Yes, we are still alive, despite our social media presence. As it turns out, it's difficult to live adventurously and write about living adventurously at the same time.
To say there is a learning curve to mobile living is an understatement. It's not quite as intuitive as I expected. In fact, I was confident my years of road-tripping, backpacking, and outdoor exploration (along with some genetics I never asked for) had trained me to be prepared for any eventuality. And I'm slightly ashamed to admit that we are prepared for the following:
-A blizzard of Biblical proportions.
-An impromptu spear-fishing excursion.
-A casual road-side suture, IV, and/or intubation.
-A camping trip with up to 10 members of our extended families.
-A siege of up to one month.
As you can imagine, the amount of stuff we have is impressive. And burdensome. The one thing I didn't prepare for is the consequence of being prepared for everything.
We've discovered that life on the road requires even more simplicity than we expected. We have to give up some opportunities (like backpacking, or climbing, for example). We have to give up some possessions--even more than we originally thought. But when you try to have it all... you end up with nothing.
Our first month was a series of trials and errors. We had way too much stuff, and the effort it took to move locations was comparable to moving a small studio apartment. Every weekend. With work during the weekdays, and moving consuming most of the weekends, we didn't actually have any time. I'm willing to sacrifice many things for this lifestyle, but time is not one of them.
In addition to this learning curve, we were afflicted with improbable events. Our vehicle broke down and needed almost $1000 in repairs--while we were away from our trailer home. I had an unexpected medical situation. While boondocking in the La Sal mountains of Utah, a windstorm destroyed our solar panel and kitchen tent. On a bumpy road we broke the TV I use for work (and obviously entertainment--just cuz we're off the grid doesn't mean we don't binge watch Netflix). Our first month of saving money turned into a month of spending money until we were both broke, demoralized, and ready to call it off.
For whatever reason, we went double or nothing. We decided to make some changes, especially with the amount of stuff we're carrying the frequency at which we're moving. After weeks in the western slope of Colorado and Utah, we hobbled our way west to northern California to stay with my friend, Rick. We've been parked in Rick's backyard for two weeks now in the charming town of Gold Run, which an interstate sign claims exists somewhere back here in the woods (I think the census must have counted his dog Rocky too, because 124 is wayyyyyyy too generous). We are thrilled to have space to spread out, recuperate, plan for the next few months, and most importantly, pee in a flushing toilet. We're also fortunate to have the company of Rick, who is about as generous and thoughtful as humans come these days.
We're planning to stay here in Gold Run until mid-November, when we'll begin the drive down to the southernmost point of Baja Mexico for a Thanksgiving celebration with friends. When we get back into the country (pending election results, of course) we are planning to head straight to Houston, Texas where I'll be interviewing for medical school. After that, we'll hit the road again for a cross-country tour of the southern states and east coast before returning to the midwest and finally Utah. Of course, we'll be stopping along the way to celebrate Christmas with our mothers, because even the most wandering nomads need Christmas dinner with mom.
I've been thinking a lot about the components of a really good life. For so long, I've believed that good living comes from spending your days doing really good things. And so I've filled my life with enviable activities, like traveling to foreign countries and learning new outdoor sports. I keep doing and doing more. But in the last few months, I've realized that my desire to do often overpowers my need to be. The greatest moments of living on the road haven't been the most exciting or adventurous--they've been the simplest. They are the times when doing is only a means to being. These words may sound empty--like ornate frames without paintings--until you experience them. I hope you do.
And now, a parting blessing: May friendship be your best insurance in difficult times. May you simplify the complexities in your life. May you be loved by many dogs. And finally, may you live adventurously!... and meaningfully.
See you on the road.
Ben
