Today, Willy and I covered six miles of the Pacific Coast Trail (PCT) in Oregon after driving around Crater Lake. As we hiked on this unremarkable path (made worse by the fact that I had just laid eyes on a body of water so impossibly blue that anything after would, literally, pale by comparison), I started to wonder about the purpose of this blog. Is it a travelogue? Is it a journal? Is it to amuse? Is it to work my shit out? The examples I have admired, like “Maiden Voyage,” “Into the Wild,” “Wild” (the one about the very trail I was walking on) and “Eat, Pray Love,” are very different books. Some are about the journey itself—the sights, the sounds, the daily blow-by-blow of life lived to the fullest. Others are tales of self-discovery by people whose lives were going sideways or nowhere at all. These are tales of taking stock and figuring out what one’s purpose is and what truly brings happiness. In all of them, there’s misadventure, enlightenment, epiphanies, knowledge, serenity and so much more. And I want it all, including the extraordinarily happy endings most of these journeys had (no-one sets out to be a cautionary tale like “Into the Wild,” where **spoiler** the guy dies).

But my story, and my journey, have to be my own and I need to find my own voice and resist the urge to mimic those who’ve gone before me. Sure, my shit is going sideways and I love adventure—which means we have so much in common! But it’s my shit and my adventure and I shouldn’t get sidetracked chasing something that I didn’t need to in the first place. First, I need to figure out what it is that I want, and that is where my writing comes in—to help sort it all out. So bear with me, dear reader(s?), as I do just that. I will meander in my writing as I do my travels, but I promise you this, there will be misadventure, hilarity, lessons learned and who knows what else along the way. And dragons. There will always be dragons.

My mother once slid up next to my brother and me at a beach party and stated through clenched, smiling teeth, “Rowans do not drink beer out of bottles,” a rule I had been previously unaware of. But why? Did it label us somehow? Was drinking beer from a bottle an outward admission of drinking beer and, worse, would everyone judge us for the brand we drank? Was our beer label labeling us?

Yet, I am as guilty as most of sizing someone up in an instant by their clothes, their hairstyles, their cars, their beer. Thankfully, I’m wrong most of the time, because life would be so dull if everyone were their own clichés. Take, for example, the unwavering belief I had before I set out that the only people filling campgrounds would be older, retired couples, with astro turf “lawns” outside their RVs; where they sat, drinking beer, from a can. Sure, there are those who pull into a spot, set up an entire household, from cable TV to an inviting outdoor seating area, and never leave the comforts of their home-away-from-home for the surrounding attractions, yet they are the first ones to invite me to play cards. The other 80% of the campers are as varied as any New York City subway platform. From young, honeymooning couples, to families of three generations, I’ve met the most surprising and interesting people, all of whom have added in some way to my journey. A quick conversation at the bathrooms will inform me of a better route to my next destination. Or, a walk with my dog has led to some fascinating tidbits about skirting certain dog “rules.” As a whole, this group has so much to offer to this neophyte that I need to dismiss any initial impressions I may have had in the three seconds I’ve walked toward them, and shut up and listen. After all, I’m the 47-year-old woman, with a pierced nose and a pedicure, driving a van with mushrooms painted on it.

A great way to shut up and listen comes when the sun goes down. With no electricity, campgrounds grow very, very dark after eight and observing the neighbors is impossible. Sound, however, carries perfectly in the night.* Depending on proximity, I can sit and listen to dozens of conversations from around the campground and I try and imagine what the people look like, what they wear, what their ethnicity is, and the list goes on. The next morning I get my first glimpse and they are very rarely how I had pictured them the night before (I did peg the 20-something girl with dreadlocks with stunning accuracy). As a lesson in not judging a book by its cover, night-time campgrounds offer the perfect cover.

* The drawback is that there are a few campers who feel their campsites are their bubbles, like a hotel room, and fart, belch and blast music with wild abandon as if they were behind walls.