It all started with a phone call from my accountant—if ever there were a harbinger of the “real world,” a man inquiring about the whereabouts of my W-2 is it. I looked around my desk in dismay, trying to figure out where I had expertly stashed tax-related documents from the mountains of mail that awaited my return from my three-month Whatever Journey. Unable to locate them, I did what any sane person would do—left the office and walked the dogs. Later that day, and after complaining to a few friends about the drudgery of responsibility and obligations, I heard over and over, “Welcome back to reality.”

For some reason, that didn’t sit well with me. If anything, my reality out on the road, camping out of a van, was more real than anything I have ever done. Being forced into a moment-to-moment existence, where finding the next campsite, dodging torrential thunder storms, and side-stepping rattle snakes were the only concerns, gives reality a whole new meaning. But that reality also offered up some of the most beautiful sights and experiences I have ever witnessed. It was a reality of extremes: After an apocalyptic storm, a beautiful rainbow would emerge; the eerie sounds of the night were complemented by star-filled skies; the dangerous surf provided a magnificent backdrop to the miles and miles of uninhabited beaches; and on it went. I rarely thought about any obligation outside of sleeping, eating and getting to the next campground. Hiking consisted very simply of watching for dangerous wildlife and tricky ledges, bringing enough water, all while soaking in the stunning surroundings. It was all so very real, and so very balanced.

So, yes, getting my tax return in is, indeed, my reality right now. As is surgery that will bench me for two to three months (just a foot, but as far as overall functionality, it’s an awfully important appendage). Yet, if I have learned anything, it’s that Nature loves balance, and humans struggle with it. Perhaps by taking a page from Nature’s book, this “reality” doesn’t have to bite if I can counter it with serenity and happiness. So, if you’ll excuse me, it’s snowing right now and I haven’t made a snow angel all winter. The accountant can wait.

 

 

 

The snow calls.

Many of my readers (well, two) have asked about Willy Whatever the Adventure Dog’s entry into my world at home and its existing animal kingdom. Having lost two cats while I was away, there was only one cat and one dog to introduce Willy to and hope for the best. The dog I left behind, Mika, was in the capable care of my boyfriend and they thrived (in fact, I believe that he met my return with the required-amount of enthusiasm, but some regret since I’d be taking Mika back). My cat, Repete, had a rougher time of it, having been left at my house with intermittent care, but no real companionship.

Now that I’ve provided the lay of the land, it is worth mentioning at this point that Mika is an alpha dog…and so is Willy—two little Napoleons—making for an interesting first night. Willy spent his time chasing the cat and getting into teeth-gnashing fights with Mika over food. They didn’t really fight, but they would end up in a growling, barking, teeth-baring ball of fur. I would step in and separate them and they would grudgingly go to their corners—the same one—me. Just think, before I left for my adventure, Mika and I had been inseparable for the past seven years. Then I leave and get a stray dog and travel together for three months, joined at the hip. It presented some problems.

To add to the general chaos, Willy is only a year old and tried to engage Mika and Repete in anyway possible, and they were having none of it. He is still trying and there is some accommodation on the part of Mika with small bouts of chasing each other.

After about five more brawls between the dogs and a few well-placed swipes by the cat, there seems to be a general détente; and just in time for Christmas. Willy and Mika sleep together on my bed, as does the cat sometimes. We’ve enjoyed some great hikes together and, as long as food isn’t in the mix, everyone is generally getting along. The cat is acting out periodically by sharpening his claws on every piece of furniture and knocking things off shelves (always at about 2 a.m.) but, I’m not sure if it’s because of the addition of Willy or the loss of his beloved twin brother, Petie. I’m cutting him some slack…for now.

All in all, I think it’s going to work. They are not the best of friends I had hoped for, but I think they will all grow old companionably and may even start to enjoy one another. It’s, once again, a peaceable kingdom.

Since the few weeks I have been back, I have been struggling with writing. It is honestly difficult to go from awestruck-tourist to everday-observalionalist. Let me start by saying that I long for my van. Here at home, I am stuck in everyone else’s problems—maybe escaping was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Yet, that wasn’t was what I was trying to accomplish. I wasn’t running away—I was running toward something: Adventure, the unknown, an unforeseen future…who knows. And that was the whole point. I wanted to be open to it all. You see, I am cursed with optimism. I am that glass-half-full, annoying, chirping person who will always see the positive side of things, which is why I will never understand pessimists and narcissists.

Being on the road for the last few months has treated me to a group of people who wake up every day and are amazed. We wandered campgrounds and National Parks, jaws gaping, wondering how on earth such beauty could exist (yet, still trying to maintain the “it’s totally cool” look). It’s a juggling act—you can only feign superiority for so long before you pitch up on a natural bridge or an arch and just gasp. Even the most curmudgeonly or savvy among us was rendered speechless. And that’s what I miss. Here, at home, I have been treated to tales of sorrowful misunderstandings and self-absorbed bullshit and I am left feeling like everyone takes everything for granted. To boot, I have tried to have conversations with actual humans who refuse to raise their eyes from their screens.  No, Thank You. Seriously, it’s like talking to a parking meter.

We are out here; living life and not playing Words With Friends. And, by the way, they really aren’t your friends—those would be the people standing right in front of you.

Once again, stepping off my soapbox, but in the hopes that we can all play in the schoolyard again.

 

You know how some things just aren’t your thing, yet, people try and convince you out of it, educate you otherwise, get you to see the error in your ways and become downright evangelical about it, not realizing it’s their thing, not yours?

That is how I feel about cooking, and coffee, and lakes. Let’s start with cooking. It’s not that I don’t know how—anyone can do it, I think. I just don’t want to. It’s a chore; which is strange because I really appreciate eating, and good food, and will go out of my way to find the best sushi, or Thai, or barbeque. Yet, when I cook, it has to be simple and fast. And that is why, of the 80-plus days I was camping, I had around 60 quesadillas for dinner; no exaggeration. A proper quesadilla, with spinach, refried beans and salsa, tackles about three or four food groups, is easy to make, and tastes good. I did an inventory of my food supplies halfway through my trip and laughed at how ambitious I was in my culinary planning—I had wild rice, cous cous, pesto and myriad other unopened items (I did, however, spend a good 10 minutes in a hardware store debating the pros and cons of campfire marshmallow-roasting forks.) So, no—I have not had a come-to-Jesus moment about cooking, as my mother had hoped.

As for coffee, I simply don’t like it, and that’s about all I can say on the subject. Well-meaning people have tried to serve me mocha, coffee ice cream, “The Best Costa Rican,” and on and on. I don’t like it, and probably never will, so can we just leave it at that?

Lastly, lakes. I have family and friends who live on lakes, adore lakes, and would be lost without them. So, forgive me in advance, but I don’t get it. Sure, they’re pretty, some are even gorgeous, but they don’t do anything. They just sit there (making Lake Placid the most aptly-named lake in my esteem). I’ve been to my fair share of lakes, from the Great Lakes in the Midwest to Lake Geneva, and they are still just bodies of water that are inert. Oceans pound, rivers run, waterfalls cascade and brooks babble. They are constantly on the move and offering up something new, which appeals to me in some way.

I’m not sure if I have a point in all of this, but I guess it’s to say that I like restaurants, Red Bull and oceans. Those are my things. But, I won’t try and dissuade anyone of theirs.

While my re-entry into civilization was softened by a brief stay at my friends’ house on the West Coast, my logistical re-entry onto the East Coast was anything but easy. After unpacking the van, boxing up items to be shipped (including my bike), packing up the rest in my suitcase and buying Willy one of those chic dog carriers that usually schlep cute purebreds, not scruffy mutts, we were ready to roll. I had booked us a red-eye flight on the advice of my friend and I agreed that nighttime would be a fine time to fly with a dog. On the day of my flight, which departed at 10 p.m., I realized I had forgotten to let the van rental company know that I would be dropping off the beloved Shroom, but after hours, and that posed the first problem in my journey. After sending pictures to assure them that I would be returning the van in fine condition, they agreed to my after-hours procedure and sent me the combination to their lot. When I arrived, I realized that the combo they gave me was to a massive gate leading to their parking area (I was assuming it would just be a simple drop box scenario). I managed to wrangle it open, park The Shroom, get my bags and Willy out of the van and to the sidewalk when I realized I was on an access road a few miles from LAX, with no signs of life except cars shooting by, thumping with music. I toyed with the idea of flagging one down and offering them $20 to get us those few miles, but thought better of it and slogged down the sidewalk and found a Comfort Inn (how great would it have been if it were a Motel 6?!). I marched in and inquired when the next shuttle to the airport was, as if I were a guest instead of a dirty camper from down the road, and he said I had just missed it, so I asked him to call me a cab.

And it all worked! I got to the airport, boarded our flight and settled in for our midnight run, and that’s when the baby started crying in the row in front of me, the mother’s seat half in my lap and the lights overhead blaring during service. After about an hour of this, everything finally quieted down, the lights were turned off and the soft sounds of snoring could be heard up and down the aisles. After assuring myself that Willy was OK after his first take-off (I think) I, too, tried for sleep, which I have very rarely ever attained in flight—and this time would be no different, so I resigned myself to listening to my audiobook. And that’s when the mother in front of me turned on her iPad light and started to flash it under her seat, looking for something, but also meaning that she was pointing it straight at Willy. I let her have it, I’m afraid, and it was not one of my prouder moments. In my defense; a) I had been charged $150 for the dog and she not a penny for her child; b) this was in first class and her seat was obviously broken and listing precariously back into me; and c) this was my first flight with a dog in the cabin and I was a little on edge. It all ended well, I’m happy to report, as she and I apologized to each other upon landing in Philadelphia.

From there, it would just be a short hop to Hartford, but I purposefully built in enough time to run Willy outside for a pee break. That accomplished, we went back through security and they asked me to get him to go through the device on his own, instead of my carrying him through as I had done in LAX. I warned them it might not work and pushed his little butt through ahead of me, and then watched him take off around the TSA area, security guards trying to catch him.

Two hours later, we landed in Hartford, retrieved our bags, stepped outside to find my boyfriend waiting with my other dog, and we were home, a little worse for the wear and dog-tired, but home nonetheless.

I was reminded today that, sometimes, it’s the stuff in between that can be the most important; the silent note, the unspoken word. Let me be more clear: I was once explaining to my friend Occa about my gardens (and I’m not a terribly good gardener, but not bad, either) that it’s the spaces in-between that make a good garden—yes, you can pile on beautiful patch after beautiful patch, but it’s the respite between the two that makes all the difference. And I think that is what I am doing right now. I have traveled for 86 days and have seen some amazing sights and, here I am, stuck in my house because of rain. There’s no Rand-McNally dictating my next move, no National Park just around the bend, there is just a pile of laundry that needs tending to. And that’s OK. It stands in contrast to everything I’ve just been witness to, but perhaps a much-needed contrast. It (this ridiculous pile of laundry) makes everything that I have seen and done all the more special. So, with that, I am going to pour in my detergent and spend the afternoon folding because tomorrow, who knows, though I dearly hope it will involve dragons.

I have not posted in two weeks because I am now home, the Whatever Journey on a brief hold. I cut my trip short by a week in order to tend to my feline friend left home alone and, more selfishly, to catch my breath. Van life is, at once, exciting, amazing, unpredictable and exhausting—and has left me a bit breathless. All along, my plan was to journey down through Arizona, New Mexico, then to Joshua Tree and back to the Los Angeles area. Storms through Arizona forced me to travel faster than I would have liked, but offered up some dramatic backdrops as I drove through Monument Park surrounded by fork lightning, eerily grey/green skies and low clouds that draped themselves over the enormous red rock buttes and towers. (To underscore just how scary this portion of travel was, I pulled over at one point and called my friend Donna to find out whether being in my van was a good thing or bad thing when it came to lightning.) From there, Willy and I made our way to Joshua Tree National Park, which in many ways, was the perfect exclamation point on our journey. It’s hard to describe this magical place, which is a meeting of two deserts—the Colorado and the Mojave—the former below 3,000 feet and the latter above. Each has a distinct eco-system, which translated into two very different looks and feels. In order to take it all in, we stayed five days, two on the Colorado side and three on the Mojave side, exploring volcanic rock formations, ancient plants, oases, and the myriad lizards, tarantulas and similar creepy crawlies. Oh, but the nights—they were the main attraction. The skies were teeming with constellations and shooting stars, and the grounds with coyotes, which circled the campgrounds every night. Willy, my self-assigned protector, didn’t quite know what to do with them as they ran by our van yipping and howling. He would offer up a perfunctory bark and growl, but quickly resigned himself to the fact that he was better off in the van. Coyote sounds are other-worldly, and rather intimidating, scaring our bladders into inactivity until daylight.

From Joshua Tree, we made the short trip back to where it all started, in Thousand Oaks, Calif., with my nutty West Coast family. These are my friends who, three months prior, taught me the ropes on van camping, themselves avid campers armed with a Eurovan and Minnie Winnie. Nine thousand miles and 86 days later, I had come full circle.

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.