“I’m going to need to scan your ID.”
My heart begins to race as I hand over the Rhode Island branded rectangle of plastic emblazoned with my face. I’m not in trouble. I remind myself that it’s a real ID that scans. Weeks away from turning 24, you’d think my legality would have sunk in by now. Yet, whenever a bouncer, bartender, cashier at a liquor store, or, in this case, the front door attendant at the dispensary asks for my ID, I still momentarily panic.
The green light on the scanner flashes and he hands me back the card. An initial wave of relief washes over me, followed by, “No shit it worked you’re almost 24 years old, Annie.”
“You’re all set to head in,” he says, waving me inside.
Now, I don’t want to give off the wrong impression- I haven’t been blazing my way cross country, hot boxing Ody at camp at night, or hiking with my head up in the clouds- it’s not that kind of van trip. But, at the right time and place I’m not opposed to some Mary J. And, when in California…
Walking into a dispensary is the adult version of a kid in a candy store. There’s endless possibilities depending on your mood and it’s honestly quite overwhelming. I want to pick up some goodies in preparation for a week in Yosemite with my older brother, Jack, but I’m having trouble deciding what to get. I ran into a similar problem trying to choose a case of beer at the grocery store. He’s always been the one who does these pick-ups for me- the older brother who gave me my first beer and was there when I took my first hit of a joint. I pick out a disposable pen and the guy behind the counter reassures me of my selection, “That’s a good choice, you’ll like that. What flavor do you want?”
“Flavor?” I ask.
“Yeah, we have Purple Cloud, Blue Wave, Misty Rain, Foggy Sky, Starry Night, and Premium Jack?”
I’m dumbfounded. Just the list of “flavors” was enough to put my mind in a purple cloud foggy sky. This isn’t like picking out fluoride at the dentist where the flavors are straightforward like strawberry, grape, or bubblegum.
“Wait, what was that last one?” I ask.
“Premium Jack?”
“Premium Jack… yeah, that sounds good.”
With my Premium Jack, a case of Sierra Nevada’s Hazy Little Thing IPAs, and the van fridge packed with groceries for veggie burgers, taco night, and udon noodle stir fry, I’m ready to pick brother Jack up at the San Francisco airport and take us to Yosemite.
Just about two years prior, I stepped off the Amtrak at Grand Central and made my way to Murray Hill where Jack was waiting for me at his apartment. We would be roommates for the summer while I interned in the city. He made sure I knew what combination of subway lines I needed to take to my office, played squash with me on the weekends, gave me recommendations for fun activities, and when he’d come home on the early side from work and catch me eating a peanut butter and jelly for dinner, he’d take me out for a Poke Bowl. I always had my doubts about New York City, but figured I had to at least give it a try. Getting through that summer was not the easiest for me, but having Jack, as well as Charlie not too far away, looking out for me was my saving grace.
Having just completed his first year of business school and about to start a summer internship in a week, Jack nervously watched the bars of service slowly drop as we got closer to Yosemite and our camp spot for the night. He quickly fired off his last few messages and emails before we completely lost service. Welcome to van life. We camped on National Forest land outside of the park with some neighboring vans, a trailer, and a school bus, which Jack eyed warily.
“How do you feel about the guy in that school bus?” Jack asked suspiciously.
I hadn’t even thought twice about the man as he looked very similar to many of the other people I’ve seen along the way who live in school buses and mind their own business out in the woods.
“Him? He’s fine. Just a guy who lives in a school bus. He won’t bother us.” I say reassuring my older brother.
Our days in the park were filled with hikes, swimming, Sequoia groves, and view points. Followed by a beer and an Annie creation dinner outside in the folding chairs watching the sun set until the bugs were too much to handle. Then Jack, after receiving a foot pump sink tutorial from yours truly, would expertly wash the dishes as we passed back and forth the Premium Jack. Using my extra pillows, sleeping pads, and sleeping bag, I outfitted Jack with a bed in the ‘alley way’ of the van. We’d read until around 9 when the combination of the beer, Premium Jack, and the day’s activity made our eyelids begin to droop.
“Honestly, I didn’t really know what to expect, Annie, but the van is really comfortable. Both my Whoop and Garmin say I got great sleep.”
I was already nostalgic as we began the drive back towards society where we were to meet Charlie, who had been in San Francisco visiting friends, in Palo Alto for an early birthday celebration. I realized how special the last few days had been- alone with Jack in the van showing him my world. As the bars of service returned, Jack glanced at them, the incoming messages, and email notifications ruefully not quite ready to return to the reality of being back in reach.
I always admired Jack for knowing right out of college what he wanted to do and career-wise where he wanted to end up. He always seems to have it figured out, the next step planned, and is working his way up the ladder to reach his goal. At times, I’m envious of him for making it all look so easy. Sometimes, I compare myself to both Jack and Charlie and feel like I’ve failed. The sibling who’s lost and doesn’t have it figured out. But, I know the comparison is unhealthy. We’re all on our own unique paths, chasing our individual dreams. Insteading of comparing, there is so much the three of us can teach each other. And, for the first time I felt like through the few days in the van together I had taught Jack something of value. It’s okay to slow down, take your time, disconnect, and be out of service for a little bit.
The three of us bar-hopped around Palo Alto, ate tacos, and I blew out candles on a slice of chocolate cake. Two years ago in New York, they took me out for tacos for my 22nd birthday. In some ways, not much has changed. Charlie wore the same taco, short-sleeve, button down shirt. But, at the same time things are also different. I’m no longer the little sister who needs their help as much, or is following in their footsteps. I’ve carved out my own path and am charging down it.
We spent the following morning before both Jack and Charlie had to depart playing Hearts, talking, and watercoloring on a blanket in the park. I gazed up at the blue California sky, laying on my back as Charlie played my harmonica better than me, but I didn’t mind. I smiled knowing that I was the luckiest girl in the world to have these two for older brothers.
Wherever I go, wherever I am, no matter how old I am, I always know that if anyone is ever mean to me I can tell them I have two older brothers, Jack and Charlie, who will beat them up.
Fresh off the Dartmouth Coach, I carry my bags up the narrow flights of stairs to the fourth floor of our tall Beacon Hill townhouse. Pausing in the doorway to my room, a shrine to my childhood, I catch my breath and let the burning sensation in my thighs subside. I’m out of practice. I used to run up and down those stairs with ease. Starting all the way at the bottom of the house in the kitchen, Charlie and I would play “Spanker-Wanker”. Taking turns chasing each other up to the fifth floor, we would see who could get the most spanks in. During playdates, friends would moan and groan as I took them up to my room to play. I can still identify each family member before they appear in a room simply by the types of creaks they make while on those stairs.
Recovered from the climb, I enter my room and head to my desk to continue working on my last final paper that I need to finish before spring break 2020 actually commences. I’ve been running off a little sleep and a lot of caffeine for the past week as is standard for a college student at the end of a term. I open up my laptop and, instead of my paper, I first click through news notifications of the first set of colleges cancelling spring athletic seasons and spring semesters due to the rise in COVID-19 cases. I realize I might have just left campus for the last time. In disbelief, I scan my room, my old books lining the shelves, the youth sport trophies on my bureau, my beloved princess bed, and the select few stuffed animals sitting on the armchair in the corner. I look around again, noticing the overflowing basket with all of my childhood stuffed animals is missing.
“MOOOOOOOOM!” I holler down the stairs, “where are my stuffed animals!?”
“Shit,” I hear her say to herself, “Annie, I donated them. Sorry I forgot to ask, but I saved some of your favorites.”
My mom is notorious for “forgetting to ask” when it comes to getting rid of things. But, I don’t blame her. After almost 20 years of living in that house it would be overflowing if someone hadn’t been doing the decluttering the rest of us were too sentimental to do. However, at that moment I was not grateful. The disappearance of my toys, the diminishing prospect of having a senior spring, the lack of sleep, the uncompleted paper waiting at my desk- like the mature 22 year old I was, tears flooded down my face, I plopped onto my bed, undraped my princess curtains, and took a nap.
Before I left in the van, I was forewarned that my parents were beginning to think about selling the house. I made a trip to Boston to go through my room, say goodbye, and have one last night in my princess bed. In Ody, while driving to Mount Shasta, CA lured there by stories of Lemurians living in the volcano, the mystic energy, and healing vortexes, I give my mom a call. The house has sold. I’m surprised by my lack of nostalgia, instead I have an overwhelming sense of joy for my parents. Since being in the van I have become an advocate for downsizing. Despite all the memories that that house holds, I’m excited for my parents to no longer be tied down by it, burdened by maintaining it, and to experience more freedom in choosing where they want to be. On the phone, my mom begins to cautiously broach the topic of going through and cleaning out my room. Without hesitation I tell her, “Feel free to throw it all away. If it’s not with me in the van or something I brought to Watch Hill, it’s fair game.”
“Are you sure?” She asked. I could hear the surprise in her voice, and she kindly reminded me of my reaction to the disappearance of my stuffed animals.
“On second thought, any first place trophies should be saved. But, yes, everything else is fair game.”
Cruising down Highway 1 along the Southern California coast in early June, Ody was no match for the Ferrarri’s. We took it slow, going from Santa Barbara, Point Mugu, Malibu, Santa Monica, Venice Beach, Newport Beach, Laguna, Dana Point, and San Onofre. Surf, tan, shower at Planet Fitness with my new black card membership, which allows me access to any gym in the country (HUGE GAME CHANGER), repeat. I grew up dreaming about Southern California after hearing so many stories about my mom living in Newport Beach and attending Newport Harbor High School, and it certainly lived up to the hype. I biked from the high school (Go Sailors!) to Balboa Island, took the ferry over to the peninsula, and checked out the pier. It was fun being able to explore a place I had heard so much about and to picture my mom as a teenager scooping ice cream and serving frozen bananas at the local ice cream shop. Being by the ocean has always been a happy place for me- a type of safe haven. Gazing out across the waves to the horizon, a collision of blue sky and blue ocean, brings me peace. Looking around the boardwalks, piers, docks, and beaches, I saw groups of friends laughing, families taking their boats out for the day, and kids taking sailing lessons. The peace I typically find by the ocean was replaced with homesickness. Though my family reported that it was raining in Rhode Island, I missed them and our little beach town. As excited as I was to finally be in SoCal, I was ready to go back out into the wilderness. As paradoxical as it may seem, I’ve found that it’s much easier being alone out in nature than it is in more populated areas.
Arm extended, he put his hand on my shoulder, leaned forward, and through a layer of who-even-knows-what drugs said, “24 is nothing. When you turn 28- when you turn 28! That’s when you’ll realize. You’ll realize you’re responsible for your own life when you turn 28. Does that make sense? Am I making sense?”
I took a cautious step back, smiled politely, nodded, and said, “Complete sense.”
As the band, The Superwolves, queued up their next song, the man disappeared into the crowd of desert people gathered at Pappy & Harriet’s, a saloon in Pioneertown, CA. I exchanged a bewildered look with my friend Julia, who was accompanying me in the van for the week to celebrate my birthday, laughed, and we both continued to sip our cactus flower drinks as the Superwolves lead singer, Matt Sweeney, serenaded me, “You look better in my blue suit…”
The desert man’s words stuck with me though. When I turn 28, I’ll realize that I’m responsible for my life? Perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned on this most recent trip around the sun, is that I am in charge of my life. It is my life. It sounds so obvious and simple. But, I’m so grateful I came to that realization now, and that it didn’t take until my 28th birthday.
I’m lying on a yoga mat in Sarah’s, a crystal healer in Joshua Tree I found online, living room floor. It’s June 17th, the day after my birthday, and I figured there was no better way to begin this new year of life than with a crystal sound bath, plus the hour inside with AC was a huge bonus after enduring a few long days in the desert amidst a heatwave and 115 degree temperatures. After a preliminary meditation to open ourselves up to the other side, the universal energy, our spiritual guides, and to set our intentions, we enter the sound bath. A cacophony of noises begin to harmonize around me. A gong rings. I feel it right next to me, and then it ripples through my body. The vibrations from the crystal bowls reverberate around the room. I feel myself being lifted. A lightness and floating sensation takes over me. A rain instrument brings a violent storm, washing over me, causing me to shiver, cleansing, and brings me back down to Earth. When I open my eyes I’m unsure if I will still be in Sarah’s living room or if I was transported into another dimension. But there I was, on the yoga mat facing Sarah. As she laid out tarot cards in front of me, she handed me an essential oil that she instructed me to smell to help bring clarity to my mind. Then she motioned for me to pick a card. The question I’ve found myself most frequently asking is: “Where do I go from here? What’s next?”
I pick a card and flip it over.
“There is only what life is asking of me.”
I laughed. It would have been nice if Sarah’s card had had a detailed plan outlining my next step with the city, job, and apartment picked out. But, I know that’s not how it works. And, I know that I have all the answers to my questions and the information I need within me. I’ve found that through experiences, being open to new things, and by living life to the fullest this past year, I’ve been able to hear and learned to listen to myself in a new way.
The end of June and beginning of July was a break from my usual solo routine with visits from my brothers, Julia, and a detour back east to Park City, UT for the Fourth with friends, followed by another detour further east to Vail, CO for more friends and a job interview. It had been awhile since I had been surrounded by so many friends from college. Though the pong paddle still slid comfortably into my hand, I found myself feeling out of place amongst these familiar faces. For the first time I was confronted by the fact that maybe I had changed. Maybe they had changed, too. But, I think that the change and growth is natural since we’ve all left the confines of the campus that originally brought us together and are now off pursuing different things. I relished the time I spent with them, but also grappled with an urge to keep moving. There was more to see, places I wanted to get to, more adventures to be had, and I started to feel like my time living and travelling full-time in Ody was beginning to run out. Saying goodbyes has not gotten any easier. My brothers asked when I’d be coming home, or if they would have to track me down again somewhere out West to see me next. My friends, also headed back to the East Coast, wished me safe travels, and we parted ways with another see you soon.
The following days I spent driving back through Colorado, up Utah, and across Idaho to reach Oregon were lonely and hot. It always takes a few days to ease back into being alone with my own thoughts and after so much social interaction I had plenty of thoughts to process. It can be maddening at first, reanalyzing situations, and overthinking. But, that can only last so long before you exhaust your list of grievances, annoyances, confusions and you come out on the other side in a state of clarity and calmness. Mt. Hood stared me down, looming over the horizon as I drove down the highway through the Oregon desert. The calmness I had been waiting for swept in. As I drove up into Mt. Hood National Forest, I watched the degrees on the thermometer begin to drop to a comfortable 70, and I let out a sigh of relief.
In a previous blog post I wrote about the struggles of winter van living. I remember being bundled up and shivering in my sleeping bag one -15 degree night, and I promised that when I made it to summer I would never complain about the heat. Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that extreme heat is worse than the cold. A wise van lifer might have avoided the desert in the summer or at least during a heat wave, but I, determined to visit these places regardless, said what the heck, it can’t be that bad. I know I said earlier that it hasn’t been that type of van trip but when it’s 90+ degrees and you live in a black box, the only sane thing to do is pop an edible as an appetizer to dinner, eat, lay in bed, point the fan directly at your face, and let yourself drift off. If it weren’t for this tactic, there would have been many sleepless, sweaty nights in the past two months. I’ve survived -15 degrees, 115 degrees, and everything in between. At this point, there’s not much about living in the van that could phase me.
Oregon did not know what hit it when I arrived. Reinvigorated since my detours, I’ve been taking the state by storm. I pulled an all-nighter climbing Mt. Hood and skied down at sunrise on July 14th. With my headlamp on, skis strapped to my pack, and following my GPS mapped route, engulfed in the darkness of the night, I hiked for five hours. After the first hour of traversing the steep, loose mixture of sandy rock alpine terrain I was ready to give up. I wanted to be back in bed in the van under the covers. What was I thinking. I can’t do this. I looked down the mountain. Navigating my way down this loose material seemed harder and potentially more dangerous than continuing up. I reasoned that skiing would be the easiest way down. So, I kept going. Another hour passed, and I finally reached some snow. Sheltered by a rock, I stopped for some water. I really can’t do this. But, by this point I was definitely not going down either. I put on some layers, snow pants, jacket, and gloves. Ate a granola bar. Checked the time: 2:00 am. Alright, I’ll sit here until the sun comes up and then ski down. 10 minutes later, despite the layers, I started shivering from sweat. Keep moving, keep going. Backpack and skis strapped back on, poles in hand, following the GPS, I slowly made my way. I have never in my life wanted the sun to rise so badly. To be out of the darkness. To see where I am. Finally, around 4:30 am the sky began to lighten. My surroundings began to reveal themselves to me. I had made it above Palmer, the highest lift at Timberline Lodge, the summit was in sight, and I was right next to Crater Rock, which was my goal for the climb. I took my pack off. I ate three granola bars while I watched the world come back to life. The sun which rose on the opposite side of the mountain cast a triangular shadow across the rosy pink land. Clouds nestled themselves in between the mountains below me. I laughed, I cried, and I gave a loud yeehaw as I buckled my boots, clipped into my skis, and skied down. It was by no means the best snow I’ve ever skied. But, it is the most memorable, most meaningful run of my life.
A few days later after regrouping in Portland, I stood on the shore of Lake Hagg waiting for the official to say go to begin the Off-Road Triathlon. I figured since I’ve spent a lot of time this year dipping in lakes, mountain biking, and on trails that competing in an Off-Road Triathlon would be a fun way to challenge myself. As we lined up for the swim, I did a quick scan of everyone’s calves which were conveniently marked in sharpie with your age. I spotted one other female in the 20-25 age group. Booyah. (If you read my last blog post on my competitiveness then this should not come as a surprise) My only goal- besides just finishing- was beating her. I grinded my way through the swim and upon exiting the water had no sense if she was ahead or behind me. Then came the 14 mile mountain bike ride around the lake which felt endless. At this point, I was more concerned about not getting hurt than gaining on people. I chanted to myself, “slow is smooth, smooth is staying alive, alive is fast” as the only people I passed were the ones who were injured on the side of the trail. I didn’t think the biking would ever come to an end, but just like the night on Mt. Hood, I kept going. The event which was sponsored by Why Racing had signs of encouragement posted along the way. “Smile, you’re having fun!”, “You can do it!”, “Halfway there!”, “You’re a superstar!”, “Remember your WHY!”. Remember your why? Actually though, why am I doing this? I thought to myself for a minute, not really sure. Because I can. Because I know I can do this, and I want to prove to myself that I can. I finished biking. Relieved to be back on foot, I took off on the 5k trail through the woods. The run was an out and back, and I still hadn’t laid eyes on that other girl in my age group. It’s fine, I told myself. I was honestly just happy that I had survived the biking leg. I made it to the turn around and started heading to the finish, picking up the pace and emptying what was left in the tank. A few minutes later, the girl I was so concerned about passed me running in the opposite direction. “Great job, you’re almost there!!” she cheered as she ran by. “You’re killing it!” I replied. I was ecstatic, there’s no shot she can catch up, and the sweet feeling of victory carried me to the finish line. I won my age group. Mission accomplished.
I spent the last week bopping down the Oregon coast, enjoying the cool sea breeze, and dramatic scenery. It was perfect sweatshirt and shorts weather- the ideal temperature for comfortable van living. I’ve decided I prefer the Oregon coast, the quaint beach towns, the wide open, empty beaches to California’s coast. If you want to sunbathe- fine, go to California. But, the atmosphere and low-key nature of the Oregon coast was just what I needed before heading back inland to the jaw-dropping Crater Lake National Park. I’ve been soaking in every moment. I’m constantly being blown away by beauty. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve said, “It just can’t get better than this.” and then it does.
In the coming two weeks, I will complete my loop around Oregon. And, then my solo van adventure officially comes to an end. The time alone I’ve spent in the van has been without a doubt the most impactful experience I’ve had in my entire life. Whether it be the places I have physically gone in Ody, the adventures I’ve had, or the internal places and thoughts the time alone in the van has forced me to reckon with, this year has been one of discovery. But, it isn’t over yet. There is one more big adventure to be had, and I could not be more lucky to be spending it with… drumroll, please… my mom. A few days before I pick my mom up from the Portland airport, my parents will have just closed and officially moved out of our house in Boston. While she longed to be a stow away in the van when I originally left, she also knew that this was a journey I had to take by myself. Even so, I feel like she has been with me along the way. She’s the one who attentively tracks my location, who I check in with daily about my whereabouts and plans, who I alert before potentially losing service- if only to prevent a search party from being sent out if I don’t respond to a text. But, besides that, she’s the one who raised me to be the strong, independent, adventurous, kick az’ woman I’ve become. I am so fortunate to have grown up with my mom to look up to as a role model. She’s the one who taught me that there’s nothing we can’t do with hard work, grit, and determination. The two of us in the van together will definitely be a power duo, and we both can’t wait. It seems fitting to me to finish this journey with her by my side.
Where are we going? I’m going to let that be a surprise.
ABLAZ 
Sure is a beautiful country!
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