
With vaccination numbers rising and coronavirus case numbers falling and spring around the corner, there are whispers heard at outdoor coffee shops and beer gardens: Will this summer be something close to normal? Camping and traveling with friends, that sounds good. Pulling into a new town, siding up to a counter for breakfast. Maybe it’s still just a dream. Either way, essays like this, from a world before the pandemic, are sweeter now than ever. Enjoy. -Ed.
The wind whips outside across the deserted eastern Utah landscape and sideways into my passenger side. The setting sun is pulling me forward and west. I lean into the gas pedal of Ole Blue, my 1995 GMC Safari, and ease back into the right lane in front of a lumbering semi, hitting the cruise control to stay at 85 miles per hour. My podcast keeps the pace while the orange Honda Fit disappears over the horizon in the distance. I’m having a hard time keeping up.
We’re on our way to Zion National Park, a caravan of women in our respective vehicles. That is, if three makes a caravan. We fled Black Canyon National Park in Colorado this morning, thunder and lightening pulling us away and snow covering our climbing objectives. At least two of us plan to return to The Black in a few days, once the weather clears, yet not one of us is willing to leave our “home” behind to carpool. So, in the age of climate change and the oil crisis, here we are: three girls driving three vehicles across Utah’s I-70, headed to the same rock and different ends of the same rope.
I’ve been living in Ole Blue on and off for three years now, driven by a passion for climbing and living simply. If I gave you an off-the-cuff answer, I would say this living situation is a means to an end; as a rock climber it’s almost essential to be mobile throughout the seasons, able to chase clear skies and dry rock. However, if I actually stop to think, I might end up confessing that I love the lifestyle of living in my van almost as much as I love climbing. I have the freedom to wake up where I choose, to take my home with me, to meet up with friends and climbing partners across the country and to continuously explore new areas. There’s a sense of independence and self-efficacy that living alone in my van brings, one that makes my heart come alive and sing.
We wake up in a dirt parking lot in Springdale, Utah, just outside the entrance to Zion National Park. The sound of someone sorting their recycling in the bins a few meters away served as my alarm clock, but now as a small skid steer rambles up to the pile of rocks across the way, I’m roused from my bed and into the driver’s seat. I look outside and see the two cars that I traveled with from Colorado plus a new one, a friend who has driven from California to climb with us.
Hannah is standing outside her car, squinting at her reflection in the window as she braids her long, unruly hair. One time Hannah found me at a random rest area in eastern Nevada, the kind of place where you could bet your life on not seeing anyone you know. It was dawn, and I was just waking up and starting in on a morning crossword puzzle. Hannah was driving through the night on her way to climb in Indian Creek, and I was on a more leisurely route from climbing the Eastern Sierra to a film festival in Colorado. Hannah saw my van from the freeway, thought, “That’s gotta be Jenny,” and pulled a u-turn. I saw a silver Subaru pull in with a Thule on top, and I thought, “That can’t be Hannah,” and we looked at each other through her windshield with jaw-dropped smiles. Hannah just moved into her car after filling her savings account with waitressing tips and wages from ski patrolling all winter; when asked where she’s headed, a huge grin crosses her face and a twinkle enters her eyes as she lists off climbing objectives from the Sierra in California to British Colombia’s Bugaboos.
Jane’s up and putting bins back into her Honda Fit, a compact car that barely seats four yet sleeps her small stature comfortably. Jane excels at organization like most of us who live out of small places and everything has its place in her little orange home. She alternates between the road and school in St. George, Utah, where she is an encyclopedia on free places to sleep, shower, and get wifi. Jane and I first met in Zion, and have crossed paths in various climbing areas in the years since, now for the first time making those paths intentionally come together. Our connection mirrors that of many in the climbing world: acquaintances growing into strong bonds over shared campsites, belays, mutual friends, stories, and lifestyles.
I glance over to see Whitney crouched in front of her stove and the espresso maker perched on top. Whitney drinks coffee more routinely than anyone I know, and I’ve never seen her buy a cup. She and I used to live together in a cute house in Leavenworth, Washington, a house that serendipitously had a bouldering wall in the basement and a large space for working out and hangboarding in the garage. We spent an entire summer together as roommates, coworkers at a restaurant, and dedicated climbing partners. Now we’re both back in our respective vehicles, as we were before we lived together. Whitney has been living on and off in her car for six years, supported mostly by a seasonal nannying gig and more recently by climbing grants that send her to remote areas across the world for alpine exploration. Whitney has this lifestyle on lock down. She eats healthier than most manage to do with a full kitchen, preparing the most incredible salads full of fresh vegetables?a masterful feat and art in the land of rice and beans and energy bars.
Recently, I’ve begun to feel something shifting, the tides changingthreads of monotony lacing my driving, working their way into my thoughts, into my once fully-contented van sleep, into this climb-eat-sleep-repeat lifestyle. Maybe we all have. We don’t want to be on the road forever; in fact, much of our conversation throughout the week surrounds questions of where to settle down and how to make a more sustainable income while keeping our schedules open enough to wander. The Eastern Sierra, Colorado, Wyoming?
Hannah and Jane are going back to nursing school; Whitney and I are becoming climbing guides. We’re piecing it together for now, for the love of climbing and the freedom of the road, but it comes with sacrifices. Hannah and I are currently trying to make a buck or two rigging for a shoot here in Zion. Every meal we share is cooked on our Coleman stoves, $4 showers are deemed too expensive, and paying for camping is not an option. Hannah’s pants have a hole in the butt that grows larger and larger every day, Jane’s car routinely doesn’t start, Whitney is constantly asking to borrow our national parks passes so she doesn’t have to buy one, and I am living off of a consistent diet of rice and beans. We’re not destitute though, we just have our priorities.
Maybe I’ll never fully settle down, but I can’t imagine living in Ole Blue forever. Perhaps I’m growing up. At times I fear I’m missing out on a normal life, on Tuesday night volleyball and the biweekly book club. I fear that I’m training myself to never be able to settle down, to feel discontent with a life not rife with adventure and constant movement through beautiful places. Mostly I fear that I’m missing out on the depth of consistent relationships, on being a supportive friend, on weddings and births and the joy of steady community.
Yet there’s a freshness about life on the road, one that I worry I’ll miss in more stable chapters of my future life. Driving out of Zion, with an ice cream cone in my hand and new tunes coming through my van’s speakers, I have a distinct voice in my mind, saying, Jenny, cherish this. Cherish what you have, now.
Honestly, I was dreading the drive, and feeling aimless with three days of bad weather in the forecast. I was missing my boyfriend, and dreaming of having a shared home. I was feeling all of my 31 years and more. But the voice was clear, and one to heed. Cherish the freedom and independence you have now, don’t let the grass be greener. Cherish the simplicity of meals cooked over a Coleman stove and once-a-week showers, the ability to wake up and decide how and where you want to spend your day. Cherish the chance to climb as much as your body can possibly handle, cherish the sore muscles and scraped hands. Cherish being able to travel and experience some of the most beautiful places in the world intimately and fully. Steep red sandstone walls gradually changing to rounded white rock and desert scrub brush, I begin to feel content. I will never regret these years, jumping with both feet into my desires and longings.
So for now, I’m on the road, returning to the Black Canyon with Whitney and her Subaru following behind. A week of climbing awaits us; days on long, challenging routes for which The Black is known, followed by evenings of simple meals and the reading, writing, and fireside chatter that result when No Service reads in the upper left of our cell phones. As we roll across a dirt road to the campground, the setting sun blasts through my windshield, bringing detail to every bug splatter and water streak on the glass.?The stopper hanging from my rearview mirror bats against the glass and I head down the bumpy road, towards the light.
Down a bumpy road, towards the light. Sounds like a life well-lived to me.
Photos: Jenny Abegg
Great piece.
My old 1977 Ford Econoline was “old blue” too.
Yes, cherish your freedom.
Most will never know it, let alone understand it.
I miss those days and those places.
Cherish the freedom and dont stop until the joy of each day stops. I wandered, traveling, skydiving and mountain biking for 14 years before having enough and getting a “real”life. The first year or two were horrible. After 20 years of normal I am back traveling, kayaking, hiking and mountain biking again and loving it, there are times in life when the right thing is different than other times. Make the most of all.
And I thought I was the only dirtbag to live in a Honda Fit! Shockingly managed to squeeze all six feet of me, my climbing partner and my dog in there plenty of times on climbing trips.
Ah such a life! Brings back great memories, travelling the West in a ’72 & an ’82 Econoline. In retrospect those years seemed to last forever! Life speeds up…
Great writing Jenny, Thank you for sharing! Having ventured in our own Sojourn I can say normal life just doesn’t fill as fulfilling but my wife reminds me on my bitching on the road as well. So with the benefits of a close-knit urban family of friends for the in and outs daily life we now just try to live a more dedicated weekend destination warrior adventure style with the added paycheck that comes with staying in one place on the weekdays. Though the itch has been getting strong and with our first little one on the way a form of more luxurious vanlife is calling (i.e. no Westie but perhaps Sprinter or larger). The grass is grass and shouldn’t always be native to the area it resides in 😉
Thank you for taking the time to share this. I find myself in that same state of mind often – the one where I wonder if I am missing on being a part of a steady community by going where my heart leads. I am 28 now and although have just finished all of the classes I would need to apply for my nursing program this coming fall, have decided to dedicate more time to my climbing and overall getting back to the simplicity of life that I had when I was moving every few months. At times, I fear that I am running out of time for “taking my sweet time” to get around to things like finishing school. That I am getting too old for that. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you again for sharing not only your story but your age. You give me hope 🙂
Cherish indeed, as someone who chucked a corporate gig in my later 20s to buy an old VW camper van and drive around the country visiting every National Park I could I look back (iin my um early 50s) not with regrets about missed opportunities to climb higher on the corporate ladder or earn more $$$ but with fond memories and satisfaction that I made a good choice. My parents, who married at 22, had the wisdom to tell me my 20s were for adventure, glad I listened.
I have a niece whom I cherish…..living this life..well kind of…she texted me your inspirational journal….AND..I know in her heart she is trying to live a life in the outdoors with her doggie…experiencing Mother Nature and living her passion of hiking and snowboarding!!!! Thank you for giving her the inspiration of fulfilling her dreams!!!
It’s spelled British Columbia.
Beautiful post! Not living in a van, but definitely strikes a chord from a “living life on the road” perspective.
Damn, that stirred some passions and memories!
We live out of my van at least one weekend a month, it’s nice to crash wherever you find yourself.
I really like being able to sleep safely in my van near a trailhead, go ride while my bride sleeps.
“Don’t let the grass be greener,” that was my favorite line. I’m so grateful to have enjoyed this lifestyle off and on for my whole adult life. Being a renter these days in our increasingly gentrified Western towns is one step from being homeless anyway, and I love it. Your words are a salve that helps ease the angst (watch Nomadland) and remind all us adventure nomads that, yes, this is a life well lived (especially when we send!)
Wonderful post. Everyone has that voice in their head at some point. But the key his to listen to your heart too. I think you are doing that. Do what you can when you can. This is what shapes you and it shapes your path. Never regret because what you have is a blessing and will be with you all your life.
Yes, it is a good way to live and enjoy the outdoors. But when COVID restrictions lift more and considering the onslaught we saw in the use of public lands continues – or gets even more crowded, expect to see increasing regulations and permits needed even for places that we thought would not need them for years. Many agencies are starting to talk about the need for a permit system to avoid the large crowds we saw deep in wilderness areas last year, not to mention the front country. The amount of human waste that is literally piling up in some of these places cannot be believed. As one of our wilderness rangers put it: “It used to be one poop under every rock, now it’s three poops under every rock”.
Felt I was hanging with you! Beautifully written piece of your love of climbing, camaraderie, and roadway adventure.
As a fellow dirtbag, I also like to ‘kick around’, and will look forward to exploring the back roads and byways in my retirement.
Thank you for sharing your peace…
I am almost 80
now.livinfg with my sweet wife.,sweet doggy and sweet old horse on Hawaii island. My highways now are the trade winds that blow my cleansed memories way in the air and gently back to me. My memories now are cleansed of the sand flies that bit me at night as I lay asleep. I only see the first light on the Sea of Cortez , the Sea eagle dip a fish from the flat shimmering sea and the dolphins break the water surface without a ripple, clean as a fine knife. I sit in the trades and let the thousands of memory roads of my life come to me, all them
emories ICan taste in my mouth without the pain of the
mundane only the essence of beauty. You are building your memory roads now
enjoy
NEED a road trip – social group and time off Like this, Something fierce…. maybe by end of 2021…
The good news in case you missed this in your 20s-40s, it will be there for later. You might not be able to secure a sponsor, be “socially” interesting or talented, but you can get a small camper van and hit the road.
Not that anyone will see this, but I need to amend the above after reading a 2019 Outside article on “free” camping, new enforcement of old no camping laws, misuse or lack of cleanup by campers and the growing number of campers. Rent don’t buy, plan and pay your way if this is recreational. Alternative housing is another issue and is not voluntary in most instances.