Among the many challenges camping provides, hygiene sits at or near the top. Campgrounds are a real crapshoot in this regard, as is accessing my toiletries. Let’s start with showering. Some campgrounds have them, many don’t, and it’s not always a given that I avail myself of one if they are on offer. The mere act of showering requires a concert of tricky maneuvers. First, I have to dig around to find the toiletries, and a fresh change of clothes, as well as my flip-flops and quarters (you don’t go into those showers without the last two). After getting Willy into the van because he’ll bark if I leave him tied up alone at the site, I juggle all of the above-mentioned items anywhere from 100 feet to a quarter of a mile to the showers. Once inside, finding a place to put the fresh clothes and towel so that they don’t get wet is the first bit of business. Once that is done, I strip down, pump in the quarters and wait for hot water, which sometimes comes, sometimes doesn’t. Then, I jump in and get everything done as fast as I can, trying to outrace the quarters. Countless times I have been stuck with lathered hair having run out of hot water, or just plain water, which is why I have armed myself with easy-to-rinse children’s shampoo.

After toweling off and getting some moisturizer on, it’s a comical balancing act to get dressed, not wanting my bare feet to touch the floors. Then, I have to get everything back to the van. By the time this entire cleansing process has been completed, I have usually broken out into a sweat, undoing that shower-fresh feeling.

So, I spend a lot of time unshowered, trying to tame my short hair from sleep the night before with a water bottle. Deodorant? Why bother. Thankfully, I’m not much of a make-up person, so no worries there. (As an aside, watching some women in the campground bathrooms trying to apply make-up and flat-iron their hair is hilarious—the mirrors are steel affairs so it would be like trying to doll up in a fun house.) My only nod to vanity is a wrinkle cream I apply to my face each night. I know it doesn’t work, especially since I’m out every day without any sunscreen, but it somehow makes me feel better, like I’m trying, at least.

Hands and feet get washed at campground hydrants (as does my hair sometimes) and nails get clipped whenever I just can’t look at them anymore. I laughingly brought along some nail polish, but I wouldn’t even know where to locate it. Laundry is done when I can get to a friend’s place or a hotel with facilities. The rest of the time, socks and underwear are “washed” wherever I find water. And teeth are easy—they are the cleanest part on me.

In all, camping is no glamorous affair. I don’t think I can scare small children, or drive people away with my odor, yet, so I’m doing all right. As I write this, I have just come out of a lovely shower, in a hotel, and I am clean, for now. (And, no, there are no pictures with this post!)

For the past week, I have been traveling through some of the most beautiful spots on earth, but something just didn’t feel right. And it wasn’t until today that I realized that it is because I am feeling trapped, by so many wildly different things. The feeling started in Moab, arguably THE mecca for mountain biking. I knew peripherally that Moab had something to do with outdoor enthusiasts, but it wasn’t until I got there that I realized that bikers, cyclists, ATVers, off-roaders and more, from every corner of the earth, flock to this piece of red sand to enjoy the thousands of miles and acres of off-road action. But my brand new mountain bike stayed in the back of the van—with Willy. There is no place to leave a dog while you get lost for hours; motels don’t allow them unattended in the room and it was just too hot to leave him in the van. So, I resigned myself to driving around The Arches, jumping in and out at each stop to grab a look, but eventually my guilt about hauling Willy to places where they don’t allow dogs always wins out and we hightailed it to some BLM land for a long hike.

We then took a three-day detour to Salt Lake City to see some old friends at an event. Since I had had a couple of much-improved Motel 6 experiences, I booked us into one for two nights. About five minutes after checking in, there were police out in the parking lot, couples yelling at each other, small children running around with no shirts on, all of which forced Willy and I to hide inside unless we absolutely had to go out.

From Salt Lake, we made for a campground in the middle of Utah at Yuba Lake. It was a gorgeous spot and we immediately unpacked and headed to the water for a sunset walk—and it was lovely until we ran into a small rattlesnake, which left all of us severely rattled. The next morning, we went back out before the reptiles had time to warm up and watched the sunrise over the mountains—a stunning site, quickly forgotten as we came across a lone pelican out on a sandbar in the middle of the lake. One of us was terribly lost. Our strange animal encounters didn’t stop there. When we left the campground, a free-range cow (when they say free-range in the West, they are not kidding) raced us down the road for a good quarter mile. Graceful creatures they are not.

The next two days were spent winding through Capitol Reef National Park and Glen Canyon and the scenery was incredible, but each night we were pounded with thunder storms, forcing us into the cramped van, unable to enjoy hot meals, nighttime campfires and s’mores. It’s hard to describe the discomfort of suiting up in this small space, just to trudge over to the bathrooms or walk Willy at night. I have a few bruises from slamming the doors into my legs.

Despite a rainbow that greeted us as we departed today, I still felt restless and the scenery added to it rather than cure it. I felt the red canyon walls and wide mesas acutely—trapped by the former and without bearing in the latter. I longed for the comfort of my house, in the woods, on a small dirt road. Some place I can hole up in comfortably, or leave the dogs behind and go for a ride, and I am pretty familiar with all of the strange creatures and reptiles in my area. I believe that this feeling of entrapment is just a result of too much exhausting travel inside the van this past week dodging heat and storms (and bad hotels!). Not to mention, I’ve been on the road almost 70 days now. Thankfully, each evening, I still marvel at what I have just passed through as I plan the next day’s travel, and I have a feeling that this journey will only grow in significance when it’s over. Perhaps it doesn’t all make sense now, but I believe that each of these sights, encounters and experiences will find its place in my future. At the very least, I’ll have some pretty credible bragging rights.

Let me just start by saying that I have too much of it. My constant need to look like I know what I’m doing, even when I haven’t the foggiest idea, is laughable. I just wandered around a fairly simple campground trying to pay someone for my night’s stay, but got lost, within two acres, several times. I’ve pulled into gas stations like I own the place and some guy will scream out, “That’s the diesel pump!” It wouldn’t have been a big deal if I weren’t in this stupid, stupid, but really cool, van. I try and think where it comes from and I have to put it squarely at my mother’s feet. I remember as a child that she put on the most wonderful parties, winter or summer. In winter, cross-country skiers were supplied with skies, poles, the works, and wine and cheese chilling in the snow banks upon their return. When there wasn’t much else to celebrate, like April Fool’s Day, she threw a party that was in opposite land, but not really. Her Hors d’oeuvres looked like dessert, petit fours, but hotdog tasting, and she ended with a dessert that looked like the main course, but was really a sweet. It’s all about presentation.

So here I am in the most foreign of universes: the landscape, the people, the lodgings, and I whip out my prosciutto in a declaration that I have this covered. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t even have a melon baller. When I drive through some of the most barren, yet awe-inspiring, landscapes I am left in a bit of a panic attack at the enormity of it all (though the stars at night have cured me of this nicely). Since I’ve written last, I have traveled through Idaho and the Craters of the Moon, Yellowstone, back down through Wyoming and Antelope Flats into Utah and the Flaming Gorge, all of which have left me dumbfounded and scrambling for adjectives. Every corner I turn there is a new wonder and, I don’t have this—none of it. I can pretend forever, but two-thirds of the way into my trip, I need to understand that life is big, it’s fucking huge. And I need to slow down and take bite-sized chunks or I will be overwhelmed or, worse, miss out on all of the incredible beauty that surrounds me.

So, here I sit trying to eat the rice and beans I just cooked on my Coleman stove—completely burned to a crisp while I typed at my laptop. Still, it tastes pretty darned good. Add a dash of this resplendent Utah sunset, and it might well be the best meal I’ve ever had.

 

There are those who would say that I have not processed the death of my father, but I don’t know what that means. Believe me, if there were a simple “process,” I would have completed it long ago. What I do know is that I miss him—with every breath. It is to him that I owe everything and I have spent the last 10 years since his death trying to quantify his effect on my life. There are no numbers, no words, no pithy expressions that can accomplish that.

Every walk, every foray, every adventure, however, keeps me close to him. Each time I pitch up to an unbelievable sight, I see it through two sets of eyes: his and mine. The wonder I feel is his—he taught me that. This was a man who bundled up three small children in the middle of the night and rowed them out into the middle of a pond to see a full moon. I have yet to meet another person who enjoyed life as much as he did.

I worked side by side with my father for 15 years against his wishes (he saw bigger things for me), but after graduating from college and living around the world, I gravitated back to him. And, we thrived. Not only did we work side by side, every morning we would meet up and walk our dogs or, if conditions were just right, we would take a few sled runs. When the weather cooperated, we would bike to work, he outflying me by a lot. I could go on and on and list the incredible adventures we shared, but I would be at this laptop for hours. Let me just say that he’s not someone I was born into—he was someone I admired, revered and wanted to be close to, by choice.

I just can’t figure out what to do when that gravitational force is gone. I think I’m doing all right by him. He would love this—my whatever adventure. And he would love that I’m writing. He gave me strength that I have yet to tap and I look forward to discovering it. I just wish he were here to bounce my crazy thoughts off of—he understood them and applauded my audacity, but reined me in when needed.

I am going to pause here to pay homage to my feline friends. I’ve gone on about my little animal shelter dog, Willy, and he is the bee’s knees, but I left behind a wonderful, peaceable kingdom of three cats and one dog. My boyfriend has the dog, and she (the dog) is very happy in his care. My cats were left with some very good friends—but one was very old and one had a heart condition. During week two of my journey, the old one (Archie) died—a good death, succumbing to old age. The other two, four-year-old brothers named Pete and Repete soldiered on, infuriating their caretakers with their crazy antics. However, Pete went into cardiac failure yesterday and I had to make the decision to put him down. I am so terribly sad.

I am also angry for not being there. I pride myself on facing the inevitable and being present in my animals’ last moments, with treats, and bacon, and whatever I else I can anthropomorphize. Archie and Petie were, honestly, the best of cats and I will miss them.

It’s now been almost two months into my camper van journey and I feel fairly confident negotiating my way around the campgrounds, and national parks, in general. There are spoken (and infuriatingly unheard) rules, as well as a  hierarchy of badassery, which is largely unspoken.

My first weeks were a comical journey of trial and error. At first, I sheepishly entered each campground, trying to maintain a low profile, which is very hard to do in a green van with mushrooms painted on it. I was immediately an object of curiosity, and some subsequent snickering I’m sure, as they watched me back into my spot, which usually took about seven attempts. Once situated with the best view, I would find that the van was perched at about a 15-degree angle, making sleeping akin to riding a roller coaster. (Lesson #23: It’s less about the view than being parallel to the ground.)

After parking, I would offload my chairs, the table, the mats, the bike, always in the wrong order, forcing me to start over. Lesson #12: Setting everything up, and then trying to roll out the mats just does not work. And then there’s Lesson #19: Getting the stove set up, with the lid open, prevents access to the pots behind the lid. Whatever.

In the evenings, I would marvel at the brilliant campfires people had started, while I was dousing mine with lighter fluid just so I could roast a marshmallow. And so it goes.

After fits and starts, I was finally able to slide in, sit back and observe. I would, and still do, compare my ninja vehicle to the behemoths that are Class A RVs and think, sure, anyone can camp if they are in a moving home with cable TV, kitchen and bathroom. And then there are those tow-behind, homes-on-wheels. They can detach and go explore at will, coming back to a veritable palace at the end of the day, but, still, is that the true spirit of camping? And that brings me to my tribe, who split the difference: In a van, we can go places RVs can’t, but we cart everything with us and have to re-set up every night. Just above us (I’m debating whether they are above or below) are those with cars, who drive in and set up tents every evening—yet, I could still feel an element of camaraderie. But, hike-in, bike-in campers? I’ve got nothing. They are pretty close to the top of the badass chain (the fact that they are in a campground knocks them down a few notches). Rain or shine, they roll, or stride, in with nothing but what their backs or bikes can carry, and set up camp. In my eagerness to swap war stories among my fellow campers, I quickly figured out that complaining about eleven-thread-count contour sheets from Walmart would fall on deaf ears with this crowd, so I steer clear.

In order to find something beneath me on the food chain, I turn to tourists, from which I also steer clear for a good reason—they fall on the very bottom of the totem pole and any association with them is a black mark on my adventure resumé. But, why? Am I not camping in the same places for the same reasons? They want to see a geyser as much as I do and what makes me superior to them because I camped out in the woods instead of, perhaps, wisely, seeking out a nice hotel with an indoor pool and hot tub? I try and reconcile this and give the busloads a break at each stopping point, but—I. Just. Can’t. There are signs, pictograms and live human rangers yelling at all of us to respect the rules and they (yes, tourists) tromp all over everything, selfie sticks in hand, only to gather proof that they were there—they do not appreciate their surroundings; instead, they shove each other aside for a photo op and jockey for position when Old Faithful is about to blow. I could go on about “they,” but it would be disingenuous because I am the first one to slam on the brakes when there’s a moose by the side of the road. Still, I obey the rules and I am saddened by the lack of respect for our stunning landscape. I am, proudly, a tourist marveling at our wonders, but I will refuse to be “they,” the ones who feel it necessary to carve their names into a mountainside or geyser, or carry a selfie-stick. I am now stepping off my soapbox…and here are some photos.