I am on Day 19 and I still haven’t left California. This mind-boggling state seems to go on forever, offering a dizzying array of wonders, in every direction. From Yosemite, I made my way back over to the Sonoma Coast. This stretch of shoreline is some of the most beautiful I have laid eyes on, and I have been to many of the world’s most renowned beaches. Sharing this awe was Willy, whom I’m pretty sure had never seen a moving, full-of-life body of water. On his first day, I took an untold amount of videos of Willy chasing seagulls and running from waves, which perhaps lent to my renewed appreciation of the coast.

We traveled, and drooled, over roads that hugged the coastline and offered photo-worthy vistas at each turn. The rock formations, the miles of uninhabited beach, the flowers, the dunes—all were worthy of a closer look. We also encountered some of the largest mussels I have ever seen and the only reason they were not harvested for a van meal later were the warning signs promising me, at best, vomiting and, at worst, seizures. I had seen enough vomiting.

 

 

From Sonoma, we traveled up to the northernmost reaches of California to the Redwoods, and that’s when things really got big. Neither photos nor words could ever convey the magnitude of these trees. As a Tolkien fan, I imagined every one to be an Ent, each with its own 2,000-year-old story to tell. Or, perhaps there were dragon nests up high, out of sight. Dr. Suess would have imagined entire worlds inside of them and he would not have been wrong. In other words, these trees were otherworldly and held so much history and possibility.

So I have decided that Texas needs to abdicate its claim. The ginormity of California is nothing to ignore, even though most Californians have no idea what lies in their back 40. What I won’t miss are the equally large costs of everything in California.

What astounds me about my travels is the good, and often strange, fortune I stumbled into during the first weeks of my adventure. First was the bike repair I needed to make. Part of my vision for the Whatever Journey involved mountain biking the majestic peaks of the West. So I purchased an expensive machine, rugged enough to handle everything I (or someone who actually bikes) could throw at it. After a few rides around my local trails in Connecticut, several of which involved rigorous hills, I had my bike shipped west. I diligently took notes on the back of some Post-Its about how to put it all back together, noting that the key tool was an Allen wrench, something I possessed in every drawer of my Ikea furniture. Needless to say, a part was missing after reassembly. So, when I arrived at my first solo campsite, I Googled the nearest bike shop. The next day, I set off, retracing the road I had traveled the day before, back down to Morro Bay. I dropped my bike and the guy said it would be 30 minutes, which gave me enough time to explore this great little seaside town, shopping at a farmer’s market and a thrift store. After retrieving the bike (only $15!), I left for the campground, except this time, I had more time to spend driving up the coast. So I stopped at one of the many vistas I had bypassed the day before and went for a long hike along the shore and sat with some seals sunbathing on nearby rocks. I couldn’t believe my slight misfortune had turned into such a beautiful day.

 

 

Second (and third), because Yosemite doesn’t allow dogs on any of its trails, Willy and I decided to head through Yosemite and over to Mammoth Lakes to visit another National Monument called the Devil’s Postpile. Three hours later, and following all of the signs, we ended up at the base area of Mammoth Mountain, which turns out to be the jumping off point for the Park. For those who don’t know, for the past 25 years I have published a trade magazine for the ski resort industry, a magazine started by my father in 1962. I knew the Devil’s Postpile would be near Mammoth, but it was a last-minute decision and a Saturday, so I decided not to visit anyone at the resort. As I wandered around the parking area looking for a space, I noticed a guy on a bike ahead of me and I thought, “No, it couldn’t be.” I followed him and, when I got close, I shouted his name. He turned. Among the hundreds of people on bikes in the base area, I managed to run into one of the owners of the resort. After catching up and marveling at the odds of bumping into one another, we parted and the pooch and I made our way up to the Monument, which I learned on the shuttle ride, contains a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Seriously?! I was going where Cheryl Strayed walked in “Wild,” the book that gave me my final push out the door?

 

These moments of serendipity, plus many other smaller ones, have left me, once again, humble, grateful and eager for what lies ahead.

For some reason, a maternal instinct and the need to bear children is not within me, but an animal instinct is. There have been very few moments in my life when I have not had dogs and cats by my side. I find them such amiable, uncomplicated companions whose needs and wants are few, yet their love is unconditional. Best of all, I can be just who I am and there is no judgment (well, I have had a few that have mastered The Look), but for the most part, I am enough for them.

When I left for my journey, I left behind a wonderful, faithful bevy of companions in the expert care of friends. The dog is a Shiba Inu named Mika and would have made an excellent adventure dog, except for the fact that she really can’t tolerate heat with her Husky double coat. The cats, well, they are cats and best left at home. Plus, I figured I could go without either for a few months.

Then I spent one night in that middle-of-nowhere campground and realized the error of my thinking.

Two days after that lonely night, on my way up to Yosemite, I stopped in the town of Oakdale for a bite to eat and, on a whim, I asked Siri to find an animal shelter. I drove over after lunch and found the office locked; I had missed opening hours by 30 minutes. Still, I visited the outdoor kennels and among all of the yappy little dogs and large pit bull mixes, was a small quiet black dog, who stood wagging his tail, begging me to come over. Hesitantly, I left and made the two-hour trek up to Yosemite. A couple of days into my Yosemite stay, and dead tired from a 14-mile hike the day before, I decided to head back into Oakdale to see if that little dog was still there. I had no cell service so I couldn’t call ahead, and instead went on faith. And there he was. The woman brought him out to the play yard for a one-on-one “interview” and he charmed the pants off me. Thirty minutes later, I was headed to Petco with Willy Whatever, Adventure Dog, in the passenger seat.

 

 

Willy will limit where I can go to some extent, but we’ve managed a good deal of exploring in the week that I’ve had him (we’ve broken many no-dog trail rules along the way). And he is as good a companion as I could have asked for. Willy is not a runner and prefers to stay by my side. He sleeps in, and for someone who is not a morning person, nothing pleases me more. He mostly listens to me and he loves people. Willy does have one drawback (don’t we all?)—he is not keen on co-piloting. During our first car ride up to Yosemite, I looked over and saw long strings of drool hanging from either side of his mouth. When I stopped at a turnoff to wipe his face clean, I saw vomit down the inside of the passenger door (God, I hope the rental van company isn’t reading this!). I looked at him with dismay, realizing that so much of this adventure will be inside The Shroom making our way through the West.

 

We are still experimenting with the car rides, putting him in the front or in the back, surrounding him with towels, making irresistible beds and going as slowly as possible on winding roads. While he doesn’t vomit as much, he still produces an amazing amount of drool for such a small dog. We’ll figure it out, me and Willy Whatever, the Drooling, Puking Adventure Dog. I’d rather this than no dog at all, and I wish there were more people in my life who felt the same way about me.

I am not going to even try and describe Yosemite when icons from every walk of life have photographed, written about and preserved this stunning valley (think John Muir, Ansel Adams, and Roosevelt—I confess that I forget which one). One of my goals in chronicling my travels in the West was to challenge my descriptive prose, to run out of adjectives and get creative. What can I say? Yosemite had me stumped. It really is all that.

What I did come away with were a few observations about hiking. A friend of mine said that the Panorama Trail, a nine-mile loop that showed off the best of Yosemite, was the optimal way to introduce myself to this surreal landscape. I read up on the trail at a pricey hotel the night before and saw a small footnote that said instead of taking the shuttle up to Glacier Point, where the trail starts, I could hike up Four Mile Trail and forego the buses. He also cautioned that the option was for those in “excellent shape.” I wasn’t sure about “excellent,” it’s so subjective, but I opted to give it a go. About half a mile into the The Four Mile Trail, I had already decided that I would just get to the top, have lunch and take the shuttle back down and not even attempt the Panorama Trail. The incline was constant and it dawned on me that I was sucking wind at 9,000 feet. Still, I soldiered upward and passed the time by playing a little game of mine. I travel a lot and to amuse myself in airports, I play, “Of the next 20 people who go by, who would you sleep with.” (Hey, it’s just a game to pass time!) In any case, male hikers are a handsome lot. Granted there are far fewer people on an insane climbing trail than in Chicago Ohare, but, per capita, outdoorsmen eclipse business travelers in the hotness category…by a lot.

Another funny observation I had was about trail etiquette. In the trafficked areas (read, shorter, paved trails), it’s absolute mayhem. Tourists from around the world invade personal space, walk on the wrong side of the path, and worse, clog the path by walking abreast. On the more strenuous paths, for us hikers in excellent shape, there is a measured distance when you should hail someone approaching from the opposite direction. A Hello said too early means you have to come up with something else to say while you pass. So, the trick is to time it so that pleasantries are exchanged, but brief, especially when you need all the air you can get just breathing.

After finally summiting Glacier Point and eating a late lunch, I decided that there was no way I was going to take the shuttle of shame down—the Panorama Loop was the only respectable way to go. Knowing it was late and that the hike would take four hours (it was 2 p.m.), I made haste. The views of Yosemite from Panorama did not disappoint. Sweeping vistas of the entire valley with the looming Half Dome presiding over it all were prevalent along the trail. And then there were the waterfalls. Even in the fourth year of a drought, several waterfalls still dramatically spilled water over the sides of cliffs and this trail offered spectacular views of three of them.

 

At seven I hit the valley floor, ever so pleased to have accomplished over 14 miles of rugged terrain. I texted my friend who had suggested the Panorama Trail and told him about the hike. His response was: “Dumbass, you were supposed to take the bus to Glacier Point.” This dumbass had a great night’s sleep.

Having printed out some information about the parks in Big Sur, I knew my first stop would be at the Julia Pfeiffer Park, which promised great waterfalls and hikes with views. I arrived and flashed my National Park card for the first time and, like a secret club member, was ushered through the gates. I parked, noting the location, then I realized that I would likely be the only green van with purple mushrooms on it in the parking area. I threw on some shoes for a mile round-trip journey up to a viewing area. Six miles later, I stumbled into the parking area thirsty and hungry. You see, at the viewing area there was this small path and I hardly ever fail to scramble up a small path. The small path joined a larger one, called The Loop, where I was quickly rewarded with beautiful terrain as I weaved around the mountains and across cliffs that dropped into the sea. I also learned lesson #37: When you enter the wilderness and are easily side-tracked, bring the backpack with snacks and water.

I don’t know what it is about small paths that intrigue me, but I find that I am defenseless against their call. When I’m skiing on a wide-open trail, executing arcs with controlled perfection, a small side trail into the woods will attract my attention and away I go, stumbling through the woods, nearly smacking into trees and losing control. More often than not, however, I will encounter something interesting or, at the very least, improve my tree skiing a little bit and I always come out pleased with the effort.

Small paths can really deliver the biggest bang for the buck and I like the sense of adventure they offer, where everything is beyond my control and nothing is known. Perhaps that is their draw—we spend a lot of time, as humans, making sure everything is the way it is supposed to be, of having a sense of control, and it’s exhausting and not terribly rewarding. Small paths, conversely, offer the opportunity to leave everything to chance, to abandon the wheel and let someone else do the driving and just sit back and enjoy the ride.

Driving around in a van and camping by myself in lands unknown offers surprisingly little time for reflection and I was, mostly, relieved to find that out. My goal at the beginning was to get out of my comfort zone and force myself to live in the moment, any moment that wasn’t one that I had been stuck in for the last five years. When I left home, I was in the midst of losing my boyfriend, my company and my family and it felt like I was trying to sip a cup of tea on the lido deck of the Titanic. The idea of getting up and grabbing a lifeboat seemed a good one and I started to romanticize the openness and grandeur of the West. I wanted to go somewhere that made me feel humble, not humiliated; where screwing up was OK (and expected) because I could allow myself as many do-overs as I pleased knowing that any consequences would only be my own, with no outside judgment.

My choice really couldn’t have been more perfect. Living in the moment is a snap when each moment is one of refreshing newness, of just surviving. I pull over when it is too beautiful not to. I eat when I’m hungry. I sleep when I’m tired. When I start to think about the past or the future, there is a sea lion just around the corner that is guaranteed to push the thoughts right out of my head.

 

There will come a time when I will have to face the wreckage of my past, accept it and plan for my future, but that time is not right now, not right at this moment. This moment is for the giant Sequoias I am surrounded by as I write.

Well rested, I rose the next day excited for my trip north up the Pacific Coast Highway (the PCH to those in the know) to my next destination: Big Sur. I left at the crack of ten and about five minutes later I saw at least a dozen cars parked by the side of the road. Not one to miss out, I pulled over. As near as I could tell, everyone was looking up into a field of cattle. City folk, I mused. But still, they were so enthralled I had to take a closer look and saw several zebras mixed among the cattle. Now, as a wannabe naturalist, I had a definitive list of must-sees for my trip, and zebras figured nowhere in there. Adding to this encounter, a few miles past the zebras I saw my first elephant seals, which are the oddest looking creatures. Weighing up to a whopping 5,000 pounds and measuring 12 to 16 feet, these behemoths do not possess those cute seal/puppy faces, but rather, they sport what looks like the nub of an elephant’s trunk for noses. It’s not a flattering look.

Not long after my African detour I started climbing what must be the most beautiful, hair-raising, jaw-dropping bit of road the United States has to offer. The PCH clings to the side of a never-ending cliff that plummets down into the Pacific and soars up into the Santa Lucia mountains. For miles, I wind, climb, descend, and resist the urge not to stop at every vista point to ogle the sheer beauty of the place. I whipped out my cell phone to text absolutely everyone a picture and got my first lesson in semi-off-the-grid travel—no cell service, which seemed perfectly appropriate given the venue.

 

So, disconnected, I continued my journey up the coast, stopping for lunch along the way and $6.50/gallon gasoline (they don’t have to worry about on-line reviews up there). By the time it was late afternoon, I knew I should be looking for the turn-off to my campsite. Everything on the coast was booked, so I snagged something “a little inland.” Now, when you are driving along a cliff face, there are only so many turn-offs, so I knew missing Naciente-Fergusson Road would not be a problem. The problem turned out to be something much worse—the road itself.

When driving along the middle of a cliff, there are only two ways to go: Into the ocean or up and over the mountains and my inland camping site was up and over the mountains. So, The Shroom and I climbed and climbed, negotiating one hairpin turn after another. The “shoulder” was about the width of my own shoulder and the abyss off the side just didn’t compute on any human level, especially a human with depth perception issues. Worse still, every turn afforded a view of the Pacific that seemed to increase in beauty the higher we climbed, almost like a siren luring the driver to sea and the effect was scarily hypnotic. Finally, and before my hands started to actually become part of the steering wheel from gripping so hard, we started our descent.

The driving/beauty trance came to an abrupt halt when I realized that I was, in fact, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service, and that’s when the banjos erupted in my head, egged on by the only road signs I saw, which were for hog hunting grounds. Finally, after what seemed like hours (it was 20 minutes), I saw a sign for a campground and pulled in. It was a side-of-the-road thing, with only a half dozen sites, none of them filled. I thought, “This can’t be it. I have a printed out confirmation for this campsite, with my number, 21, so there has to be more than this.” With what little faith I had left, I pulled back onto the road and kept heading inland. I was rewarded a few miles later with a proper sign pointing me to the campground. Oh, Thank God! Soon I would be surrounded by ring fires, shouts of children and the oddly comforting hum of generators.

That was not the case. The sites were spread out and the entire ground had a handful of cars and tents tucked away to themselves. Yet, I was glad to have arrived. I hopped out and set about setting up camp for the two nights I had booked. It took only seconds for the flies to descend on my sweaty, unwashed, weary body. Normally, I am not bothered by flies, but these poor souls had so few options that news of fresh blood seemed to have traveled fast. So I did the only thing I could think of—I hopped on my bike to outrace the flies. After wandering down the road some, dusk started to set in, and I knew I had to return. I got back to camp, made myself a quesadilla, and encased myself in the van, which has a great indoor table set-up when the bed is not in use.

The next morning I was determined to give the campground another chance. I went outside to revel in the peace and quiet and practice my Qigong before I set out. After two minutes of swatting flies (if ever there were an enemy of meditation, flies win, hands down), I broke camp and launched myself back up and over the perilous side road until I hit the PCH with Big Sur in my sights.

After two nights spent camping with friends, it was time to fledge. We broke camp the morning of August 14 and, as we were in the final stages of leaving, I got my final lesson on camping in water-starved California. A fire broke out just behind our campsite, presumably started by campers that backed up onto the same small gully, and we had to make a run for it. The fire was quickly put out, but it sent a clear warning—the West is a tinder box this year!

Still, armed with burgeoning confidence, The Shroom and I traveled north and hit the first Walmart I could find with a list of forgotten items, such as sun screen, a camp lantern, a knife and much more. Three hours later, after wandering around like a brain-washed cult member throwing God-knows-what into the cart, I realized I was procrastinating and needed to get on with it—my next campground awaited. (Walmart really is a genius devil—I bought things that I never knew existed, but felt I needed for the increasingly bizarre what-if scenarios I kept conjuring up.)

After an hour’s drive on a beautiful coastline, enticing me to stop at every vista point, yet I couldn’t because I had wasted most of the day in the Devil’s lair, I arrived at San Simeon and excitedly set up camp, putting the mats out, organizing my gear, setting up the chair and table, and generally getting the lay of the land (i.e., finding the nearest bathroom, the nearest water source, and sizing up the neighbors). When it was all laid out perfectly, I smugly sat down to appreciate my work. Five minutes later, I thought, “Now what?” So, I grabbed my shoes and went for a hike. By the time I made it back to camp, I was hungry and it was dinnertime. So, I checked out my supplies, which would have made a survivalist proud, and opted for a quesadilla. Twenty minutes later I was having a proper meal, made by me, in a van. There are just so many things to marvel at here: a) I don’t cook. Or, I don’t like to cook; b) I used propane without blowing anything up; and c) Did I mention that I did this with a van?

As the sun dropped, I set about putting together the sleeping area inside the van, which entails several maneuvers that have to be done in a certain order, or one risks taking everything apart again. For example, once the bed is put together, you can’t get to your clothes, so changing into your sleepwear before you put the bed together is crucial, and maybe someday I will get that.

The next evening, after a wonderful day hiking the coast, I was figuring out what to prepare for dinner when a man my age came over and said, “I just have to see inside this thing.” So I gave him a tour of The Shroom and he was impressed. After he left, his girlfriend came over and invited me over for drinks. Hurray—my first camp invite and all because of The Shroom! So there I sat, in someone else’s RV, listening to stories about what lay ahead, as they were on an opposite trajectory.

When I got back to my camp, I hurriedly made myself a quesadilla, roasted up a s’more (okay, maybe two) over some illegally-gotten wood, and went to bed. This camping thing was going to be all right.

 

My first stop, as I mentioned before, was to a friend’s house in Thousand Oaks, who was an absolute godsend in so many ways. As fate would have it, Krista is a frequent van camper with her husband and three kids. So, I arranged to spend two days at her house to prepare for my odyssey and then go with her to a camping ground on the southern California coast two hours away to cut my teeth.

After chowing down on the obligatory In N Out burger, I unpacked the boxes that I had shipped out and began to ponder how to best pack the van. I quickly figured out that experience would be my best guide and that any arranging in advance would inevitably be rearranged as I went along. Then Krista took me shopping. With her years’ experience she ran down the list of must-have, yet not obvious, items, such as mats for outside the van, tongs, bigger bowls with lids, goat cheese and more. She also dug around her tubs of camping gear and supplied me with sponges, camp lighters, little lanterns and condoms (I guess they fall into one of those lesser-known Eagle Scout, Always Be Prepared categories).

So it was, on August 12, 2015, armed with the essentials, Krista and her gang hopped in their van and I in mine and made for my first camping site, with one pit stop along the way to an animal shelter to find an adventure dog for me (the one I liked was unavailable due to a “biting issue,” which didn’t really bother me). Two hours later we arrived and found our spot, #123.

Number 123 couldn’t have been better positioned (or named), with an unobstructed view of the Pacific, a great oak for shade and the hammock, and a bathroom and showers just steps away. My deer-in-the-headlights expression began to wane as we parked our vans and set up camp. Indeed, I began to think that, if this is camping, I’m in—a four-star room at a hotel couldn’t have offered a better spot. And that notion only grew over the next two days as I fired up the stove and made breakfast for five each morning, rode my bike along the coast, lounged on the beach, went boogie boarding with the kids, and roasted marshmallows over a campfire (the kids accused me of hogging most of them, a habit that will go largely unnoticed as I travel solo). I gained years of experience over those few days, and I will forever be grateful to my West Coast family for showing me the ropes. And, as if my stars weren’t lining up already, the skies put on a spectacular show each night as the Perseids meteor shower passed by.

I finally felt ready(ish) for Whatever.

 

In researching camping vehicles, I came across a company that struck my fancy for many reasons. 1) They are a New Zealand outfit and who doesn’t love the Kiwis? 2) The vans come equipped with ample storage, a large bed, and a galley with a pump sink and a small fridge. 3) Each van is custom spray painted graffiti-style. 4) They described the bedding as a duvet and pillows. 5) They were cheap.

So it was with equal parts eager anticipation and dread that I landed in LAX and went to retrieve my chariot for the next three months. The dread was because when I called to reserve a van, I got the last one available (yes, I procrastinate…a lot). I knew with near certainty that “the last one on the lot” would be ugly, a laughing stock, a failed experiment, or worse. As it turns out, perhaps it is to some, but to me, it is oddly perfect. You see, my van has purple and blue mushrooms painted on a green background. And there’s a squirrel and a Smurf, too. They call it The Shroom. As the rental guy told me about his high school experiences with shrooms, I got lost in my own reverie of my father and I tromping through the woods with our dogs in search of edible mushrooms. According to the many books we had on mycology, edible fungi ranged from, well, “edible” to “good” to “excellent” to “choice.” I found my van to be in the “choice” category, and it honored my wonderful, adventurous father.

But before he handed over the keys, he announced they “just” had to clean it out and give it an oil change, which would take a couple of hours. No worries, mate, I said gamely and looked around the dismal parking lot for somewhere to sit. This delay, however, proved to be extremely eye-opening as it gave me the chance to observe and query fellow renters/adventurers. It started with a bang, when a drop-dead gorgeous young Aussie came over and asked if I was the other Rowan. Turns out, we share a last name, as well as a penchant for wandering around the American West in hippy vans. Next up was a couple from Belgium who was just returning from their trip. The young male approached me and asked if I’d like to buy their brand-new bear spray for half price. One item checked off the list before I even left the parking lot! Then another young couple from England regaled me with their travel stories and just how “brilliant” the van was. And they were all duly impressed by the fact that I was going to be traveling around for three months in the thing.

As I watched renters come and go, I realized that my campervan tribe is strikingly young, foreign, and incredibly good looking, which, alarmingly, made me the token older American in the bunch. After five minutes of questioning just what in the hell I thought I was doing, the rental guy came over and said my van was ready.

After getting the grand tour and operating instructions, 75% of which went straight over my head (laughably, I even asked where the spare tire was, as if I’ve ever single-handedly remedied a flat), The Shroom and I made for the open road. One hour later, we had gone approximately 17 miles—LA traffic is no myth. An hour after that, I reached my friend’s house in Thousand Oaks, who later told me that when I pulled in, her seven-year-old daughter announced that the “workers are here.” But The Shroom was redeemed the next day when, stopped at a traffic light, a younger guy with dreadlocks knocked on my passenger window and said, “Awesome van.” Awesome, indeed.