This weekend, my wife and I decamped from our favorite tent campground 15 miles up the creek to peruse the Adventure Van Expo passing through Eagle, Colorado. With semi-retirement glimmering at the end of our mid-life tunnel, kids in college, we can foresee an upgrade from a lifetime of sleeping on the ground.
Though still not as status-setting as a yacht or Gulfstream 5, Instagram and YouTube have elevated Van Life into a thing. Influencers have raised the bar on portable fashion and function, in the process blowing the roof off previous expectations for living on the road. The basics elements of van camping remain the same as the original VW Van—portable sleeping and eating quarters, ostensibly to sleep close to not miss the best surfing tides. With the increase of amenities and the amount of stuff we now cart along, the very compactness of a Sprinter van requires an obsession for storage, multiple use micro spaces and geeking out on electric, HVAC and other systems. My own packing acumen was honed while living out of a Subaru a few months each year through my 20s. We use some of the same equipment 30 years later. Hitting the road, foot loose and fancy free has become cool and expensive.
Wandering the Adventure Van Expo we spoke with two California manufacturers with four vans for sale each alluring in their own way, and each selling for well over $250,000. These vans may be the coolest thing on the road for a certain set, but that price begs the question of what are all the options? I’m just frumpy enough that pop-up trailer or converted school or Rock-n-Roll band touring bus, they are all RVs to me. I’m old enough that my benchmarks date me. I grew up in a 3-bedroom split level suburban home that cost $42,000. My first new car cost $9,900. Recently, I’ve been looking at tear-drop trailers with sticker prices around $30,000—basically tent camping with a queen bed and kitchenette on wheels. Most vans at the Expo were jaw-droppingly amenitized, cramped and sporting sticker prices consistently at or above a quarter of a million dollars. That is about how much the building materials cost for the home we live in which I built myself 20 years ago.
By the way, I was 33 years old before my Social Security summaries showed that I had cumulatively made $250,000 in my lifetime. That may have been 20 years ago, but even today, that is a lot to spend for a lifestyle. Though less than an actual home—the average value of which in Colorado is now $591,189, the Vanlife standard appears to approach the cost of a home. Make no mistake, for some, these vans are intended to substitute for having a home. With “workstations” these are marketed to live and work from as much as to “camp” in.
At the expo, a “Van” (meaning what begins as a plumbing contractors van is retro-fitted into a tiny apartment), there were a few manufacturers selling “affordable” base models starting at $80,000 – $120,000. Keep in mind the average price of a vehicle hit $47,000 this year. For a van, that is just a shell, with a chassis, cab and a motor. Dave and Matt’s Vans, manufactured nearby in Gypsum are to be applauded for their under-gadgeting ethos, focusing on affordability as opposed to amassing all of the accoutrements that appear de-rigueur for the category. That is still a chunk of change, and Momma told me to never spend that much money on durable goods that depreciate…unless (my caveat) they are tantalizingly beautiful.
We are not van owners, but I now know my current category. In case you’ve been hanging out down by the river for too long, in today’s parlance, we “overland” meaning to car camp off pavement with a 4wheel-friendly trailer or rooftop tent. Having neither tent nor trailer, I still can’t understand the fad of a campsite that can’t detach from the vehicle. We “overland” in a long ago paid-for 4Runner which I expect to drive another 250,000 miles and another 10 years. Like most Vans at the Expo, our 4Runner has off-road upgrades. Camping away from bathrooms and power is referred to as “boondocking.” On the sprinter vans, an infinitely cool variety of exterior upgrades imply they could go anywhere one could possibly want to go. As a remote wilderness hiker, I’m skeptical. This go-anywhere marketing is another allure at core to Van Life, distinguishing the category from others. Can you live off-grid and still blog about it with wi-fi?
Vans cannot escape the basics. All campers eventually must confront shit. A core tenants of vans and most RVs is that they are self-contained for just about all human functions—driving, eating, getting-it-on, showering and evacuating afterwards. Let’s face it, Van Life is marketing individual expression, remote work, an outdoor life, youthful adventurism and sex, perhaps not in that order. They are alluring to those of us on the downhill side of our years as they are to the twentysomethings though I cannot fathom how they can afford these mobile castles. Most vans have a shower/ toilet system inside. Most users whisper that they usually seek out other options on the road. Get a nationwide gym membership one suggested. To ducking in and out of gyms in Albuquerque, Bakersfield or Fairbanks, that I say, “yuck.” I would rather shit in the woods—and pack it out, of course.
Back to where to take care of our bodily functions. Does one need a toilet inside the vehicle? I long ago got over any squeamishness about BLM or USFS pit toilets. As a rafter I don’t mind pooping in a box and disposing of it later. Last year, on a 5-day desert slot canyon through-hike I pooped in the same bag for the whole trip. I love a well-tended federal campground, or I did before most became infuriatingly booked months ahead through Rec.Gov which (don’t get me started!!) has killed the spontaneous weekend wander-lusting of prior decades. This pushes more people out of campgrounds, so most hip campers today would call what we do “boondocking,” meaning to vehicle camp without plugging-in a few feet from one’s travelling neighbors. Those lesser species of traveler parks and pays, in able to put astro-turf as a welcome mat and still have happy hours with real glassware on their RVs and retire nightly to actual Queen-Size beds. Snowbirds have left Wisconsin to winter in Arizona RV parks for decades now. Today, in any vehicle or trailer or yurt with linen and glassware would be considered “glamping” which is a rather broad category that denotes sleeping “outside” under a roof in style. Glamping for us still means bringing a checkered William-Sonoma tablecloth for the picnic table.
VanLife is a cultural phenomenon with virtual stars and groupies, known as “followers.” One vendor gave me a “concert” tee-shirt with Expo dates and locations. My next car trip will have T-shirts printed, only I will have to print the locations and dates on the t-shirt after I’ve finished because I don’t always know where I’ll end up.
The outdoor recreation industry today has wandered a long way from my mentors: Huckleberry Finn (wooden raft), Jack Kerouac in On the Road (1949 Hudson Commodore), John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie (GMC pickup named Ricinante with camper shell), William Least Heat Moon in Blue Highways (“Ghost Dancing” a 1975 half-ton Ford Econoline), not to mention Peter Jenkins in Walk Across America (cowboy boots!!). These road warrior authors established my romance for a journey, made me want to leave what I considered the suburban hell of Southwest Washington State.
The Van idea has a long history. Before going West was popularized, there were ships. In Americana, the most iconic predecessor to the van was, of course, the covered wagon or Prairie Schooner. Historic westward passages were not all buckboard spare either. Lewis and Clark led an “expedition” of 45 including soldiers an interpreter. They contracted boat crews up and down the Missouri River then horses over the Rockies until they got to the Columbia River. They traveled from 1804-1806 with survey equipment and zoological and botanical samplings. In 1969 John Wesley Powell led 11 men and 4 boats from Green River Wyoming down the Colorado to emerge from Grand Canyon with two boats. Though their bacon rotted, coffee washed down the river by the time they reached Separation Rapid in the Grand Canyon their trip had lost much of their supplies, gear and even a couple boats. They may have left the rail line in Green River with tons of provisions; by the end, it would be difficult to consider their trip comfortable. Still, there is a history of extravagant travel across the West long before there were roads to travel. I took many beasts, and often many people. Lord Gore, for whom my current favorite backpacking mountains between Vail and Silverthorne are named, travelled for three years across more than 5 Western states spending over $500,000 in 1854 dollars for 40 “helping hands” for an extended hunting trip. He shlepped 70 rifles and ate like royalty. He was reported to have killed thousands of animals, including 2,000 bison, 1,600 deer and elk and over 100 bears during the expedition leaving most of them to rot. One can only guess how much whiskey accompanied the rich Irishman and his crew. In today’s dollars that expedition would cost close to $20 million. That makes VanLife seem downright affordable. Gore was rich but not as rich as the billionaire oligarchs carrying out a space race today. In that context of excess, and gross wastefulness, just about anything else seems practical and affordable. This is a strange time when company owners who don’t pay taxes outpace entire nations into space, and people less than half my age own quarter of a million-dollar vans. Surely, I am missing something.
In the 30 years I’ve been car camping following routes or crossing paths with my literary mentors, I’ve established systems for organizing gear including the kitchen box so that I can pack and unpack in 30 minutes or less. I just replaced a 30-year old Rubbermaid Action Packer (still selling for about $54) with a ROAM adventure company 82L Rugged Case ($259 plus $89 lid organizer), which is much larger. Our weekend excursion including meals, gas and camp site the weekend of the Expo cost about as much as lunch at a decent restaurant. All our gear, including some upgrades like a solar battery, water-tight kitchen and food boxes, $300 cooler, lounge chairs, 12-year-old tent, paco pads and sleeping bags probably add up to around $3,000. My rafting setup for camping is closer to $15,000 including trailer. If we could eventually afford VanLife by today’s standards, it is clear that my cost paradigms need to shift significantly.
For me, it does get down to what is the purpose of travelling? Does one travel to impress one’s neighbors or people one will never see again? Is it to drive 75 mph in a home-away-from-home going from café to National Parks to random Geocached locations? Is it to have so many amenities one can pretend to still be at home? Or is it to feel like backpacking or rafting, but on wheels that one is carrying everything one needs and values, to feel the full wind of independence in your face?
YouTube enough people living on the road, and it becomes clear that not living out of a home on a foundation, rooted in a place is a test of character. The road can be unkind. I highly recommend reading Nomadland by Jessica Bruder. Try HAVING to live out of a van, migrating from job to job avoiding cold seasons through retirement. It’s not all that. While nomad living may not be as hazardous as it was for John Wesley Powell or Lewis and Clark or as glamorous as Instagrammers make it look, to camp while travelling is to confront one’s romantic ideals with the actual conditions of place, season, equipment solitude and personal fortitude. Traveling with another person is it’s own trial. It is a different kind of journey than hotel hopping. My wife and I know about that. If one is fortunate, at the end of such travels, one emerges a changed person. If one is lucky, you also get to return to a place called home.
Just before we were engaged, we car camped the inside passage of Alaska hopping on and off the Alaska ferry, tent camping for 6 weeks with our two dogs out of my Subaru Loyale. I was moving back after a year in Alaska, and we were moving to a town where she had a job teaching 6th grade. I’d never visited, but she thought I would like Eagle, Colorado. We knew we were doing something very special.
One of our favorite quotes is from Lester Bangs in one of our favorite movies about coming of age. Bangs said, “the only true currency in this world is what passes between people when they are being uncool.” I don’t think anyone looking at our younger, more lithe, unwashed selves thought we were cool. We certainly didn’t think so.
Our journey was a test of our compatibility even more than it was a test of our equipment. It was no fashion statement. Still married 26 years later, that trip is a benchmark for us, for how we wish to be, how we remember ourselves; island hopping, camping under a tarp, with open tickets for a ferry, long summer days of Alaska, people giving us fish. Tickets with no itinerary or expiration date—just headed southward towards the continent and each day being an adventure we had to discover. We might just live a bit like that again, if just for a while. If we do, it would be great to sleep on something more comfortable than the ground…who knows, but probably not in a $250,000 van; though as Hemmingway said, “isn’t it pretty to think so?”
