weather according to Nelson, who disappeared early in the morning to “relax,” by which I mean obsessively pursue trout with the intensity of a man working a second job.
By noon he had already caught three pretty large fish.
Normally this would have been excellent news. Unfortunately it was also checkout day.
This meant we now had under two hours to clean the fish, butterfly the fish, carve out the meat, turn the fish into fish cakes, cook them, cool the stovetop enough to shut the glass lid safely, pack up the van, and vacate the campsite like civilized people.
Meanwhile Nelson casually went to shower while I remained in the van doing emergency trout surgery.
At one point I realized I was muttering swear words continuously under my breath while aggressively picking bones out of fish meat and swearing louder by the minute.
Outside, the Mennonite family sat peacefully in a large circle around their picnic tables. Completely calm. Completely silent. Even the baby barely made a sound.
Meanwhile from inside our van came a steady soundtrack of:
“OH FOR F**KS SAKE.”
“CRAP ARE YOU F**KING SERIOUS NOW”
“NELSON THIS IS YOUR FAULT.”
The contrast felt spiritually significant.
I became painfully self-aware that this entire campground was probably witnessing one deeply frazzled Asian woman rage-cooking trout while a wholesome religious family observed the Sabbath in perfect tranquility ten feet away.
After finally escaping the campsite, we moved to another section of the park and spent the rest of the afternoon by the river. Earlier that morning I had also made a pot of beef stew, so between the stew, sautéed spinach, and trout fish cakes, we somehow ended up with an incredibly comforting dinner spread sitting beside the water.
As the sun started dropping lower through the trees, Nelson packed leftovers into a lunchbox for work the next day while I sat there feeling strangely grateful. This is peak luxury for the vanlife ....down by the river!
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