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.

The funny part about going on an extended journey is that all of my time and energy leading up to it was spent on what I was leaving behind, not on what lies ahead. Consider this: On paper, I am the ideal candidate for adventure and spontaneity—I have no kids, no job and no spouse. Yet, I still devoted the better part of two weeks addressing the trappings that are under my care, like the dog, the three cats, the house, the pool, the garden, the lawn, the driveway, the car and the bills that make everything run smoothly. What I had viewed as mundane, routine tasks, suddenly took on a surprising importance—look, plants can go a solid week without water, but four months? So it was that I went forth among my friends to see who would lend a hand and found that the great divider between good friends and just friends is the kitty litter box. Thankfully, I have enough of the former to ensure that all will be taken care of.

The effort of making sure my little world will still spin in my absence left little time for any preparation for the actual journey. So, packing was relegated to the night before and I left with no itinerary and only a handful of campground reservations covering the first two weeks. But that was kind of the point, wasn’t it?

The other thought I had about leaving is that it was a lonely affair, at least for me. I have wonderful friends, but there is only so much you can ask of people, and I had met my quota. So, my actual departure did not include riding out in a blaze of glory befitting the huge adventure ahead. Rather, it was more like slipping out the side door. I confess to initially feeling a little hurt by the lack of interest, but I immediately recognized a few flaws in my thinking:

• I am the one who is leaving. Why should anyone else celebrate the fact that, conversely, they are staying?
• It’s my dream, not theirs.
• They are the ones cleaning out the kitty litter box—they don’t need to throw a party, too.

Instead, I am going to focus on the many gestures, both big and small, by friends as well as by some unlikely sources, that leave me feeling humble and grateful. Their kindness and support are allowing me the rarest of opportunities—a journey of self-discovery and fulfilling dreams. How lucky am I?

 

It is with very good reason that my plan to rent a campervan for four months and travel the western U.S. and New Zealand has been met with fits of laughter and no small amount of disbelief: a) I don’t camp; and b) I have no sense of direction or space. I do not exaggerate on either count here. I am one of those who, when told to go to the west end of the parking lot, will ask, “Is that the McDonald’s end or the Staples’ end?” I have described a half a mile as three miles, a hundred yards is a football field on a 72-inch screen, and every time I emerge from a NYC subway station, I invariably go the wrong direction for a block.

As for camping, I once stayed at a Motel 6. (Okay, maybe there is some exaggeration here. I have camped twice, but there were cabins and outhouses involved.) So, with what hubris am I striking out in unfamiliar territory, with a bed on wheels and no toilet? Well, for starters, there’s Tom Tom, my navigation system. And the iPhone. Armed with these, I feel like I might have a fighting chance of not taking a wrong turn to Oklahoma. Which brings me to another handicap: I am appallingly bad at geography. Only about two weeks ago did I discover that Colorado really isn’t all that “West.” It abuts Kansas for God’s sake.

And while the vision in my head of this trip is one of me scaling the Tetons, biking the San Juans, trekking through Redwood forests and surfing along the Pacific Coast, the reality is that there ARE Motel 6s, Walmarts and public restrooms to cater to my every creature comfort (not to mention, I don’t actually surf).

Yet I feel as if these are copouts and in no way honor my adventure. I’ve rented a campervan, with a small galley and a solar shower and, for all intents and purposes, it will be my home for four months. And why not? All the videos on outsideonline.com about van camping lead me to believe that this mode of travel is exciting, serene, otherworldly, simple and, often, in slow motion with a cool dog and a great soundtrack.

So, while it is a comfort to know that a motel or shopping center is never too far way (unless I’m giving the directions), I will not be availing myself of these with any frequency. Instead, you’ll find me curled up in my van trying to figure out how to work the headlamp so I can go out and pee.

Ever since I started reading, I have always gravitated toward books about travel and adventure, where something unknown lies around every corner, and discoveries abound. “Bridge to Terabithia,” the Narnia and Hobbit series, and “My Side of the Mountain” were my homes growing up. I didn’t get lost in these books—I truly felt found. Frodo, Jess, Leslie, Sam, Edmond and Lucy were my tribe—I felt their fears, their hopes and their experiences as my own. As an adult, my preoccupation with these types of stories only grew, except I was able to find books that put a real, attainable spin on fantasy adventure: “Maiden Voyage,” a book about a 16-year-old girl who sails solo around the world; “Eat, Pray, Love” and “Wild,” books about women who throw it all away and embark on fantastic personal journeys; and “Into the Wild,” a version of “My Side of the Mountain” that puts man squarely in the middle of nature to learn how to fend for himself (not very successfully, I’m afraid).

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why all of these stories appealed to me on such a visceral level. I think it comes down to my desire to escape to a simpler reality, to experience the extraordinary, to face the unknown and to take a chance. These worlds aren’t fraught with ambiguity—they are black and white, there’s good and there’s evil, there’s right and there’s wrong, and this appeals to me.

And just as I had when I was a child, I started to place myself in these stories and for a few glorious minutes, imagine my life differently and think, “There is no reason why I couldn’t do my own version of this.” And that’s when reality would set in with a tsunami of reasons, from mortgages to pets and from jobs to families. As it turns out, journeying to Middle Earth is not that easy; there are hurdles in every direction and no dragon to help you negotiate them.

But there are campervans and life transitions. It’s hardly jumping through a wardrobe, but they are means to an adventure nonetheless.

Not too long ago, someone I know said that every morning he wakes up and says, “Whatever” and, when he lays down at night, he offers a, “Thank You.” When I pressed him on this odd take on prayer (“Who are you saying this to?” “What if you have a really bad day?”) he simply said that it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he is not in charge, that fate will deal the hand she feels like and that he will handle it, and be grateful for whatever comes his way. This faith, expressed in such simple terms, resonated with me. My spirituality is undefined at best and I have never engaged in any formal practice. Yet thanks to recent events (more on that later) I have come to understand that I have far less control over my life than I thought and, here’s the kicker, that’s OK. I have spun my wheels trying to orchestrate everything around me, when things will go the way they go, regardless of my efforts. As an added benefit, this simple realization frees up about 90 percent of my time and energy.

Not to mention, “Whatever” has a delicious ambiguity to it. Said in a mumbly, teen-aged way it signifies complete indifference. Said by someone who has just listened to one of my great ideas, it is a judgment. Said as a morning mantra, it is a world of possibilities and that’s the “Whatever” I love. It’s wide open.

Which brings me to why I am writing. I am contemplating selling my share of a business I have been involved with for 25 years and, in the meantime, will spin my wheels in a more productive direction by fulfilling the American dream (and a few clichés along the way). I am taking to the open road in the Wild West to discover…whatever.

The thing that excites me (and scares the living shit out of me) is just how undefined my future is—there’s no direction, there are no plans, no hints nor clues; there are only endless opportunities. I am taking to the road in an effort to find out what really makes me tick—what makes me happy, what brings me serenity, what I can live without and what I really need. I want to cut through the clutter, do away with distraction and just exist. In other words, I am embarking on a journey to find myself (Yes, I just wrote that with all sincerity. Note that it is cliché #33).