Camping in a bus.

This weekend I drove two hundred miles round trip in a 1978 volkswagen microbus, with only myself, my camping gear, and a handful of cassette tapes.  I was headed to Larrabee state park.  The destination was clear, the tank was half full, and my hopes were high.  I was northbound on interstate 5, and it was a gorgeous cloudless day with the Northern Cascades to my right, the Olympic mountain range to my left, and an empty road straight ahead.  I was hoping to achieve a moment of clarity, an aha moment, I fit the stereotype of traveler by seeking a fresh start.  I got off the highway in Burlington and gassed up.  I paid cash and the woman behind the counter said in a low stern voice, “nice bus.” I jumped back in the driver seat, turned the key, and nothing.  No roar of engine, no blast of exhaust, “Trip’s over, I’m stuck in Burllington,” I thought.  A quick call home, a reference to the manual, and swift hit to the solenoid with a wrench is all it took to get me back on the road.  45 minutes of driving through state route 11, (chuckanut drive), I had arrived.  A feeling of entitlement came over me as I parked into site 38, and took a sigh of relief.  

I setup camp, packed a small bag and headed out on a hike.  Again, the destination was clear, and hopes were high with a goal of achieving youthful enlightenment.  After traveling 3 miles of switchbacks and instagramming every tree in sight, I wanted to continue.  But the road ahead was steep, overgrown with more plants than people, and was twice as long.  I thought it seemed like the perfect environment to sweat out chaotic thoughts.  An hour and a half of vertical climb, I had still not reached the top but came across the first couple I had seen on the trail.  ”How far down is the road?”  They asked, “about a steep hour and a half down” I replied pulling out my map.  ”Oh thank God you have a map!  Here let me take a picture.” They said as they both spun around me to look at it and began to walk away.  How anyone could venture out without a map was beyond me, I thought compared to those two I was doing pretty good as far as being by myself.  Then quickly realized with my dinner and lunches primarily being canned, I had forgotten a can opener.  How anyone could venture out without a can opener is beyond me.  3 hours later and I still have not gotten to the viewpoint I had wanted to be at.  With the sun getting dangerously low to the horizon, I made the the safe decision to turn around and shimmy my way through even narrower paths, and head back to camp.  With tired legs I came out to the trail head across from camp, I also walked right past the couple I had seen originally.  ”How was the view?”  ”I didn’t get to it” I replied in a grumble.  ”Oh, well maybe next time.”  They replied.  I smiled at the thought of a next time, and thought maybe that was the lesson learned:  No matter how prepared you are, life will still throw you curveballs, and there will also always be a next time.  

Back at camp, and preparing dinner.  I had borrowed a can opener from my 3 spots over neighbor.  I started the stove, and then proceded to slice the shit out of my right hand pointer finger with the lid of the tin can.  I cut my knuckle and was bleeding badly, “Stitches may be needed, but I can’t drive myself to the hospital like this.  I don’t even know where the hospital is”  I thought.  I grabbed my only towel, and the first aid kit from my hiking bag, and bandaged it up as best I could.  Dinner would be made and eaten with one hand.  ”Maybe that’s the lesson learned,” I thought, “overcome challenges and your suffering” as I laid out my sleeping bag.

Morning came softly and coldly.  Wounded and feeling defeated I felt that maybe just packing up and going for a drive would be best.  I tore down camp, and once again headed out this time the destination was not as clear, hopes were not as high, and the tank was not as full.  But on my drive home through state route 11 and interstate 5 I realized a man is not judged by the success of his campfire or can opening abilities but rather, his true character, and competence of travel and willingness.  I was in the middle of nowhere and nobody expected anything from me.  I had brought a potentially dead car back to life, I had climbed 10 miles of trails and still made it back, I had made dinner one handed, I had been trying to force a revelation when I should have been meditating in nature.  The lesson learned is that every journey is worth the trip.  

Oh and by the way, dad if you’re reading this, the cassette tape-impromptu-recording of you and your friends that you had hidden in the back of the center console labeled Major Basement Jam 98’ kicked serious ass and was absolutely the highlight of my trip back.It didn’t feel right to take the bus without family along with it.  So I’m glad you made the trip.