Southwest Road Trip: My Solo Campervan Adventure from Phoenix to Joshua Tree (Part 1)

Read about the first three days of my solo nine-day road trip through the desert Southwest in a campervan, from Phoenix to Joshua Tree National Park.

On December 1, I embarked on my second solo road trip of 2025, this time trading the forests and coastline of the Pacific Northwest for the twisted Joshua trees and saguaro-studded deserts of the American Southwest. It was a wild ride, where no two days of this nine-day adventure panned out to be even remotely alike.

This post, Part 1 of a three-part travelogue series, chronicles the first three days of my solo winter road trip through Arizona and California in a campervan. It’s not a checklist or a how-to (that’s coming later), but a day-by-day account of what it felt like to move through these landscapes alone—learning the rhythms of van life once again, racing winter’s early sunsets, and adjusting to a pace dictated more by light and weather than by unchecked ambition.

I partnered with Roadsurfer, who provided the campervan—a Class B sprinter-style campervan (see specs)—that made this journey possible, but the route and experiences I share below were mine to decide.

If you’re here for the story, lessons learned, and lived experience of van life-ing around the American Southwest—this is for you. If you’re here to plan your own version of this trip, I’ll be sharing a separate, practical itinerary soon.

For now, let’s start at the beginning.

Day 1: Phoenix to Tucson & Saguaro National Park

Day 1 at a glance: solo van trip jitters, Florence detour, Tucson grocery/gas stop, sunset over towering saguaros.

Shaky—despite this not being my first solo campervan road trip—I cautiously rolled out of the Roadsurfer lot in Phoenix, still getting used to the height, length, and sheer mass of the 21-foot campervan that would serve as my home for the next nine nights. I could feel the weight of it all behind me: a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bed traveling wherever I directed these four wheels. Was I ready? I had to be. I was already behind the wheel, and the ambitious route ahead—one that would eventually take me as far as the foothills of California’s San Jacinto Mountains—required that I shake the nerves and start moving.

It was 1:30 p.m., which meant I had roughly three—maybe four—hours to get myself to Gilbert Ray Campground near Saguaro National Park before dark. I’d reserved site C12 specifically for its more private, desert-facing position, while still offering the comforts of an established campground: running water, toilets, and, ideally, a few quiet neighbors. I wanted to be alone, but not too alone. Van-lifing solo in a landscape I knew nothing about was already stretching my comfort zone—and, as I’d told my family just hours earlier while saying goodbye, that was a good thing, no matter how uncomfortable I felt.

What sat at the front of my mind, nerves aside, was a hard rule I’d made for myself: I could not—and would not—arrive at my first campground after dark. With the winter sun dropping fast and daylight disappearing entirely by 5:30 p.m., I had just enough time to make it work. I’d planned this trip carefully, mapping my route to chase warmth through the winter Southwest, but I hadn’t fully accounted for how much limited daylight would dictate each day. It was a surprise that shouldn’t have been, hitting me not until I was already on the road, the sun frighteningly low in the sky. I didn’t know it yet, but this quiet race against the sun would become a daily timekeeper, keeping me in a perpetual state of forward motion—exhausting, but exhilarating.

Phoenix to the campground, according to Google Maps, was only a two-hour drive. With closer to four hours until sunset, I decided to squeeze in one fun roadside stop about an hour in: Florence, Arizona—one of the state’s oldest settlements. Its main street, lined with locally owned eateries, leather shops, art galleries, and saloons, was surprisingly deserted at 2:30 p.m. on a Monday. Several storefronts were sandbagged, as if a recent flood threat had passed through, adding another layer of mystery to the sleepy town.

Walking down the empty street, I passed a boarded-up gift shop displaying a T-shirt that read “Florence: A Gated Community,” stamped over the image of a jail cell. It was my first clue that there was so much more to this town than met the eye. At the far end of the street, I finally found something open: the Florence Fudge Shop & Cafe. Inside, it was unexpectedly busy—police officers on their lunch break, a young family mid-sandwich, and a couple lingering over soup and cornbread.

As I was taking all of this in, the jingling door I’d just entered through drew every head in my direction. Clearly, this small town wasn’t used to unfamiliar faces, but the warm smiles that followed reassured me I was still welcome. Hoping for coffee, I instead walked out with a jar of strawberry lemonade and a square of chocolate caramel fudge to save for dessert later. Somewhere between the smiles and the sugar, the nerves I’d been carrying completely disappeared. I could do this. I am doing this.

An hour later, I pulled into a Safeway in Tucson to stock up on groceries and refill the gas tank. Before ever leaving Phoenix, I’d hoped to include a wander around Tucson’s downtown, but the sinking sun pulled me back to the highway instead. I guess Tucson would be for another time, another trip. This would become a familiar give-and-take I’d negotiate often—with the road, with the sun, with the clock.

When I finally arrived at my campsite, the timing couldn’t have been better. The sky was glowing, washing the massive saguaro cacti and open desert in golden light. The contrast between yesterday and today threw my mind for a loop. Yesterday, I’d been surrounded by family in Phoenix, slipping into a warm bed inside a heated house at the same hour. Today, I was alone in the desert, climbing into a bed I’d just unlatched from the cabinet inside a van parked next to a 20-foot-tall saguaro. I love this, I whispered as I drifted off to sleep, a smile on my lips.

Day 2: Saguaro National Park to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument

Day 2 at a glance: A colder-than-anticipated desert night and morning, Indigenous lands, Ajo coffee & art stop, and an unforgettable off-grid scenic drive near Mexico.

I stirred awake after a December desert night that was much colder than I’d anticipated and pulled the comforter tighter around me. I couldn’t tell you the exact temperature, only that I learned quickly that more layers—and socks on my feet—were non-negotiable before crawling into bed each night. I had planned for nights in the 40s, not the 30s! Oh well.

Too eager to wait another second to see my view, I pulled back the blackout curtains from each window. The desert I’d only briefly glimpsed in golden light the night before fully revealed itself. I boiled some water for coffee and took it all in: the prickly saguaro inches from the window by my bed, the glowing mountains and dry wash visible through the sliding door, the campground host zipping by in her golf cart doing morning rounds, framed neatly through the windshield.

This was my first morning in the van. I wanted to savor this temporary setting—one that would change every single morning for the next eight days. I dug out a mug from the box of dishes Roadsurfer had stocked the van with, poured in especially steamy coffee, and climbed back into bed. A whole day on the desert highway awaited, but for now, it could be as simple as sipping coffee under blankets in bed and watching the desert wake up.

An hour and a half later, I’d packed up and was back on the road, the morning chill still clinging to the air. My first stop was Valley View Overlook Trail, just twenty minutes from the campground. The short out-and-back hike wound through towering saguaros—some reaching nearly thirty feet tall—and up to a cactus-covered viewpoint overlooking the valley below. It felt like the right way to start the day: moving my body, grounding myself, and slowly easing further into the rhythm of this trip.

From there, the drive stretched west along Highway 86—two uninterrupted hours through the heart of the Tohono O’odham Nation and into the town of Ajo. As the miles passed, the landscape subtly shifted, and with it, my awareness of where I was traveling. Native-aimed billboards and roadside signage made it clear I wasn’t on just another American highway. I swapped my road-trip playlist—Ocie Elliott, The Lumineers, and The National Forest—for Electric Pow Wow Drum and the cedar flute music of Carlos Nakai, to better connect to my new surroundings.

In Ajo, I parked near the town’s Spanish-style plaza and crossed the manicured square to Oasis Coffee, where I ordered a mocha and immediately pulled up Google Maps to see what else was nearby. Just around the corner: Artist Alley Murals. Perfect.

Ajo is a strange and fascinating oasis. The town is meticulously arranged around its grand central plaza, flanked by Spanish Colonial Revival buildings and slender palm trees that reminded me of Morocco’s date palms. This wasn’t an accident. Ajo was a company town, built in the early 1900s by the Phelps Dodge Corporation to support nearby copper mining operations. The now-closed New Cornelia Mine—once one of the largest open-pit copper mines in the world—looms just south of town, its exposed rock faces streaked with surreal bands of red, green, and gold. Driving past it on the way into town nearly had me swerving out of my lane, its colors so captivating.

Artist Alley made that history impossible to ignore. Along a short back alley, the murals splashed on its walls depict Ajo as it truly is: a crossroads of Indigenous land, Mexican culture, mining labor, migration, and modern reinvention. Faces of Native elders, miners, migrants, and desert imagery overlap and collide, reflecting the tensions baked into the town then and now. Combined with what I could glean from the clientele at Oasis, Ajo is also home to retirees and winter snowbirds, layered on top of everything that came before. Standing there, coffee in hand, I felt like I’d stumbled into a place that asked more questions than it answered.

More awake—to both the landscape and its complexity—I got back on the road. That was no ordinary rest stop, I muttered to myself.

The highway now pointed straight toward Mexico. My destination sat just shy of the border: Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. With plenty of daylight left, I decided not to head straight to my campground and instead stopped at the Kris Eggle Visitor Center to ask about something that had caught my eye on the map: the Ajo Mountain Scenic Loop, a 21-mile one-way dirt road winding through desert washes and going deep into the Ajo Mountains.

The website claimed vehicles up to 25 feet could handle the route’s steep grades and sharp turns, but I wanted confirmation from a ranger before committing to a two-hour off-grid drive. Cell service, I’d read, was spotty at best. But with the ranger’s blessing—and a paper map in hand—I went for it, gripping the steering wheel with far more tension than I had when leaving the Roadsurfer lot just 24 hours ago.

Here I was: a solo female road tripper, still getting used to the size of this van, about to navigate narrow dirt roads stamped with warning signs for wildlife, flash floods, and yes—smugglers. If I got a flat tire or the van gave out, it would be a long walk through cactus-studded desert to find help, probably in the dark too. But that’s part of the adventure, isn’t it? Calculated risk, tempered by awareness.

The van rattled as soon as pavement gave way to dirt, and soon I was surrounded by towering organ pipe cacti, desert mountain vistas, and wind-carved rock walls rising from the washes. I drove slowly, heart pounding, eyes scanning both the road and the landscape, stopping only once at the Arch Canyon trailhead to walk a short stretch toward its namesake rock formation. Silence wrapped around everything. No traffic. No cell bars. Just wind, rock, desert, and late afternoon sky.

As much as I wanted to fully relax into the beauty of it all, I kept one eye on the clock. Solo travel in places like this is a constant negotiation between awe and caution, between wanting more and knowing when to turn back. Two hours later, I rejoined the Ajo–Sonoyta Highway feeling both relieved and exhilarated. That had been risky—but absolutely worth it.

Twin Peaks Campground was only a few minutes away. Once settled, I pulled out my camp chair, cracked a cold beer, and finally let myself exhale. What a day. As darkness fell and stars emerged, distant city lights flickered on the horizon—not from Arizona, but Mexico. Border Patrol vehicles rolled past periodically, a quiet reminder once again of just how interwoven—and divided—this landscape I’m road tripping through really is.

Day 3: Organ Pipe National Monument to Joshua Tree National Park

Day 3 at a glance: A near pre-dawn start, more desert highways, snowbird towns, a state-line crossing, and a golden-hour arrival in Joshua Tree.

As a one-woman operation, mornings were busy by default—doing dishes after breakfast, securing everything for travel, emptying the cassette toilet, double-checking my route and plan for the day—and this morning was no exception. I woke before sunrise, partly from the cold, partly from knowing the most ambitious drive of the trip lay ahead. Still, I allowed myself one small luxury, one I’d allow myself each and every day no matter what: coffee in bed, bundled in blankets, soaking up what was likely the last still moment of the day.

Today meant crossing state lines—from Arizona into California—and a six-hour drive to my reserved campsite at Jumbo Rocks Campground inside Joshua Tree National Park. It also meant a time change and an even earlier sunset by a full hour. Fantastic.

To break up the haul, I mapped out strategic stops: gas in Gila Bend, lunch in Quartzsite, and one final Arizona fill-up before the California border. California gas prices were approaching $5 a gallon, I’d read, while Arizona’s hovered closer to $3.60.

Quartzsite was… strange. Known as an RV mecca, it swells with snowbirds and van-lifers every winter, many of them drawn by the surrounding BLM land, months-long boondocking, and the massive gem and mineral shows that temporarily turn this quiet desert town into a pop-up city. Temporary and permanent all at once, it felt like a place where people pulled up in their rigs and forgot to leave. I stopped at Mountain Quail Cafe for lunch, slid into a booth, and ordered a breakfast hash—something I knew would still taste good as leftovers if I couldn’t finish it all—along with bottomless coffee. I’d need it. The cozy, classic American diner vibe was exactly what I needed at the halfway point.

Back on I-10, the miles ticked by until I crossed into California and began climbing toward Joshua Tree National Park’s south entrance. Joshua trees started appearing more frequently, boulder piles rose from the desert floor, and the world felt emptier, further away. Entering through the south gate was a beautiful way in. I had the winding roads almost entirely to myself, allowing me to go as slow as I wanted as I took in the marathon of views.

By 3:30 p.m. Pacific Time, I pulled into my site at Jumbo Rocks Campground—relieved, slightly exhausted, and grateful to have arrived well before sunset. Just steps from my tucked-away campsite was the trailhead for the Skull Rock Nature Trail, a flat 1.7-mile loop that winds through massive granite boulder formations and past its namesake rock, eroded over time into the vague shape of a skull.

With barely an hour of daylight left, I threw on an extra layer, grabbed my phone, locked the van, and just started walking—eager to get a feel for this entirely new landscape I’d dropped into. No more saguaros and red rock. Instead, pale granite boulders streaked with charcoal veins and rounded smooth by wind and time, rising out of fine, sandy desert soil the color of ash.

The last light of day felt almost exaggerated here, every rock catching the sun just right. Nearly alone on the trail, my solo-traveler instincts kicked in as I wondered—yet again—if I might round a corner and come face-to-face with a mountain lion or some other danger. It struck me then how often I was scanning, calculating, bracing. Somewhere between Arizona and California, between borderlands and boulder fields, I was realizing how hard it can be to fully relax when you’re responsible for every decision, every risk. Freedom, it turns out, requires a certain level of vigilance.

When the trail eventually looped me back to my van at sundown, I cracked open a beer from the fridge, now becoming a nightly ritual, and climbed the nearest ridge to watch the last sliver of sun sink below the horizon. Almost instantly, the temperature dropped—at least ten degrees in minutes. Welcome to California’s high desert. Another frigid night, it seemed. I might need to figure out the van’s parking heater after all.

That’s a wrap on the first three days of my Southwest road trip—Phoenix to Joshua Tree. Up next in Part 2: I’ll take you even further west into California, share more solo van adventures, and chase sunsets and stars with you in Joshua Tree National Park. Stay tuned!

If this post inspired you to take a road trip by campervan, Roadsurfer is offering 22% off van and RV rentals through January 6, 2026. Use the code NOMAPSAMBER at checkout to get the discount.

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