Today marks three months on the road, living out of a van with my dog.
It all began last July when my best friend Sara, our two dogs and I left Chattanooga for a trip across the country with our final destination and crux of our journey as Squamish, British Columbia.
By the end of that first month, I'd lost my human traveling companion, who set up shop outside of Seattle. But I wasn't - and still am not - done with this van venture.
After dropping Sara off at her new tiny-home in Washington, I headed southeast to White Salmon to take a trip down the White Salmon River with a friend's rafting company. There, I met a handful of sponsored boaters famous in the kayaking community, but dirtbag raft guides to the rest of the world.
During our trip down the river, one of the most beautiful, pristine runs I've ever done, we went over a 12-foot drop called Husum Falls, known for putting rafts into a precarious vertical position. The glacier-melt, fissures and aquifers spit a cold, clear water into the canyon, and as we went over the falls, our raft stayed under a bit too long. I was barely holding onto the boat, my feet digging deep into the plastic. As we surfaced, I looked back and noticed our guide was gone, knocked out of the boat, and that our raft was being recirculated back into the hole at the bottom of the falls.
There were four strangers sitting in front of me and one guy who was holding onto the front of the boat, half in and half out.
"Pull him in!" I shouted. The people in the front did, then they sat back down, staring at the falls in front of them. None of them knew our guide had come out of the raft, so I continued giving commands.
"Back-paddle! All back!" They all listened. We turned around, went under a bridge, and caught the eddy where a couple of the other rafts were waiting on us.
One of the paddlers in another raft, Tyler Bradt, a Kavu- and NRS-sponsored athlete, was passing through town for a short break during his five-year trip sailing around the world. Tyler holds the record for the tallest waterfall descent - 189.5 feet - and his adventurous playfulness was infecting. As we slammed into the eddy, he greeted us with a laugh.
"Comin' in hot!" he yelled as we ran into his raft. "And with no guide! You're hired!"
We noticed our guide, then, crossing the bridge, walking back down to the bank where we waited.
"Let's take a little break," Tyler said, seeing that our guide was a bit embarrassed. We followed Tyler to the bridge, where he hoisted himself onto the ledge.
"It's deep below the bridge, but when you jump in, keep your arms crossed, your legs closed and feet pointed down. Don't do this" he said, backflipping into the rapid below.
Later, Tyler would tell me about the upcoming leg of his trip around the world when he'd head to Madagascar. He showed me pictures from his Thanksgiving on the boat. He spoke about the surfing he looked forward to and the kayaking he had missed while on the sailboat.
This experience on the Salmon kindled a fire. I love the river, but had never fallen in love with kayaking like many of my friends. But there I was, already itching to get back on the water. The beauty and culture mesmerized me.
The next day, I called my friends in Idaho, whom I'd spent July Fourth with and who live in the tiny town of Banks, located on the Payette River famous for its nonstop class IV and V rapids.
"Can I come back in a couple weeks? I want to get on the river, do an overnighter or two," I said.
They promised that the river would wait for me, and that there was a weeklong trip in the works for September. With that, I was on the road again, heading back to Oregon where I would pick up my little sister Tori in Portland for her first visit to the West Coast.
- - -
Tori hadn't had as much experience in the outdoors. She'd camped only a handful of times, rafted with me once down the Nantahala River in North Carolina and I'd been able to drag her to the climbing gym only three times. It took us a week to get from Portland to Yosemite National Park. We nearly ran out of gas on the coast of Northern California, but ended up making it to a beautiful campground on the shoreline where there was a lighthouse surrounded by deer and cows.
We walked through the trees, around them, looked up in wonder and finally found a camp near Hume Lake in King's Canyon National Park - following the scariest drive of my life along a cliff's edge.
At our camp in King's, Tori took her first creek bath while I clamored over the boulders. The granite and igneous boulder fields scattered across the West never cease to inspire me. Climbers in the Southeast would drive for hours to play on these, but West Coasters consider these boulders and crags like a forgotten trampoline: fun for houseguests, but just that old backyard trampoline to them.
Seven days after my sister joined me in the van, she was ready to get back home. She asked if I was ready to come back, too. It would have been easy to go. I'd already reached my original destination of Squamish, climbed a few new spots, explored the Pacific Northwest, most of California's parks, visited old friends and made some new ones.
But I wasn't ready to leave. This space allowed for freedom and I felt like myself. I was eager to keep exploring, wandering, migrating while the nights were cool and the days were warm.
After dropping Tori off at the airport, I headed back to Mammoth, California, just outside of Yosemite National Park. August is hot in Yosemite Valley. There, I met up with an old friend and fellow Chattanoogan named Matt. We spent that first afternoon on a small rock wall called Warming Wall. I told Matt I would be heading north the following day to kayak in Idaho.
"There is an overnighter on the Payette River I aim to do," I said. "It's a class II run, but I want to paddle for the next few weeks, get more comfortable on the water, get my head right."
In the past, when I have been upside down in a kayak, I felt anxious. Close to death, even. I wanted to get more comfortable being underwater.
"Me too," Matt said. "Maybe I'll join you."
By our third route, the sun was nearly gone. Matt tried a hard move about 5 feet above the last bolt he'd clipped into. He missed and fell about 12 feet, then continued his climb. I realized I needed to take a lot more falls on the wall, a lot more spills in the river - and spend more time underwater, upside down and hitting rolls - before I could mentally progress in either sport.
That night, Matt and I went to a hot spring in the middle of the desert where I lost count of the shooting stars. Around 4:30 a.m. I heard my dog West growling and something hit the back of my van. I got excited and thought I might get to see a bear, but I turned around to see a guy leaning against my back window, gagging. I knocked on the window.
"Someone is in here!" I hollered, but he didn't move. He looked and sounded like he was about to vomit all over my mobile home. I waited until he stumbled away, then I cranked the van and got on the road to follow the sun north to Idaho.
- - -
Within a week of being in Idaho I had done my overnighter on the Swirly Canyon, a section of the Payette River. There isn't anything nicer than paddling calm class II rapids in a canyon while the sun sets over your campsite located on a small beach.
I ended up out of the boat twice during my attempts at kayaking the Payette, and took a few falls climbing a roadside 5.10b sport route, but I felt calmer after flailing for a week, like I had needed to be humbled. And after both swims I stayed calm and did the only thing I could do: get back in my boat.
A wildfire had pushed us back to eastern Idaho after a few days in the Sawtooth Mountains, located in central Idaho. We began to prepare for a weeklong trip down the Main Fork of the Salmon River. But before our trip, I wanted to make a stop in Oregon at Smith Rock.
I had only ever heard of Smith, seen a few pictures of the famous Monkey Face climb. I headed east alone to climb sport route but then found a girl on the Mountain Project, an online climbers' forum, who was willing to do some warm-up routes with me.
That next day, my new friend Allison and I never left Dihedrals Wall, climbing every 5.8 and 5.9 that wasn't already taken. I was supposed to leave the following day, but I just couldn't. I set up camp at the The Bivy, a campsite at Smith Rock that caters to climbers.
That night, I cooked myself chicken and dumplings and played my newly acquired ukulele with an older man who claimed to have spent his youth climbing out of Camp Four in Yosemite with the likes of world-famous Lynn Hill and Dean Potter. He and his wife were now touring popular rock climbing destinations with their teenage nephew visiting from Germany. The three of them were in a white Sprinter van that the man had refurbished with a wood-paneled full kitchen, dining area and bed. As we sipped PBR and watched the sun fall behind Smith, I listened to the man recall what it was like climbing with legends at the age of 13.
The next morning I was up before the sun, feeling a bit of excitement - and a lot of hesitancy.
The day before, I'd been comfortable leading easy, chalked-up routes, but I'd never climbed trad before. In contrast to the sport climbing I was used to, which offers preplaced bolts every few feet so climbers can easily secure themselves, trad means you place the bolts and secure your gear as you go. While I had been pushing myself to feel calm while also uncomfortable, I decided I didn't feel safe going with strangers to do too many things I'd never done before.
Instead, I went to eat breakfast alone at the group of tables at The Bivy. A fellow named Mitchell asked me what I was doing for the day, and two hours later we were on the second pitch of a new sport climbing route. I was attempting to lead the route Mitchell had just bailed on after the second bolt. The second pitch was just as tall as the first, about 60 feet, but had only four bolts. I clipped to the third bolt after a committing move with a high left foot. I just needed to get over the roof to the fourth bolt, then the anchors were a scramble away.
Since it was a new route, I didn't know the rating or the crux, so I went for the 5.11-move like I had the rest of the problem: feet first, controlling my breath. I reached over the roof and felt empty air. I shifted my weight onto my left foot, my left toe digging onto a tiny peddle feature on the igneous rock. My foot slipped. I fell about 15 feet, swinging back across my last bolt and hitting my back against the wall, hard.
"Ohhh!" I heard from below. I looked down to see a cluster of tourists looking up at me from the trail.
"How are ya?" Mitchell asked.
He was sitting in his harness below me, a scared grin across his face.
"Yeah, thanks for the catch, Mitchell. I'm just gonna take a few breaths," I told him, and I took the moment to look around me. The canyon looked different near the top of the second pitch, above the trees, above the crowds. The air was thinner, the wind was stronger. "OK. Climbing!" I hollered down.
- - -
About a week after I took that whipper at Smith Rock, I drove to the coast to walk West along the beach. During the 30 minutes I was away from my van, someone broke into it and took my purse. They smashed my passenger side window. Broken glass was everywhere, my wallet was gone. I'd called my bank to cancel and reorder a debit card, but a month after that, my card still hadn't come.
I was at a laundromat in Montana, on the phone with my bank. They said I couldn't get a new card until I went home, went into the bank and proved my identity. It had been raining for three days, and I started to cry.
Van life certainly has struggles, but like every struggle, they are relative.
In 2015, I watched my grandfather wither away after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Last spring I watched my 27-year-old friend die of cancer.
This seems to be a common thread among other people who have chosen to live in cars or on communal farms, spending money on travel, hobbies and experiences rather than unnecessary things. All dirtbaggers seem to have a similar story. For example, Amy's best friend killed herself; Adam watched his friend drown; Alicia's 17-year-old cousin overdosed on heroin; Haimish was kayaking with a couple when he and the other boy turned the corner but never saw the girl again.
We have all been touched by death, resulting in the revelation "I am alive; I must live."
I saw this most clearly in Alex, mainly known in my world as Linguini, a 47-year-old Italian man who had joined my comrades and me on a weeklong rafting trip down the Main Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho. Linguini was a relatively quiet man and was clearly new to the river. But by the end of the trip, he was rowing an 8-foot, orange Hyside raft through burley class III rapids very confidently.
He'd told us his story in the backseat of the truck on the way to the put-in.
"When I was twenty I went to England for a student-exchange at my university where I met the one and only love of my life. We moved to Scotland and were married. Three years ago, she passed, and I decided that I couldn't keep going to work from 9-5 every day," he told us. His wife, he explained, had had multiple sclerosis, which is why she fell, hit her head and was in a coma for five months before passing. After that, Linguini got onto a bicycle and began cycling around the world. He has traveled to four new continents, discovered countless new places and faces, but he said he would trade it all for the chance to go back to his "old boring life" and have his wife alive again.
I understood what he meant: No journey, place or experience is quite as good without sharing it with the person or people you love.
Beginning in early October, my partner and I, with whom I've had an on-off relationship for the last seven years, began working at a farm. It has been easy between us, spending the days outside, working on a large plot of land on the side of a mountain. Our dogs play together all day; on our days off we surf or kayak, and we plot our next move.
I am alive. And so I will live...