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.

 

 

 

 

In hindsight, the last few days were a lead-up to hitting a wall, and this became clear while traveling alongside the Salmon River. After waking up at the Motel 6 (see previous post), which actually smelled better in the room than outside it (thanks McDonald’s), Willy and I hit the road, on what seemed an endless treading of the mill through rolling fields, exactly like the day before. We did not have a campground reservation for the night, but we did have a destination in mind in McCall, which was first come, first-served. As we traveled, I was not in a good place. I felt anxious, unhappy, dissatisfied, alone, and on it went—a miasma of yuck. I yearned to be back home, transported no less, as the thought of the travel to get there made me sick to my stomach. Not helping were the winds whipping across these rolling fields, which buffeted The Shroom in such a way that we were dancing all over the road. I resigned myself to another exhausting ride with no certainty of a bed at the end. After a few hours, we descended down seven treacherous miles and wound up hugging the Salmon River. Immediately, my mood lightened, my teeth started to unclench and my shoulders descended from my ears. This stretch of road was absolutely gorgeous and we pulled over at least a half a dozen times to take a small walk or snap some photos. Lending a hand, the afternoon light made the river sparkle and shimmer and, all of a sudden, it felt like everything was right in the world again.

I couldn’t believe it—was that all it took—an awesome river? “Um, yeah, that’s what you’re here for, dumbass,” answered my ever-forgiving and eloquent thoughts. My original intent was to be transported, to be awed, to be humbled, and here I was, somewhere in Idaho, and it was happening; for the umpteenth time, I might add. On the one hand, I was so relieved to have sprung back. On the other, I thought, “Great, so every time you’re in a funk you’ll need to go somewhere beautiful?” (It’s actually not a bad plan, but it might present some logistical problems.) How can just a few days of bad scenery upend me that way? I had just spent the last 40 being treated to some of the most jaw-dropping wonders I’ve ever seen and I let a few boring lakes and rolling fields erase it all?

My mood was even further lifted when we hit the campground and scored one of the last spots, just in time to set up, take a walk, light a fire and get dinner on (we passed into mountain central time so we lost an hour—who divides up a state like that, from north to south, by the way?). Once I settled in, I grabbed my bible, the Rand McNally, to plan the next two nights on my way to Yellowstone to meet my best friend for some bison antics. To my amazement, I found two unbelievable stops that will thrill and excite me; and they were under my nose the whole time, just like the Salmon River. For the past few days, I had been staring at the map of Idaho trying to make some sense of it as a thruway, but my mood had prevented me from seeing it as a destination.

Our ability to work ourselves up, only to have it reversed from one moment to the next, is the curse of the human mind. But, we are supposed to be creatures that learn and I, for one, intend to keep on making stupid mistakes and learning from them. If nothing else, the last few days have taught me that everything is going to be OK, it really will. Our moods and thoughts can blind us momentarily, but eventually our eyes take over. If you don’t believe me, check out the Rand McNally Road Atlas.

I’ve passed the halfway mark of my three-month journey and I’m surprised to say that I’ve only come close to melting down twice; and today was one of them.

Let’s go back to the first. Feeling refreshed after staying at a friend’s house near Mt. Hood, Ore., and doing some laundry, I traveled over to Hood River to check out the world-renowned kiteboarding and windsurfing on the Columbia River. Willy and I walked the river up and down for almost three miles transfixed by what people could do with some wind, a bigass kite and a small surfboard (well, I was transfixed, he was more interested in the ducks). I must have grabbed my phone out of my cargo pocket 20 times to get a picture or take a video—one of those times my debit card flew out with it. I didn’t realize it until we got back to the van, so I threw Willy in and ran back to retrace our steps. I covered the entire three miles in about 15 minutes, but I knew I had no chance. Did I mention the wind in the Columbia River Gorge? There is no way a small card stood up to that and stayed put (instead it probably sliced some poor kitesurfer).

So, tail between my legs, I decided to head over the river over into Washington to spend the night at a friend-of-a-friend’s place up the hill just 10 minutes away. As I crossed the bridge, cursing my stupidity and trying to figure out just how in the hell I could get a new card sent to me since I had no address except The Shroom, I decided to go for a hike. We ended up on a beautiful trail overlooking the Gorge and slowly I melted into the realization that there was nothing I could do about it at that moment. So we hiked until the sun was about to set and then spent a great evening in the driveway of a pot dealer (totally legal!) enjoying the pungent aroma and a fantastic view. (I did get a new debit card—delivered to the awful Motel 6 at Sea-Tac Airport I reported on a few posts ago.)

Which brings me to near meltdown #2. Today, I woke up in Idaho with big plans. First, Willy and I went in search of a moose on a lake, but came up empty. Learning that heading east into Montana was not advised due to wildfires, we hopped into the van and headed south—to Hell’s Gate in Lewiston, Idaho. As I do each morning, I studied the Rand McNally Road Atlas, which has been my bible, to get a fix on the next campground and an ETA. I figured three or four hours, which gave us plenty of time to explore. After pulling over every hour during the first three hours to try and figure out why we were not making more headway, I had a sickening revelation—either Rand or McNally had neglected to put in big, bold type, at the top of the Idaho page, that the key is different than the pages I had been following through California, Oregon and Washington. You see, they squashed this lovely state onto one page, where the other three states occupied a spread, and one inch equaled 40 miles in Idaho, not 20 like the others. So, we soldiered on, taking small breaks, and eventually reached Hell’s Gate State Park at 6 p.m. It was full. And, no, she did not know where else we could go.

Knowing nothing about where I was, I looked at the map and saw that the next campground was hours away, so I asked Siri to find a pet-friendly hotel in Lewiston. Yup, Motel 6. Crestfallen, Willy and I went to take a look (oddly, we crossed a bridge over the Snake River into Washington to get there. What is it with me and crossing bridges into Washington in utter defeat?!). To my surprise, it was MUCH nicer than the one a week before, but still a depressing place with a view of McDonald’s. With no other choice, and one of us exhausted and close to tears, we checked in. Before we even offloaded our necessaries, however, I threw Willy back into the van and drove the five miles back to the state park and went for a hike along the Snake River while the sun set. It was just what we needed. So, devil or not, Motel 6 is where we are spending the night and that’s OK. I’m sure there will be more Motel 6s in our path, but I also know that there are a great many other paths to go along with them.

When the seed of this far-fetched idea first started to take hold, I knew it was something I had to do alone, for one very practical reason, as well as several very emotional reasons. Let’s just do away with the obvious first: I am in a unique position to be able to take these three months to explore and I don’t know of anyone else I’d spend even a weekend with who was in the same position.

That left me with the emotional reasons. Many of the relationships I left behind were up in the air, and I hate “up in the air.” I like clarification. I like to know exactly where I stand, even if the answer isn’t the one I was hoping for. This discomfort with ambiguity has served me well, and caused me great pain. On the one hand, I am not afraid to address situations that may be awkward at first, but infinitely better in the long run once the air is cleared. On the other, I push for answers when there aren’t any, and sometimes that means forcing premature, and hasty, responses. I need to learn patience and I’m hoping that traveling solo will deliver ample opportunities.

Quite honestly, striking out on my own doesn’t present huge hurdles in terms of mechanics. I have traveled around the world, lived alone for the past nine years, shoveled my own damn driveway and generally figured things out. But, sometimes I make mistakes in life, colossal ones, and that’s when going it alone might not be the best course of action.

Yet here I sit. I guess I’m torn between figuring things out for myself, where I alone am judge and jury, and simply asking for help, risking judgment. I don’t have a good answer for this and I suspect I never will. What I miss is just the simple interaction with another person, the shared awe at what we’ve encountered, and maybe someone to take the wheel on occasion. Companionship is important to me and I relish being among friends and am often jealous of the laughter I hear around the campgrounds each night (which also means I’m not completely alone, doesn’t it?).

For now, I’ll continue to look like a crazy person stepping out onto a viewing ledge or vista point shouting to no-one in particular, “Get out! Is that just the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?!” Perhaps that’s why I got a dog who has no choice but to listen to me.

One of the pleasures of a journey such as this are the unplanned-for side trips, and the San Juan Islands did not figure into any of my laughable “plans.” Upon a suggestion by a high school friend, Willy and I spent the last four days in the San Juans, staying at campgrounds and a charming pet-friendly hotel to do some laundry, in search of marine life, namely orcas. While Orca Willy made himself scarce, we did see plenty of porpoises, a few seals, a herd (?) of alpacas and one bald eagle. We also hiked to the highest points on each island for commanding views of the harbors, as well as Canada. It was a thoroughly enjoyable break from driving and I had an aha! Moment, to boot—I discovered that I should live on an island—it’s impossible to get lost. Sooner or later water comes into view and you have to make a turn, and all turns eventually lead back to camp, somehow.

When it came time to go, we did so tentatively. My bad. I had failed to make a reservation for the ferry, and it was Sunday. So, we sat on stand-by for nearly five hours. After making our way across the Sound, it started to pour. We got to our next campsite and just hunkered down for the evening. By morning, the skies had cleared and we set out on Route 20, one of the most scenic roads I have ever traveled. And that is where I find myself—in the Northern Cascades. It’s an unbelievable neck of the woods, where the “green” factor is ratcheted up to an 11. Seriously, the moss is covered with moss. I chained my bike up to a tree not five hours ago and I think it’s already sporting a coat. The old direction-finding tool of moss growing on the north side of a tree is completely useless here. Which is why I’ll likely be lost tomorrow.

I’ve often wondered in the three-plus weeks I’ve had Willy what he considers home. Think of it: I took a dog from a shelter in California and hauled him through three different states, each day to a new campground, in a van. We hike, we explore and, mostly, enjoy a dog’s life. (This little guy has no idea that a proper home, and a sister, await him in Connecticut.) But, Willy’s kryptonite is car travel, so his “home” is also a place of motion sickness, misery and drooling (he is improving!). Yet, to my amazement, every night, there is no happier a mutt when we settle back into the van, undo his harness and snuggle into bed. I’m not sure how he reconciles the sleepy van with the travel van, but I’m beginning to get it—the van is home and, as such, sure beats a lot of alternatives.

This really hit home ( yes, I am battering this metaphor) recently when, after a whirlwind tour of the Olympic Peninsula with a friend, we headed back to Sea-Tac airport to a Motel 6 to accommodate her 5 a.m. flight the next day. It was the only dog-friendly airport hotel I could find and I figured, as a national chain, it couldn’t be so bad. It was bad—really, really bad. After checking in, I parked while Grace went to find the room. As she was walking in, she was joined by a group and a girl said, “Hi, you’re pretty, wanna come upstairs and party with us?” That’s not leaving the light on for us—that’s scaring the shit out of us. Once in the room, we tiptoed around in shoes, peeled the bed covers off and locked every point of entry we could find. Walking Willy around the parking lot made me want to don a hazmat suit. I contemplated staying in the van, because I knew where the dirt came from and I had bear spray, but I instead slunk back inside to power up my devices and wash a few things in the sink. The next morning, instead of reveling in a shower all to myself, without having to pump quarters in, I jumped in, jumped out, packed up and left, feeling dirtier than I had when I arrived after not showering for four days.

After a few mandatory grocery and fuel stops, I sped out of Seattle with Orcas Island in my sights. As I neared the town of Anacortes, which is the jumping off point for the San Juan Islands, a lovely, brown campground sign came into view and, without even thinking, I pulled off. The next thing I knew, I was happily ensconced in a campsite on the Padilla Bay, setting up for the night. And it felt good…and safe…and clean. I lit a fire, made some dinner, wrote a little, took a walk on the beach and then Willy and I jumped into The Shroom for the night. We both wriggled with delight.

Van or no van, Willy and I find comfort in each other, and it sounds so trite, but he and I have made an unlikely home, coordinates notwithstanding.

For the past four days, I circumnavigated the Olympic Peninsula in Washington with a friend and it was a pilgrimage for several reasons. This amazing piece of land boasts everything from mountains to endless coastline…and Forks. I’ve now been to the northwestern-most point in the lower 48 (Cape Flattery—and it is beautiful), I’ve hiked in the Mainland’s only rain forest, I’ve seen tribal lands and, most importantly, I’ve been to the town where the Twilight series takes place. When I picked up my friend Grace at Sea-Tac Airport and started our four-hour drive to the campground, she grinned and said, “You know, we are heading into Twilight land.” Grace is half my age, but I knew better than to feign ignorance—I rank among the 40-somethings who read and saw every book and movie in the vampire/werewolf series that captured the hearts and minds of teen girls everywhere. In my defense, it did escape me that I would be traveling to where Bella, Edward and Jacob left their indelible mark.

But, we left it at that—smiling smugly that our friends would be jealous of many things about our four-day journey and, perhaps, most of all, the Twilight part (I promise, no judgment here). On our first day, we wandered the coastline and then hiked into the Hoh Rainforest, an impossibly verdant and lush landscape, even in a drought year. On our way out of the park, we were treated to a small herd of elk, presided over by an aging, but still majestic, bull. Hungry from our long trek, we went in search of a clam shack and ended up in the nearest town—Forks. This otherwise nondescript enclave, historically known for lumber, had been taken over by Twilight fever—from hardware stores to candy shops, every commercial establishment attempted to promote some, often clumsy, connection to the trilogy. To boot, the Twilight series was celebrating a decade of teen obsession that very weekend and Forks was pulling out the stops to celebrate, with a complete schedule ranging from a costumed Bella brunch to a book signing opportunity with author Stephenie Meyers (think of it as a Star Trek convention). Unable to find a clam shack, we went into a burger joint that promised “Love at first bite.” Groan. Inside, surrounded by posters, books, t-shirts and more, we wolfed (get it?!) down our food and gawked at the devotees in town for the event. From teen-aged girls, accompanied by very patient and indulgent parents, to older women, accompanied by very patient and indulgent husbands, Twilighters came in all female packages.

Growing increasingly uncomfortable with the fact that we would be mistaken for girls who were there on purpose, we made a run for it back to our campground, vowing never to return. We attempted to fill the following days cleansing ourselves with beautiful scenery, but I have no doubt that the Twilight experience will be what we remember, years from now, when we tell the story of traveling around the Olympic Peninsula—and, I suppose, that’s OK. At least we have proof, in the form of pictures, that this part of the world has far more to offer than a shrine to teen-aged vampire love.

It’s now been one month since I started my camping-by-van adventure (vamping) and I feel like I have fallen into a solid routine. All of the sites I have camped in have been run by national or state parks, staffed by rangers and campground hosts, who are usually retired couples who love the seasonal RV lifestyle. Most campgrounds are reassuringly similar in their mechanics—each site has a paved pad for the vehicle, plus a picnic table and a fire ring. From there, they diverge into different tiers. Some are primitive, with vault toilets (read outhouse) and scattered water sources. Others offer electric and water at each individual site, and flush toilets and showers are available (oh, the luxury!). Yet these amenities are not what I will remember; it’s the locations they are in. I have camped on beaches, on dunes, in Redwood forests, beneath volcanoes and alongside rivers. The backdrop of each site is as varied as nature itself and it’s never the flushing toilets that make one stand out.

Take for example the campground I am in right now, in Mt. Rainier National Park. Sure there’s a beautiful, snow-covered volcano just a few miles away, which I will be exploring tomorrow, but the campground itself, like many others, offers wonderful experiences right outside my van’s door. After negotiating treacherous, unpaved roads for hours on end, the first thing Willy and I do when we hit a campground is go stretch our legs. Campgrounds often have wonderful paths weaving through them that showcase the region’s biodiversity. So it was that I spent 20 minutes this evening observing salmon try and swim up a small stream to spawn (there are just so many metaphors there!). It was mesmerizing watching these determined fish jockey for position, “draft” off each other, and in every way mimic the slowest horse race I have ever seen. I almost feel guilty about the smoked salmon I picked up for dinner.

Campgrounds on beaches are another favorite. It is something else to wake up, throw on some shoes and go wander an empty beach for an hour before breakfast. Sure, hitting the vault toilet after is less of a delight (Willy hates them and now refuses to go in), but it’s hard to undo a morning beach romp.

The evenings offer up further entertainment with beautiful sunsets, starlit skies, campfires (s’mores!) and the sounds of rushing creeks or pounding waves. When it grows too dark or too cold outside, we retire to the van and listen to audio books. I bought a Kindle for this trip, but most days I am too tired to do the reading myself and, besides, falling asleep being read to is such a treat, and reminds me of my father, an amateur theater actor who loved reading to us when we were kids.

In all, I am enjoying the camping lifestyle, despite the trudges to smelly toilets and showerheads installed for Hobbits that spray warmish water. I will not be turning down friends’ guestrooms or nice hotels anytime soon, and there are times when I long to just stay in one place for more than a night or two, but the rewards have been bountiful and, best of all, unexpected.