Van Life

Not until experiencing something for myself can I really appreciate it.  Call me thick headed, but it's been true about autumn in New England,  sex, and most recently, camper vehicles, or as I call it, van life.  I purchased my Syncro with no prior knowledge of van life.  Operating on the assumption that I liked the freedom and exploration offered by living out of a van, I committed to trying it out.  A handful of interesting people's stories of the road reassured me that it was the right thing to do.  Ships of the open road are hard to understand when you're not sailing them.  Now that I am sailing my own,  I have grown to appreciate the breed of adventurers they attract and the vehicles they drive.

The older and more weathered, the better.   Dents, rust and scrapes equate to good stories.  Each time I see a van, I imagine all of the adventures they facilitate.  Trips to Big Sur, Cross-country road trips,  Baja and back.  Dream it up, and it's been done.  At least twice.

For generations, vans have been a vehicle for people to explore the conquered frontier on their own terms.  There is no need for hotels, restaurants or mass transportation. Leave when you want and head where you please.

Van life runs on a simple premise: fill up with gas, stock up with groceries and head towards a place rumored cool.  Hippes did it in the '60's and there are plenty of people doing it today.

This Syncro Westfalia has been there and back.

Like the best restaurants, reservations are not accepted.

The trailer is for firewood.  The owner uses this '78 when he's not captaining a salvage tugboat in the Channel Islands.  He bought his for $3000 on eBay.

These guys started in Montreal and are heading to Patagonia.  Livin' the dream.

The driver and year unknown, but presumed awesome.

Once the bug bites, it's hard to shake.  I spotted these all of these VW Vans in the last week on the Northern California Coast.  I look forward to seeing more and guessing their journeys.

Here are some more links,

Van Life (Picasa),

Saddle Tramps,

Overlandia.

East, Towards the Desert

The waves were dying down and after three weeks of cruising the California coast, the Syncro had developed a coating of sand and a special odor.   In addition, parts of Southern California were starting to feel familiar. Weighing my options, I stopped by Trader Joe's in Silverlake to restock on provisions and headed east towards the desert.

The suburbs faded into obscurity as the 10 ran east towards Palm Springs.  Desert started winning the war over farms and cul-de-sacs.  Following signs towards Joshua Tree National Park,  I turned off on 62.  Morongo Valley, Yucca Valley,  Whats the big deal about this place? I asked myself.  The loud shriek of a nearby military jet confirmed my suspicions that the area was fit for weapons testing.  Pulling into the park, I started seeing what the hype was all about.  For the first time in recent memory,  I couldn't see a house or other sign of civilization, just trees from a Dr. Seuss book.  Sporadic rock formations decorated the horizon and hills, inviting exploration.

After a day a day of solo hikes, crawling around rocks and camping in a busy campsite,  I started growing uneasy.  Nature should be raw and open ended, not packaged and consumed. Driving off in search of a campsite on one of the so-called 4x4 roads designated by the official park map, furthered my angst. Under promise and over deliver,  perhaps for a Prius.  The Syncro wanted more dirt, and I wanted more seclusion.

See the face?

Craving God's County, BLM and National Forest, I left Joshua Tree at sunrise the next day. Setting my sites on Kern River Canyon,  I headed north away from roads connected to LA.  Traffic died off.  The occasional lifted pickup truck sped by, and my music blasted with windows down.  A sign read "No service for 55 miles."  Good things accompany these signs.

Sunrise in Joshua Tree National Park.

These ditches are dug to stop off roaders.

One of the most beautiful sunsets of my life.

The shortening days prompted me to pull off the road earlier than usual.  Invited by a trail snaking up to a hill,  I drove to the gate, packed my pack with The Monkey Wrench Gang, my Snowpeak cook kit and two cans of chili.  No registration or designated areas to cook, just a mile of hiking to do before sunset.  I locked the doors out of habit before realizing that there was no one around for ten miles.

Here are some more links,

Sunset (Picasa),

The Desert (Picasa).

Alphabetical Order

The Syncro's Kenwood stereo defaults to playing music in alphabetical order.  Plugging in my iPhone through the USB port, Marshal Tucker Band's AB's Song starts.  Like in the song, I just so happen to be 23 too.  After 1:15, and it's on to one of the many versions that Warren Zevon recorded of Accidentally Like a Martyr. Best of, Remastered, Unplugged, and Live BBC.  Growing tired of that, I tap away on the forward button with the fury of a tween video gamer.  Another Brick in the Wall. I push As many times as I can.

"Was that odd or even?" I ask myself, down-shifting on the hill.

Growing uneasy with that song, I repeat the cycle.

Here are some more links,

Accidentally like a Martyer (Youtube),

AB's Song (Youtube).

South of LA

A thick marine fog cloaked the palm trees and bluffs, limiting visibility to a few hundred feet.  Nearby traffic hummed on the PCH.  Every few minutes, a hollow sound announced the passing of a liberally muffled motorcycle.  Sitting in the driver's seat of the Syncro with the door open, I watched waves roll in from the grey horizon.   Dozens of  black dots bobbed up and down as the swells past.  Blindly reaching for a bag of pistachios, I tracked a wave pass through an especially dense group of black dots.  A handful started moving towards the shore in anticipation of the wave peeking. Two white streaks went in separate directions.

"Damn, that looks fun. I'm suiting up," I said looking back towards my cousin, Nikko, stretching out in the back seat. "You cool to hang out for a bit?"

"Absolutely," he said, keeping his eyes pealed to, "Travel's With Charlie."

For the sixth time since leaving LA two days earlier,  I grabbed my 3'2 suit and 7'6 Walden Minimagic from the roofrack and raced down the stairs towards the beach.

On Friday morning,  Nikko and I followed the ocean down towards San Diego in the final leg of my exploration of the California Coast.   Despite the areas reputation for constant sun, a San Francisco like fog covered the coast, making the densely developed area feel remote and repetitively uninhabited.  Exploring the numerous parks and surf breaks that separate Mediterranean "mansions,"  supplemented the sections of coast where 1 combines with I5 with residential roads.  Parking the Syncro on sections of road unrestricted by parking laws by night, we joined the thousands of other gypsies taking advantage of the warm climate and reliable waves.

Reef.

Lined up.

Drying a constantly wet towel.

Three feet at 13 seconds.

Limited visibility.

Baywatch.

Black Dots.

Paddling out through the white water, I paused for a second to look back towards the bluffs. Teeth like rows of parked cars some hundred feet above contrasted the gray background, bringing back memories of a foggy Manhattan skyline.

A surfers "Hoot!" brought me back from my day dream, and I paddled with purpose, narrowing avoiding the waves peak.

Here are some more links,

SoCal (Picasa),

Out of Reception.