Stories in Place: A Room With No View

(This pandemic has put a cramp in our camp, so I thought I'd start a series of short stories from our travels. You know, those kinds of stories that go around the campfire after a day of exploring, and may get repeated more than once over the years. I hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoy telling them. Pull up a camp chair and grab a beverage. Let's Story in Place together.)

We pulled into the parking lot at the end of the Dalton Highway, 500 miles and two days after leaving Fairbanks. We had passed a forest fire, crossed over the Arctic Circle, avoided flying gravel from passing oil field trucks, survived hoards of thirsty mosquitoes and managed to get to Deadhorse with all tires intact and gas to spare. Success!

We had read that this particular parking lot was a good place (re: only place) to camp in this oil town on Prudhoe Bay. It wasn't pretty; a bare gravel lot surrounded by those temporary buildings that can be hauled in on the back of trucks, low flat roofed and looking as beat as we felt after 300+ miles of gravel washboard road. We'd seen worse.

We walked around and checked out the facilities. There were none. Hmmmm. Having camped in middle-of-nowhere places before, it had never been a problem. We don't have "facilities" in our camper, but we are equipped with hand trowels and TP kit that do quite nicely in those cases. Problem was, we'd never had to deal with camping in the middle of a populated area without a tree or bush within 100 miles. Not to mention the 24 hour daylight wiping out any chance for cover-of-darkness activity. This was going to take a little finesse.

We walked over to what served as a bulletin board for the area: a small piece of plywood nailed to the side of a building. A cartoon polar bear was posted with a warning:

WARNING
Large female polar bear with cub has been raiding campers in this area! 

Please secure all food and do not leave dishes, garbage or any scented item in an accessible area. Please heed this warning, polar bears have been known to kill humans.

"I'm not really feeling this Mark." 

Our camper has soft sides once it's popped up, easily reached by a standing adult polar bear and easily breached by those 12" polar bear claws. We could theoretically pull out the bench seat and sleep on that, avoiding popping the top and exposing ourselves as prey. It would be tight but would avoid those paw swipes that would haunt our dreams all night. 

It just so happened we had researched a place we could stay once we made it here, a place with actual walls and beds: The Arctic Caribou Inn. Sounds rustic and quaint, doesn't it? We thought so. And we just happened to be a few steps from the entrance, so we decided to check it out.

The double door entrance was deeply recessed between two buildings, the better to shelter it from what I imagine is the relentless cold wind. The front office was a half wall with a plexiglass window running from countertop to ceiling. The guy reclining in the desk chair looked up and smiled. 

"Do you have any rooms for tonight? We just came in from Fairbanks and thought we'd check." The desk clerk laughed "Oh yeah, the place is pretty empty at the moment. How many nights?" 

We signed up for one night, and after making arrangements for a tour of the oil fields later that day, paid for one of the most expensive (to that date) hotel rooms we'd ever rented: $120.00. This was in 2004, and we very rarely stayed in hotels (why, when you can camp?).

So, for $120.00 we got: two twin beds, one of which is roughly level with the floor, that was also roughly level. Brown indoor/outdoor carpet blanketing a small room, large enough for the aforementioned beds and two small dressers. The bathroom had a small enough step up from room level that it caused you to miss the fact that it was there and trip headlong into the shower. The shower itself was just large enough to close the door behind you once you entered, but god help you if you dropped the soap.

We threw our bags on one of the beds, and they promptly rolled off to the floor. Wedging them on the bed again,  we sat down and realized there was a serious sag on one side. Some negotiation was going to be necessary to decide who was going to be sleeping in that one. We flipped on the small TV on top of the dresser, a wonder after 3 weeks on the road with nothing but the radio to keep us company. The satellite service picked up a few channels clearly, and a whole lot of static on the rest of the dial. The view from the one small window looked out at another room ten feet across a small alley.

We walked down the corridor to get our bearings, and take in the amenities. A narrow hallway connected the portable units with that brown indoor/outdoor carpet tying everything together. The carpet was ripped in spots, but repaired neatly with duct tape. There was a leak in the ceiling in the middle of the hall, which dripped with cheery regularity into a 5 gallon bucket. A common room had an ancient coffeepot and those tube like cereal dispensers lined up on the counter. They offered meals three times a day with a set menu, which was posted on a coffee stained flyer on the door.

Another couple walked out of their room as we passed by. Tight smiles and shrugged shoulders were exchanged, as we silently acknowledged our shared situation. Really though, we weren't going to be picky about it. This was the only place within 600 miles that didn't include grizzly and polar bear room service. And it was an Inn after all. Quaint, in an oilfield worker barracks kind of way.

That night, after a tour of the oil fields that (in part) made our 9,000 mile road trip possible, we found ourselves sitting on the edge of a twin bed eating PBJs and Fritos with a chocolate milk chaser, watching Seinfeld reruns in a room on the edge of the Arctic Ocean. Dinner never tasted so good.

Stories in Place: A Rat Tale

(This pandemic has put a cramp in our camp, so I thought I'd start a series of short stories from our travels. You know, those kinds of stories that go around the campfire after a day of exploring, and may get repeated more than once over the years. I hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoy telling them. Pull up a camp chair and grab a beverage. Let's Story in Place together.)

We had just pulled in to the campground in Mojave National Preserve, tired from the 10 hour drive that began at five o'clock that morning. Mark popped the camper up as I set out our chairs and brought out the traditional pre-dinner drinks and snacks. It was a lovely afternoon, the sunset casting that desert glow on the surrounding mountains. I took out the camera and tried my best to capture the uncaptureable - that magic light you can only see in the desert with your own eyeballs.

As we settled into the chairs and congratulated ourselves on the beautiful weather, we saw something moving across the road. Rabbit we figured, there are hundreds of them around here. Nope, too small. What is that? It hesitated in the sage brush a moment, then suddenly dashed across the road. Rat! And a big one. It made a beeline toward us, and while we sat dumbstruck with our mouths hanging open it suddenly hooked left, scrambling up the front tire and out of sight under the truck.

What the hell?

We've had trouble with kangaroo rats in the desert before; once one was able to break into our storage bin in the camper and nibble into the bottom of our spare bag of pretzels (always have a spare bag of pretzels!) but they usually have the decency to attack in the middle of the night, when we are blissfully unaware. This one was outright brazen.

Mark popped the hood to see if he could find it in the engine compartment, where it appeared to be headed. I went into the back of the camper to make sure the turnbuckle hatches were closed, the perfect little doorways for unwanted visitors. All was buttoned up.

There it was! Sitting on the frame rail under the engine, it's little black eyeball staring straight into Mark's outraged gray ones. Mark pounded on the fender, shouted, and pushed on the truck, rocking it on the axles. Rat held on, in defiance. Ok fine, Mark started the engine, revving it louder and louder, hoping to either blast it out with noise or the heat. Rat scrambled down the rail and held on under the truck bed. If our ears could pick up that particular octave I think we would have heard tiny squeaking laughter.

That's it! Mark slammed the hood closed, climbed in the truck and started driving around the campground loop. "He'll either jump or get squished! I don't care which but he's not going to chew the wires up tonight!" I stood in the campsite and watched as the truck, with camper popped up and waste container dragging at it's side, disappear over the hill, then reappear 5 minutes later as he made his way around the big loop, taking a second lap for good measure.

When he returned we inspected all the areas we could think a rat might be, and it was nowhere to be found. "I got him!" Mark declared, not all that confidently (rats have a way of making one feel a bit uneasy). Guess it's time to cook dinner.

We opened the camper door and found everything that had been on the counter and bench seat had crashed to the floor. Our cups, the veggies, a can of beans and tortillas we had taken out for dinner, our sunglasses, an empty can of coke. Lying right in the middle of the pile, our camera that I had thrown on the counter when I was checking the turnbuckle doors. Shit.

If there is luck to be had, it was in the way the camera fell. It landed on the edge of the lens, and the outer most layer was the polarizer filter. The rim was bent and the filter was cracked, a bummer, but it had saved the actual lens and camera from further damage. It was pricey, but nothing close to a brand new Canon EOS 7D with a wide angle lens.

Much to our relief we were able to pick up a new polarizer filter in Moab and get some spectacular shots in Canyonlands later on in the trip. The truck kept running like a champ throughout so we assumed the rat found another more amenable vehicle to hijack. That or it jumped ship in Utah before it snacked on wire insulation.

Because I know you were wondering, our backup pretzels were safe, untouched by rat lips. We shared them with our buddies as we told this story around the campfire, a satisfying end to a trip that could have taken a considerable turn for the worse.

The Oregon Coast Part II: The Campgrounds

The long beach of Cape Blanco

Oregon is a funny state.

For us, it's always been our "drive-over" state: we've crossed it in one day on our way to Alaska, Idaho, and of course Washington; we've dipped in and out when traveling in the most northern parts of California and along the western edge of Idaho. I feel bad we haven't taken the time to explore it more thoroughly because it truly is a beautiful place.

It's quirky too. As of January 1, 2018, Oregon passed a law allowing you to pump your own gas in certain areas. Yes, you read that right, Oregon had a ban on self-serve gas pumps, and still does for most of the state. And I tell you, nothing feels as emasculating as sitting in your full size 4x4 truck with 4" lift kit, winch bumper and heavy duty brush guards while an elderly woman struggles to lift the pump high enough to reach the gas filler. The state has various reasons not to allow the average citizen to pump their own: health hazard, fire hazard, and requiring proper training are a few. All I know is if all gas stations in Oregon suddenly went fully self-serve tomorrow, there would be a steep learning curve for many. Twice I saw big burly guys standing bewildered in front of the pump, not sure where to put their credit card. The elderly attendant helped one of them, gently taking the card out of the guy's hand and sliding it through the reader. She was kind about it, but I believe I saw a hint of a smirk on her face.

We were pleasantly surprised by the lack of crowds in Oregon. We were dumbstruck to find an open campsite on a holiday weekend, a feat that could never happen in California. Finding a campsite without a reservation in our home state anytime between Memorial Day and Labor Day is a frustrating and discouraging experience. Unless you know where and when you want to be and have the forethought to reserve a site six months in advance, you are out of luck. Far too many people and not enough campgrounds make for a sad trip if you're not prepared to camp off the grid–if you can even find a place that allows that. (Unfortunately, there are now more restrictions on camping on BLM and National Forest lands for various reasons we won't get into here. Far too depressing.)

Oregon State Parks rely on volunteers to host the campgrounds and from what we saw, they take their jobs very seriously. There are rules to camping which most people follow on their own. Oh sure, over the years we've occasionally had trouble with people using generators during quiet hours and maybe a few groups that get a little loud around a campfire. Never have I felt more confident that our camp neighbors would be good citizens than in Oregon. We were greeted when we rolled in, handed the rules when we paid, checked on 10 minutes after setting up, and hailed every half hour by the old guy in the golf cart "just checking up on things." The place was spotless and organized and patrolled as closely as any military zone.

It feels funny to write this (being pretty close to a member of this group ourselves) but it was strange to travel in a place where the predominant population is in the "white retirement age" demographic. The lack of diversity is jarring at first. We wandered into the full campground on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, walked the loops and realized there was not one group or individual of any shade of anything but white there. And the average age of the campers, if I had to guess, was 62. An interesting development for a state that boasts the proud city of Portland, an urban area of young professionals that can out-liberal San Francisco on a good day, well known for it's free-thinkers and inclusivity (is that a word? If so they coined it in Portland).

We camped every night of the trip, a total of 6 nights in 6 different campgrounds in Oregon, and every one was run the same way. Each had at least two hosts for campground duty, and in one we counted six designated host campsites, resplendent with fifth wheel trailers, temporary fencing for small barking dogs, decorative wind socks and reclining camp chairs on astroturf rugs. While it seemed a bit like overkill, we appreciated the fact that they cared so much for the parks because it really showed. Not a spec of trash anywhere, and thoughtful hosts were willing to answer any question we had. It was a lovely experience, so much so that we wouldn't mind going back every year. Here's a rundown of the campgrounds we visited:

Alfred A. Loeb State Park

Our first stop in Oregon just outside Brookings, just on the other side of the California state line. Located along the Chetco River, it's a pretty park with river access for boats, swimming and fishing. There's a nice little nature trail loop and driving access to the river bank if you feel you must drive onto the gravel beach. Being a holiday weekend, several families in big trucks were parked along the beach and had set up umbrellas and barbecues for a picnic. It was surprisingly hot that day; once we drove even a few miles east on Chetco River Road away from the coast the weather turned uncomfortably warm.

The dogs hopped out of the truck and assumed the camping position. They enjoyed their time at Alfred A. Loeb State Park.

Umpqua Lighthouse State Park

A beautiful campground tucked in the trees in the hills above the ocean. You couldn't see the beach from there, but that was a blessing in disguise; the adjacent Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area and beach was open to ATVs and the hill that separated us from them blocked the whining engine noises. There was a pretty little lake accessible by trail from the campground. After dinner that night, we walked the trail all the way around and had it mostly to ourselves. In fact, we pretty much had the whole campground to ourselves.

The lighthouse and visitor's center is a short drive from the campground. You could walk, but to my knowledge there was no trail so you'd have to take your chances on the narrow road. Same story with the beach access.

Lake Marie, accessible directly from the campground at Umpqua Lighthouse State Park

There was a nice trail that ran around the lake, as shown by Hiker Mark.
Umpqua Lighthouse State Park

Trask River County Campground, Tillamook County

We were looking for a campground as close as possible to our northernmost goal: the Tillamook Cheese factory. We wanted to be close enough to get there around opening time, stuff ourselves with cheese and ice cream, then dart back out to the coast to get into Cape Lookout campground before it filled up. It's a great spot along the Trask River, which actually runs along the backside of the campsites. We found ourselves the only ones there, so chose the very best spot along the river. Our only complaint was the extravagant fees they charged. The river sites were $37.83, and we were expected to add tax, and an extra $6.00 fee PER DOG. That came to a grand total of $53.58 for the pleasure of a pit toilet, water faucet (across the campground) and a beat up wooden picnic table. It was almost worth it to have the place to ourselves, but with those prices they could've offered hors d'oeuvres or something...

Our lonely campsite in Trask River Campground. It was quiet, that's for sure.

The Trask River runs through it. Pools along the river behind our campsite.

Cape Lookout State Park

This was Mark's favorite campground of the trip. Situated on a sand spit between Netarts Bay and the ocean, it's a pleasant mix of sand, trees, hiking trails and warm sandy beach. The dogs had a great time too, since in Oregon they allow leashed dogs on both hiking trails and on the beach (another California no-no in most places). There is a choice of forested and sandy dune sites, and it's a short walk to either the beach or trailheads that lead to Cape Lookout point. This park is only one and a half hours from Portland, which must have accounted for the crowds–we got one of the last sites when we pulled in at noon–so reservations during peak season are probably a good idea.

The wide beach, Cape Lookout in the distance.

The trail that leads to Cape Lookout point.

Thick forests of mussels grew on the rocky cliffs along the beach.

The sun sets as the waves rolled in at Cape Lookout beach.

Cape Perpetua National Forest

This campground is situated along a creek that runs the length of a small shaded valley. The sites were well spaced along the one road that leads both in and out of the campground (no loops). There are hiking trails up the valley to the Giant Spruce Tree and out to the coast, where there is a nice visitor's center with maps and information about the area. There were multiple natural wonders to explore there: A blow hole, tide pools, a beautiful uncrowded beach and the interesting Devil's Churn. A long crack in the volcanic rock allows the waves to roll way up the hillside until the ever narrowing crack causes the water to break and slosh around. It reminded me of the old washing machine we had before the water saving front loader models became the norm.

The base of the Giant Spruce, with Mark and the dogs for scale.

The cove and beach at Cape Perpetua

The Devil's Churn.
Why does the Devil get credit for all the cool things in nature?

There was much to find in the tide pools at Cape Perpetua

Cape Blanco State Park

Now this, this was MY favorite of them all. A beautiful campground set in the trees along a bluff that overlooks a long narrow stretch of sand. A picturesque lighthouse, so perfectly placed on the windswept grassy bluff it looked to be a painted backdrop. There was a road leading from the campground down to the beach (if you needed it, we walked down) with bluff side benches available to watch the spectacular sunset. There was also a historic ranch house there, the Patrick Hughes House, with friendly docents that were eager to give you a tour and share the history of the area. It was quiet, comfortable, beautiful, perfect. It didn't hurt that it was also warm and wind-free that day. When I am having a bad day at work I think about this place. Just writing about it makes me smile.

Our campsite was huge, and I swear, one of the twelve campground hosts must have vacuumed it before our arrival, it was so clean.

Even the roads in the park were gorgeous.
The road down to the Patrick Hughes House.

The picture perfect Cape Blanco Lighthouse.

The sun sets over Cape Blanco, making for a stunning last night on the Oregon Coast.

Camper's Off: The Official Onset of Camping Deficit Disorder

I've mentioned before that our camping mode of transportation is an F250 truck with a Four Wheel Camper on the back. And I've mentioned before (see Overland) that we take it off at the end of the camping season.

Well, today was the day.

We needed to take it off to utilize the truck as a truck and also because we had to face the fact that we really won't be camping again for a while. We have a possible trip planned for the week between Christmas and New Years to Death Valley, but between now and then we've got fence boards, furniture and Christmas trees to haul.

It was a beautiful autumn day; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and the camper looked forlorn, as if it knew we were up to something.

Mark getting ready to start the process.

It's quite a production; we live in an old house in an old neighborhood. The driveways and garages were not designed for the modern cars or the way we use them nowadays. When this house was new in 1926, I'm sure the builders assumed we'd only need room for one car--how would anyone be able to afford (or need) more than one? Our garage is detached and located in our backyard down a long single wide driveway socked between ours and our neighbor's house. There's an 8 foot fence separating the neighbor's side yard from our driveway, which makes the clearance pretty tight for a full size truck with a camper. There's only six inches of space on either side when it's backed through the gate, which necessitates walkie-talkies for driver and guide (good thing we took those Marshaling courses this year at Overland 2013.) And did I mention the brick chimney and gas meter thrown in to make the process extra fun?

The view down the driveway on a typical day.

First step is taking off the swing arms from the back bumper. They hold the extra spare tire and the gas cans; once the camper's in the backyard, we wouldn't be able to open the camper door if we left them on.

The gas canister swing arm assembly off the truck bumper
and on the front porch awaiting storage.

Notice this latest addition to the rig:
a gift from my brother Patrick who swears
we're ready for the zombie apocalypse.

The extra spare loose from it's moorings.

Then the camper needs to be detached from the bed of the truck. The turnbuckles get unscrewed from all four corners, and the electrical connections are unhooked. If there's any water left in the tank, it needs to be drained (to avoid drinking slimy green stuff on our first trip out in the spring.)

We pull out the free standing cable jacks we use to lift the camper off and put them in place so they're at the ready. The one advantage to having such a narrow area to back the truck is the camper always ends up in the same place--there are practically marks on the ground where it sits during the winter every year. When we bought the camper there was an option to have hydraulic corner jacks, but there's not quite enough room down the driveway for them to fit (unless we want to dig an eight inch groove out of the side of our fireplace, or perhaps "accidentally" back over our neighbor's fence...)

Equipment at the ready.

Then the real fun begins. First, we have to move our other two cars out of the driveway and prop the gates open as far as they will go. At one time, the fence was covered with an out of control vine that caught up in the camper top rail and side latches; we used to have to trim the vine before we could back down but thankfully it has since died and been replaced with a less invasive species.

The driveway in all it's narrow glory.

Mark is always the driver and I'm always the spotter (there's no real reason for this, it's just the way it's always been.) The trickiest part is passing the cement filled pole that protects the gas meter on the side of the house. Mark can't see it from his position, and it also happens to be where the fence starts up on the other side, so both side mirrors are folded in because--you guessed it--they don't fit down the driveway in the out position. This is all made even more exciting because the camper blocks the driver's view in the rear view mirror too, so Mark is driving by Braille and walkie-talkie instructions alone. (Want to test your marriage? Have the walkie-talkie batteries die in the middle of this procedure as they did on us one year.)

The truck starts it's journey. Notice the gas meter and heavy pole protecting it.

Through the gate, the narrowest part of the process.

Once down the driveway and through the gate, we set the jacks in place and start cranking, trying to raise it simultaneously on either side to keep it level. We use the ratchet sound of the crank gears to keep them even. When it's up about four inches above the bed, Mark pulls the truck out and down the driveway, lighter in the rear but a little sad all the same. The truck that is, not Mark. Well, Mark's sad, but I won't comment on his rear.

Cable jack in place.

We have to shim the jack stands too, as the condition of our driveway is less than ideal.

That leaves the camper wavering around in the air, the cable jacks bending under the weight and balancing precariously in the breeze. It was really unnerving the first few times we did it, and frankly, it still gives me the willies when the wind is blowing. We try to get it back to earth as soon as possible so we quickly place cement blocks at all four corners underneath the camper with a couple long boards lined up between them. These prop the camper up off the ground and allow circulation during the rainy season.

Camper in the air on bendy jacks. I think Mark is wiping a tear here. We'll let him have a moment...

Since the cement pad it sits on is almost as ancient as the house, we have to shim one or more corners up to make it level from side to side, and slightly at an angle front to back to allow rain water to run off the top. Our official safety test is to set it down and push on it: if it doesn't wiggle too bad we're good to go.

Leveling up the camper's winter foundation.

Mark wraps up the electrical connections to keep the damp out and we go through the dry goods area to check for expiration dates. We always keep some food, drinks and sundries in the camper because it doubles as our earthquake preparedness kit.

Electrical connection ready for winter rain.

The tailgate gets slapped back on the truck and we're ready for home improvement/holiday/moving season.

The tailgate gets reunited with the truck after spending 7 months in the patio.

It's always a sad day when the camper comes off; as often as we tell ourselves we could always put it back on and go out for the weekend, it hardly ever happens. We're usually town-bound until at least January, at which time we start planning a desert trip to alleviate the painful "Camping Deficit Disorder." (This syndrome is always experienced after eight weeks of eating too much rich food and not moving farther than the distance between the kitchen and the couch.)

So there you have it, the end of another successful camping year. I can't wait until our next trip, but I have a backlog of adventures I would like to write about so stay tuned. And if I haven't expressed it before to you individually, thank you all for sticking with me and reading this blog. I'd still write it if you didn't read, but it's much more fun when you do.  I appreciate the comments and encouragement and freely admit I would be a much sadder person without you.  

Overland

I have to say this right up front: I am not a big off-road driving fan. There, I said it.

We have a huge four wheel drive truck--10 cylinder Ford F250, Warn winch mounted on oversized bumper with brush guards, back bumper with extra guards that carry a second spare and gas cans--the whole nine yards. We use the truck in the winter sans-camper to bring home large pieces of lumber for home projects, haul Christmas trees, help new-found friends move (those jokes about having lots of friends when you own a truck? all true), take loads to the dump, etc. In spring we back that monster down the driveway, get the camper hooked in to the bed and we're ready to roll. In between using the truck for load capacity and using it for camping, it sits in our driveway looking all testosterone-y. The cost to fill a 28 gallon tank on a truck that gets 10 mpg in the city makes it a little prohibitive to use as a commuter car. Our carbon footprint is huge for about 5 weeks of the year. We do have a little solar panel on the camper to top off the battery, does that count for anything?

Our dirty truck on it's way to Prudhoe Bay, pre-monster bumpers

Anyway, I get really nervous when we have to put the truck in four wheel drive. I'm fine with graded dirt or gravel roads, in fact, I prefer them because it weeds out more than 90% of the traffic. But when we start bouncing over boulders, the bushes are screeching across the paint, and the truck feels like it might tip over from the angle, I tense up. It's not the money it would cost to fix the damage (ok, it's a little about the money) or the worry of getting stuck if we break down (we always pack a ratio of a months worth of food and water per day we plan to be gone). It's just uncomfortable. You know that tailbone jarring crunch you feel when you hit a pothole on the road? Well that's four wheel driving. Over and over and over.

Looking back toward Death Valley,  Johnson Canyon Road

The only reason I go along, other than marital harmony, is that it gets you to places you can't get otherwise. Once there, you can get out of the truck and hike even further out to where you otherwise wouldn't have been able to reach. We've been able to drive up some remote side roads in Death Valley, hike up narrow canyons and find petroglyphs left hundreds of years ago by Native Americans. I suppose you could hike all the way out 20 miles from the main road then 3 more miles up the canyon in 90+ degree weather to see them, but that would take a bit more fortitude.

Petroglyphs somewhere near Marble Canyon, Death Valley

We're getting ready for what's become our annual trek to Overland Expo in May. Overland Expo is a collection of people who, like us, want to get out and see the world by land, in whatever chosen conveyance. It's a three day weekend gathering that offers classes in technical driving skills, getting un-stuck from various situations, navigation, cooking on the road, first aid and more. But the most important thing it offers is a gathering of people with experience doing the things we'd like to do. It's a gathering of our "peeps."

There are people there who have driven around the world. Some with campers, some on motorcycles, a few even on bicycles. But those are the stars--most of us dream of doing those things but have done much shorter trips. Some haven't done anything yet but want to learn enough skills to feel comfortable doing it. My favorite part of the whole thing is being able to walk up to anyone, ask them where they've been and have a two hour conversation that doesn't involve eye-rolling and stifled yawns. It's a road trip version of Comic-con.

One of the many vehicles at Overland Expo

So this year we've signed up for an 8 hour class in Wilderness First Aid, getting unstuck from mud, and GPS navigation, among other things. Mark has dreamed for years of doing some sort of monumental road trip: circling the United States and Canada. Driving to the tip of South America. Circumnavigating the world. In order to do these things we're going to have to make some major life changes--rent the house out and be willing to live like college students again for starters.


I'm not sure we'll be doing any of these big trips soon, but at least we're getting some helpful training to practice closer to home. Not to mention providing something to dream about in those zoned out moments at work when it feels like looking at another spreadsheet will make your brain explode.

Road Trips, Rigs and Roughing It

Old-timey map

When my husband Mark and I met we were fresh out of college and just starting our first "real" jobs. Among the many things we had in common: we both moved back from college and were (temporarily) living with our parents; we both owned ancient VW bugs which were only sort of reliable; and we had both grown up camping with our families. Oh, and we were both broke.

It seemed like a match made in heaven.

Since we both had roommates that happened to be our parents, we naturally wanted to spend a little time away from home on the weekends. Our vehicles and our money situation made it impossible to travel far or stylishly, so we would throw a tent and a cooler in the back of whichever bug was running and take off for the closest campground. It was a cheap, fun way to get to know each other. Mark had a little Coleman dome tent he had picked up at Big 5 years before and we both had sleeping bags we had owned since we were little. I borrowed a cooler from my Dad, filled it with stuff I thought no one would notice was missing from the fridge and it was a date. Did I mention it was cheap?

When you're in your twenties it's nothing to throw a blanket on the ground, roll out your sleeping bag and fall asleep. Maybe your arm would be numb in the morning, but shake it a little and you're good to go. We would make a campfire and sit around it drinking hot chocolate with extraordinary amounts of peppermint schnapps and laugh and laugh. I knew Mark was for me when one night he got up to tend the fire and when he sat back down, missed the stool a little, tottered and caught his fall on the side of the fire ring. The grill marks burned into his hand were all I needed to know he was a hard core outdoorsman. My turn came when we went in for the night and the flashlight we had strapped to the ceiling of the tent fell and knocked me on the head.

Good times.

We've gotten softer in our old age. We no longer use a tent (unless we're backpacking) and our truck is less than 15 years old; it actually has air conditioning and leather seats. We bought a Four Wheel pop-up camper and have a queen sized bed inside with foam cushions. We don't have "facilities" and we still like to cook outdoors so it's not exactly luxury, but if the weather is bad there's nothing like being able to sit inside and listen to the rain. We carry a lot more stuff along with us now including an array of camera equipment and, often, 18 year old Scotch--just a few of the many perks of being older and having better jobs. But the idea behind our vacations has always stayed the same: it has to involve a road trip, a campfire and our trusty "rig." Nothing is more exciting than opening up a map (yes, an actual paper map! GPS does not have the same thrill factor for me) and plotting a course toward one of those green areas with the little tree marks.

Our present rig and us, decidedly not hardcore