I’ve been returning to this document frequently over the past two weeks, trying to write, add ideas, edit, just to hit save and close it again– not knowing what to say or how to say it.  It would be practically impossible for me to sum up this past year or to do the 30,000 mile journey in Ody justice in a video, pictures or with my words.  I think the difficulty stems from knowing that the past 15 months- since I began converting the van to then living on the road- have been a defining moment in my life, perhaps life-altering, and will be ones I will continue to reflect on going forward.  

Having returned home to visit my family in Rhode Island over Labor Day Weekend, I found myself back in my room, sitting in the very spot where I spent hours researching van conversion information, planning, dreaming of the places I’d go, and the adventures I wanted to have.  Now, scrolling through my photos and videos from the past year I’m somewhat in disbelief of everything that has transpired. 

 I did it.  

Through it all, I continually disproved and redefined what I previously believed were my limits and what I thought I was capable of.  I told myself “I can” before I even really truly believed it and then discovered that I could. 

It was a year that opened my eyes wider and set my gaze farther.  It was a chance to look inwards, figure myself out and who I want to be, as well as outwards.  I examined the world around me, the environment, nature, our society, and the messy interconnectedness of it all.  I faced the harsh reality of our country head on and am embarrassed to admit how oblivious I was to the injustice that is so prevalent throughout it.  In that chair in my bedroom in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, I dreamt of the National Parks I’d visit, the mountains I’d ski, and the waves I’d surf- I was idealistic, optimistic, and ignorant.  I didn’t even consider the desolate towns I’d pass by, the homelessness I’d encounter, the drought I’d endure, and the smoke and smog I’d inhale.  While I met many people on the road living similarly to me, there was also an overwhelming population of vans, nomads, and vehicle dwellers not driving Mercedes Sprinters, not doing this for fun, not living this way by choice.   

Any discomforts I had while living full-time in Ody were temporary and part of the adventure, whereas for the transient community the same daily tasks of survival are their reality.  The immense privilege of my situation was something I grappled with on the daily.  Compared to my lifestyle back home and my friends in New York City or Boston, I thought I was being a minimalist.  But looking around me and sometimes sharing overnight spots with derelict school buses, old cars with tarp lean-tos, and permanent tent set-ups, in my reliable van with new appliances and a beautiful home and supportive family to return to at the end of it all, I was struck with guilt.  Living this way under the guise of minimalism was a luxury in itself.  I treaded carefully in these situations not out of fear of the people, but out of respect.

Even the most beautiful places I visited were tainted with sadness embedded in their history like National Parks resurrected on land stolen from Indigenous groups now contained to reservations.  As I fell in love with the majesty and diversity of the natural landscapes of this country, my resentment grew for how we have decided to manage, divide, and take care of this land that was home to many prior to us.

I’ve never been so sure of myself, yet so unsure of our future as a whole.  This country is splitting at the seams- the environment, the pandemic, politically.  I think at my age and at this point in my life, I’m supposed to feel like I have this expansive future ahead of me.  Yet, I feel like everything could just implode.  Devastating hurricanes, uncontrollable wildfires, food deserts and droughts leave me wondering if Earth will even be a hospitable environment for human survival in 50 years?  It’s nihilistic, it’s dark, you can tell me I’m being dramatic, call me a dooms dayer, but if you look around, look at what’s going on and the little change that is being done, the end doesn’t seem that far off.  If the economic system we subscribe to is actively destroying the biosphere and failing to meet most people’s basic needs, what’s the point?

Waves of nerves and uncertainty during my time in the van often had me rubbing the blue glass pendant around my neck.  The evil eye which I’ve been wearing since I began building the van is a talisman of protection.  The moonstone crystal on my dashboard promotes strength, inner growth, and safety during travels.  My pepper spray was always within reach, but remained unused.  Though many expressed concerns of safety at the idea of a young woman going off on her own alone in a van, both me and Ody returned home with no scratches…well, maybe I had some scratches, but only the standard ones from hiking in the woods.  The recent media coverage of Gabby Petito, a 22 year old female van traveller who went missing and was later found dead, has me feeling grateful for my own experience of safety while on the road.  Not to make light of the tragic situation, but perhaps going solo wasn’t such a bad idea.  Sadly, in the same area Gabby disappeared, over the past decade over 700 Indigenous people, mostly girls, were reported missing according to a January report published by Wyoming’s Missing and Murdered Indigenous People Task Force.  For these women and girls, there has been no national news coverage, no large scale search parties or investigations, no justice.  It’s heartbreaking to think we live in a country that protects people based on skin tone and gender.  And, it’s even more devastating to know it.  

The only knocks I got on the van were from local police officers and National Forest patrollers who were ensuring my safety.  When hearing a knock, I’d panic thinking I’d be reprimanded for being parked somewhere I wasn’t allowed.  However, upon seeing me in conjunction with the type of van I was in, they’d give me a business card and tell me to call if I had any troubles, direct me to a safer spot to spend the night, or let me stay at the town park even though it wasn’t allowed.  I know the same generosity would not have been extended had I not looked the way I do. 

I hope that the missing and murdered Black, Brown, Indigenous and LBTQ+ women will receive the same media attention and public support that Gabby and white women like me do.  And, I wish that everyone benefited from the same sense of security I received from police officers throughout my travels.

The last leg of my journey from Oregon, Washington, Alaska, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, to finally parking the van in Denver, Colorado was with my Mom by my side.  I’ll include a shameless plug to her blog post about the three weeks we spent together covering seven states, visiting six national parks, and devouring countless Annie’s Special Creation Buddha Bowls for dinner.

It’s been an adjustment landing in Denver. But, I’m reminding myself that it’s not the ending, it’s just the arrival. After the time with my Mom and then visiting with the whole family back home, it was hard to once again head out on my own. Well, not entirely on my own as I have Churro by my side once more.

I’ve had to reteach myself how to stay put as the van parked outside of my apartment beckons me back to the open road.  Not just me, but Churro, too, stops at the van whenever we’re out for a walk, sits and looks at me as if asking if it’s time to go yet.  Putting down roots, finding a community, making friends, and starting over in a new place is a different type of challenge than anything I faced in the van.  Though I’ve had days in the past few weeks since being in Denver where it’s seemed like too large of a feat, I remind myself how I started out in the van- just taking it day by day and having faith that it will all work out.  

If you’re reading this, thank you.  Thank you for following my journey.  As much as it was for me, my hope in sharing bits of my experience during this chapter of my life here and on Instagram was to inspire others to look at the world around them differently, more carefully, and critically.  To challenge yourself in your own way.  To take a risk or follow a dream.  To encourage you to take the time to get to know yourself better.  

Life is fragile, impermanent, and unexpected.  So, make every day– no matter where you happen to find  yourself– the best day yet

Until tomorrow.

Annie

“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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.  

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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.   

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

This blog post was written over the course of the last month and is, like me, all over the place.

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I steady my shaking hand and gently nudge the block back and forth.  Laying on the floor of the shared living room of our ACE provided housing in Sacramento, brow furrowed in deep concentration, I try to carefully remove the Jenga piece without toppling over the precariously leaning tower.  “So, Annie, would you describe yourself as competitive?” teases one of my crewmates.

I whisper in response, “Shhhh, I need to focus.”

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I dig around in my “garage”, the large storage space beneath my bed accessed by the van’s back doors, attempting to retrieve my wetsuit and booties from underneath the recently retired ski gear.  Still in the parking lot of the local Santa Cruz surf shop where the most quintessential California surfer-boy helped me pick out a “solid transition board that still has some rad rides in it” from the used board room, I try to play it cool as I crawl around in the back of Ody in the off-chance he’s watching from the store window.  I finally find the wetsuit and booties in the bottom bin still lightly dusted with Rhode Island sand from my last surf in the fall.  I shake out the suit thinking about how it is the final piece of equipment that I packed back in October that has yet to be put to use.  As I rearrange the aftermath of my hunt, I eye the three squash rackets- scratch that last thought. I have not touched those besides for moving them out of the way to access my bike or skis.  The three rackets have been awkwardly clanking and bouncing around in the back of the van as I’ve made my way cross country over the last 7 months.

It’s been over a year since I last stepped on a squash court. My reasoning behind bringing my squash gear was that perhaps I would be able to find some matches along the way in exchange for showers. I could blame it on the pandemic, but, truthfully, in the last year I’ve had no urge to step back onto a squash court. I was sad and nostalgic, but also filled with a great sense of relief at the end of my senior season. It’s the people, my teammates, and coaches that I miss. But, squash and I were long overdue for a break. I don’t miss it, because I know that when I’m ready I can pick up one of the three rackets I’ve been carrying with me, find a court, and be reembraced by those white walls and red lines.

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After driving a few hours or in the evening before pulling into a Walmart for the night, I would often stop at whatever local park was nearby to stretch my legs and let Churro run around.  On these excursions, we stumbled upon many fields dotted with children in uniform running around chaotically chasing some sort of ball.  I’d find a spot for us to sit, behind the row of eager parents cheering on the sideline, and settle in for some free entertainment.  In upstate New York we watched flag football, through Maryland and Virginia we saw countless Little League games, and from Texas all the way to California, even without Churro’s companionship, I became a regular fan at town soccer games.  Most recently, I witnessed some high school beach volleyball at the town beach in Santa Cruz.

It may sound odd in comparison to all the other, debatably, more interesting things I’ve seen while on this journey in the van, but I’ve found myself captivated in these moments watching stranger’s kids running after a ball, smiling, and high-fiving their teammates.  I think back to the days when I would bike down to the Esplanade on the Charles River in Boston every Saturday morning for town soccer games or walk across Beacon St. to the Common with my brothers and Dad, our assistant coach, in our Mets uniforms, for Little League.  Those fields were where I discovered my love for sports, the thrill of a game, and the camaraderie that comes along with being part of a team.

Perched on a hill above the field and the other spectators, I laugh to myself.  It’s such a silly concept: the arbitrary lines painted on the grass and the made up rules.  Having just re-entered society after being out in the mountains and woods for a few weeks, I’m perplexed.  I feel so distant from the version of myself whose identity used to be tightly tied to these games. At the same time, I remember how fun it is. It was.  How much fun playing sports can be.

I fell in love with sports for many reasons. Of course, one of them being how much fun they are. However, another was that I loved to win- I mean, who doesn’t?  Over the years as recreational town teams turned to club, national tournaments and rankings were added into the mix, and practices included challenge matches, the innocent enjoyment of playing these games that I originally fell in love with began to dissipate.  And, the toxic mentality of “it’s not fun unless I’m winning” took over.

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After packing the van prior to my departure, I gave my room a good clean, discarded any remaining clutter, and organized the possessions that I would leave behind.  I picked up my old high school varsity letters stacked on my dresser and counted them.  “Yup, still only 10 of them”, I thought to myself.  Two shy of being perfect.  Dormant disappointment stored away from 8 years prior when my freshman self was cut from the varsity soccer and lacrosse teams rose within me.  Laughing at the ridiculousness of it, I tossed them in a box in the back of my closet.  10 out of 12 is pretty damn good.

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I struggled out of bed at the crack of dawn regretfully having agreed to participate in the annual distance swim at the beach club with my mom.  “It will be fun!” she said.  I complained as we drank coffee, mumbled and grumbled as we drove down to the beach, and complained some more eyeing the cold ocean as we discarded our sweats and put on our swim caps and goggles.  “Annie, look!” I followed my mom’s gaze to the table set up in the sand, shimmering silver in the early morning light.  My eyes lit up. “Trophies!”, I exclaimed with a grin slyly inching its way across my face. The casual morning swim was no longer casual- it was something I could win. I ran into the icy waves and swam until one of the trophies was in my hands*.

*Unfortunately, despite my valiant efforts this race was rigged and I didn’t get a trophy.  I’d like to note that the organizer of the race awarded all of the trophies to his own family members… I am not still bitter about it.

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I fell victim to a narrow definition of success.  Success was marked by trophies, varsity letters, numbers on the scoreboard, my position on a ladder, and, of course, winning.  Call it ego, or needing some form of external validation, if I couldn’t win or somehow prove that I was better than others, I wasn’t happy.  And, if I failed to do so, i.e. lost, I was definitely not happy. 

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I place my racket, googles, sweat towel, and water bottle back into their respective spots in my squash bag beside the folding black chair which sits underneath the wall of framed certificates of past Dartmouth All-American squash players, facing the left wall of the glass court on match days.   Having just returned from my traditional post-loss, fuming lap around the gym, I sit down in the chair and prepare for my coach, Hansi’s, notes on my match.  Expecting the usual critiques, my movement was bad, too many boasts and cross courts, or that I hadn’t followed the game plan, I was surprised when he crouched down beside me and said, “You care too much about winning.”

Excuse me? Aren’t I supposed to? Isn’t that how this works? Are we not trying to win? 

Playing at the top of the Dartmouth ladder for four years, I often faced opponents who were well out of my league.  I played the best of the best:  international players who play pro and the top Americans.  My Dartmouth team typically succeeded due to our depth.  We relied heavily on the bottom and middle of the ladder to secure our 5 wins in order to win the overall match.  No one expected me to be able to win many of my matches, instead I was encouraged to view these frequent ass-whoopings as learning opportunities and motivation to improve.  And, I did, but loss after loss over the four years took its toll as well. 

Hansi looked at my stunned face.  “You have to look at the little things.  You moved well in this match and your length was great.  You can be happy about it even though you lost.  You can have fun when you’re playing well even if you don’t win.”

I nodded.  I understood that in theory, and I was pretty pleased with how I played. 

“But, it’s not as fun as winning.” I replied half jokingly, half not, knowing that he of all people understood my obsession.

“Losing sucks. But, don’t forget that this is just a game.”

Despite four years of working on this mindset and my losing record providing ample opportunity to improve it, during my college squash career I never ended up getting the hang of being a content loser.  Instead, I became burnt out and tired of the idea of winning and losing all together.  I attribute my strengthened love for hiking, mountain biking, skiing, and surfing to this newfound disinterest in competition.  Recently, I have loved being active and pushing my body to new limits outside the white lines on a field or the four walls of a court.  The thrill of climbing to the top of a mountain, skiing through powder, or catching a wave satisfies my hunger which was once only satiated by winning. I have learned that to be successful you don’t need to be the best. You don’t need to be awarded a trophy. You don’t need to win.

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My arms can only extend around a small portion of the giant trunk, and my face rests against the surprisingly soft, worn bark of the Giant Sequoia. I look up at the towering branches criss-crossing the blue sky. Rays of sunshine filter through the rustling leaves and dance on the forest floor. I breathe deeply. Walking through the Giant Forest I feel small surrounded by the largest trees on Earth. I’ve experienced this sensation before throughout my journey often finding myself alone, a singular speck, on a vast landscape. I’m always in awe of these places that have been spared from human development. I tread carefully through them hoping that they will be preserved forever though part of me wants everyone to experience it. To lose themselves within a landscape; to look around and see no evidence of humankind besides themself; to realize we are small. The other part of me hopes places like this are never put on the map, never geotagged, never become popular destinations, and never ruined by us. Walking among these trees stirs something else within me. With trunks up to 100 feet wide, these trees have been standing here for 3,000 years making them some of the oldest living organisms on Earth. My life barely scratches the outer most rings of these trees. The burnt scars across the bark where the trees are still healing from past fires begin to tell a story of survival. Looking around I soak all that I can in, however just a mere four feet below me hidden beneath the forest floor is an expansive network of interconnected roots, the brains of the trees, that I will never see.

I often refer to the end of my van journey as my return to the “real world”, but it is in fact the exact opposite. What could be more real than what I’m experiencing now? Certainly not the neat grids of pavement and buildings filled with people consumed by job titles, material items, and numbers representing money in a bank account. Looking down from way above, modern society as whole looks like one big Kinder Kicks Soccer game. Stuck within the confines of white lines, following made up rules, trying to win a pointless game. Modern society as constructed by humans is in a depressing state. The version of reality we have created is riddled with violence, injustice, inequality, corruption, pollution and countless other problems. I wonder how we might live differently if everyone were to really understand how insignificant, small, and temporary we actually are on this Earth. Like the Giant Sequoias slowly healing themselves of burns caused by fires, the Earth, too, will eventually heal itself of the scars left behind by humankind long after we are gone.

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Though my squash rackets have taken the back seat, or more accurately thrown in the back of the van, for this adventure, one of the things I’ve loved most about my journey with the sport has been the places those rackets have taken me.  From tournaments across the US, to all over Europe, to public busses to the Czech Republic with the Swiss junior national team, to Squash Urbano in Colombia, playing squash has allowed me to see so many new places and create connections with people all around the world.  No matter the country or language being spoken, once on a squash court there is familiarity and common ground.   

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My first Sunday at boarding school I called my mom homesick.  The whole week up until then had been full of orientations, meet and greets, classes, soccer tryouts, dorm meetings, and sit-down meals. Alone in an unfamiliar dorm room with no schedule, no homework left, and unsure of what to do with myself, my mom suggested that I go hit the squash ball.  I at once felt at ease within the confines of the court as I went through my solo practice routine: counting my forehand and backhand drives, followed by volleys, then drop shots and closing it out with figure eights.  The squash court became a safe haven for me, a home away from home, as I went through high school.  Similarly, in college I often found myself heading to the courts when feeling overwhelmed, stressed, or needing to quiet my mind.  There is something truly satisfying and almost meditative about getting lost in the rhythm of hitting a ball as hard as you can against a wall, again, and again.  

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After 8 long days out on hitch doing trail work in Archer Taylor Preserve in Napa Valley, sitting in the backseat of the truck heading back to Sacramento, carsick from the windy roads and my crew’s collective body odor, I’m beyond grateful for the van which awaits me.  Freshly showered and back within Ody, the white paneling I put up with my own hands embraces me not unlike how those of squash court used to.  I let out a sigh of relief happy to be home.  Until now, my brief breaks from the van had been in the houses of friends and family. Returning to the van after those visits where I was pampered was always an adjustment.  I never thought I’d look around the van, at my short bed and portable toilet, and think, “Wow, how luxurious!”.  However, after a week of sleeping on the ground in my tent and sharing a communal latrine (a pit for everyone’s poop) being back in the van feels like staying at the Four Seasons.   

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It’s been a month and half since I started working at ACE and with six weeks left, I’ve decided to leave early.  It’s hard to put into words what a whirlwind experience it has been.  Sitting in a field of wildflowers, removing the invasive plants like woolly back vetch, Himalayan blackberry, and French Broom for 10 hours a day, I found myself thinking what the fuck am I doing.  Getting paid $2.50 an hour, crews like mine often get hired to do these jobs which a herd of grazing goats could do in a fraction of the time, because we’re cheaper.  Cheaper. Than. A. Herd. Of. Goats…

Honestly, I did not know what to expect when joining a conservation crew, but I was prepared to work hard and knew that some of the work would be monotonous. Besides invasive removal, essentially weeding a large scale garden called nature, I did learn a lot about trail building and maintenance. The most stimulating project I worked on was building a set of steps on a trail- a week long effort of hauling out the materials and tools, digging, drilling, and rebar-ing them into place along the hillside. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the work or that I didn’t want to play Dungeons and Dragons with my crew on our off days. What it came down to was that I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the van for extended periods unattended while we were on hitch. The provided parking options were subpar and caused me a lot of stress. Coming back last week to Ody and all of my possessions having been towed was my last straw- and an expensive one.

Building steps is slow work.  One piece of wood then the next.  Bottom to top.  One step at a time.  You can’t work on anything but the current step, because you need to see how it turns out before measuring the next.  You might hit an unexpected root or a rock that you can’t pick axe your way through and are then forced to adjust your entire schematic.  Getting towed was me hitting a rock and instead of endlessly whacking at it with a pick, I’m reevaluating my plan.

Though disappointed that it wasn’t the experience I imagined it would be, I’m proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone, trying something new, making friends, and for trusting my intuition when deciding it was time to move on.  Back behind the wheel, I’m met once again by endless possibilities and faced with the question which has become so familiar to me, “Where do I go now?”.  I currently find myself camped for the night overlooking Stinson Beach, gazing out onto the foggy Pacific on Mount Tam with large redwood groves nearby beginning yet another chapter of this crazy, beautiful journey.

Sitting in the backseat of the pickup truck cradling my bag of gardening tools on my lap, squeezed in between baskets of flowers and bags of soil, and still half asleep, I watch the familiar scenery roll by as we make our way from the farm in Wyoming, RI to Watch Hill driving the same route I had taken in the opposite direction hours earlier.  I pick at the dirt still caked under my fingernails from the previous day and wonder if our morning coffee stop will be at Dunkin’ or Cumbies.

 In between the hours of weeding, planting, watering, dead heading, and spreading mulch at various homes around Watch Hill, Weekapaug, and Narragansett, from my spot in the back of the truck emblazoned on the side with “Fleurs” in the landscaping company’s classic cursive font, I listen.  Over the soft rock radio station, I listen to stories that tell of years of wisdom, knowledge of plants, personal hardship, love for nature and the outdoors, and the occasional tid bit of local gossip picked up from spending so much time in people’s yards. The warm summer breeze gushing through the open windows dries the mixture of sweat and dirt that has accumulated on my face as we head to the next house.

Though I pretend to have dreaded the times I worked at Fleurs- a six week stint between my spring off-term in Colombia and sophomore summer and a month after completing an internship and before my senior year- I actually found a strange sense of enjoyment in the physicality of the job, pleasure in working with my hands, and satisfaction in seeing the transformation of neglected flower beds.  Most of all I loved being able to spend the entire day outside working beside inspiring, strong women who showed immense patience with me and my inability to identify different flowers and plants. Hauling 50lbs bags of soil, lifting planters, and spending the majority of the day crouched under a bush was a type of hard work I was not accustomed to, but now have so much respect for.

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This year, even the most outdoorsy among us developed a newfound appreciation for nature, as many of us sought out safe ways to explore while social distancing.  More than 237 million visitors, myself included, took to national parks, and even more took to trails, lakes and rivers closer to home.  I am a believer that the more time spent outside, the happier we all become.  However, unfortunately, this influx in traffic increased amounts of litter in parks, trash left at campsites, and the wear and tear on public lands.  

I designed my van to be off-grid and completely self-containing and have been consciously trying to minimize my footprint as I travel.  By practicing “Leave No Trace”,  I’ve been making an effort to not just leave sites as I found them, but to leave them in better shape by spending time picking up trash left behind by previous campers.  The principles of “Leave No Trace” can be extended beyond the realm of back or front-country camping.  In our day to day lives, we can all strive to reduce our negative impact in exchange for leaving the places, people, and things we encounter for the better. In the end, we’re all just visitors here.  

After 5 months of meandering, zig and zagging, and inching along, at the end of this week I will finally be headed to California.  Officially making my way “cross country”.  Since departing from Rhode Island this fall, I have visited 15 National Parks, countless National Forests, and have spent many nights on BLM land. I have developed an immense appreciation for and have been overwhelmed by the vast and extensive natural beauty of our country, while also confronted by the fact that there is a lot of work that needs to be done to preserve these spaces.  

In California, I will be joining the AmeriCorps working as a crew member under the American Conservation Experience for the next 3 months. I will be learning techniques of conservation and land management, working on trail construction, forestry, and environmental restoration projects across California’s National Parks, National Forests, State Parks and BLM land.  I will be backpacking with my 75 liter pack which I nicknamed “The Green Monster”, carrying tools and supplies, and camping for 8 day stretches while working on various projects.  April to July is a critical time period for conservation work.  We’ll be repairing any erosion that took place over the course of the winter in anticipation for summer visitors and doing what we can to prepare for wildfire season.  On my off-days in between projects, I can’t wait to take van explorations and adventure around California in a more leisurely manner.

My van journey has been all about seeing where the road takes me, trusting my intuition, and being open to new challenges.  I am excited, though admittedly a little intimidated, to put on my hard hat, work pants, boots and to get my hands dirty while doing my part to protect and conserve the public land and nature I have fallen in love with over the past months.  After having been traveling solo for so long, I am looking forward to being a member of a crew, working alongside other people, and having a structured schedule- however demanding it may be.

Here’s to the next adventure and hoping my time as a garden girl, Geography 3, and Spauldo prepared me enough for this one. 

I burrow deeper into my sleeping bag, grateful for the extra pair of wool socks I decided to put on before getting into bed, and listen to the howling wind angrily course through the Moraine Campground in Rocky Mountain National Park.  Like a swaddled baby in an oversized crib, I try to let the gusts of wind gently rocking the van carry me off to sleep. 

I scrunch my eyes tightly together transporting myself to my bedroom in Rhode Island on a stormy night.  Our house on the point, extremely exposed to the elements, takes a beating.  Waves crash over the rocks spraying the lawn with salty water and the howling wind reverberating through the house shakes the hurricane glass windows.  Despite being built to withstand flooding, hurricanes, and high winds, on nights like these I know my mom lies awake, like I am now, paranoid that by morning everything will be in ruins.

With each gust, I inhale sharply.  I wonder how much wind it would take to send my van off the side of the mountain, but quickly push the thought from my mind.  I exhale slowly as it passes.  I’m getting out of these mountains first thing in the morning, I tell myself.  

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“Weather is not a factor” is a saying that was drilled into me by my high school lacrosse coaches as we shoveled snow off the turf with our sticks before practices early in the season.  I can still hear it echoing through my mind whenever I’m about to complain about the conditions.  There’s no such thing as bad weather, just a bad attitude and under-preparedness.   It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that Colorado’s Rocky Mountains would be cold in the winter.  

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Three frosted faces emerge from the cloud of white coming towards me on the trail.  

“You can’t make it past Dream Lake, the wind gets too strong about .2 miles further,” one informs me.

“We were trying to get to the top of Emerald, but are turning around,” another continues.

I size them up.  Two girls and one guy about my age.  No packs, dressed pretty adequately, but wearing standard snow boats.  I think of my spikes, poles, and goggles in my backpack.

“Ah that’s a bummer, thanks for the heads up!” I reply and continue on nonchalantly.

5 minutes later, no longer sheltered by the trees and standing in front of what must be the frozen over Dream Lake (supposedly one of the best views in the park) I’m met by a surge of wind that sends me backwards.  I lower my head, put on my hood, and attempt to take a few steps forward. I look up briefly and see no trail in front of me, only whiteness.  I’m met again by a combination of wind and snow that whips me around and sends me back into the protection of the trees. I retreat back the way I came.

A few minutes later down the trail, I encounter four middle aged snowshoers.  Like the three that came before me, I warn them that wind picks up at Dream Lake. 

“We brought rope to tie ourselves together.  We’ll be okay!” the man leading the pack announces.

I laugh to myself, hardos. 

“Have a nice hike!” I say with a hint of sarcasm and continue on down the trail.  

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I spin the rack of postcards, stickers, and magnets around slowly.  I already know what sticker I want, but I linger, pretending to be conflicted, and examine all of the different options biding more time for my fingers to defrost.  It’s just me and the owner in the store at 10 A.M. on this Friday morning in the town of Estes Park right outside of Rocky Mountain National Park. 

“You’re up early braving the cold!” she says to me as I walk over to the cash register with the sticker to be added to my collection on the inside of the van’s rear doors.  

I’m not exactly braving the cold I try to explain.  As I tell the cashier about my two windy nights in the park, the white outs, the frigid temperatures, and how I was stopping to warm up and grab my souvenir before making the drive to sunny, blue-skied Boulder, I watch her facial expression morph between that of horror and sympathy.

“Oh honey,” she says, “come back in the summer!”

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Winter in the van has been an entirely different ball game.  It’s much harder to find places to park at night due to many campgrounds being closed for the season and towns not allowing overnight parking in order to snow plow.  My water tank is filled with chunks of ice, requiring me to crack open a pair of hand warmers after doing dishes at night.  I clutch the hand warmers as I journal and read and then deposit them into my sleeping bag before going to bed.  I purchased a portable heater which I crank on for an hour before going to sleep, but by morning the van’s an ice box.  Some mornings I lay awake not wanting to get out of the sleeping bag until my bladder is absolutely about to burst, then quickly sit on my frozen portable toilet before starting the van and turning the heat up all the way.  Getting changed is such an unpleasant task that I wear the same thermal base layers until the smell is overpowering.  I don’t even have my fridge on as things stay cold enough as is.  And, I’ve convinced myself that I actually like my bananas black and mushy.

Besides being cold and everything freezing, I’m actually alone now.  I decided to leave Churro with my parents when I visited them in Telluride, because I didn’t want to subject her to the cold. Though, selfishly, I wish I still had her companionship.  If there was ever a time I could use her snuggles and aggressive face licks, it is now.  We will be reunited shortly in Park City, where I will be taking a little bit of a longer break from winter van living before departing on the next segment of my van adventure at the end of March.

This stretch of the journey has tested me and pushed me to my comfort’s limits. However, it has also made me appreciate the places, activities, and everything I’ve done recently that much more. I learned from my time in the Rockies that perhaps hiking is not the best activity this time of year. However, skiing on the other hand… 

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My love for skiing was instilled in me at a young age by my Mom.  At 3 years old, she had me on a harness skiing down the bunny hill.  As the youngest, I was told that if I couldn’t keep up I’d have to go to ski school. I hated ski school.  I not only quickly learned to keep up with the rest of the family, but became a little speed demon.  To this day, I wear my neon green helmet and jacket so that my family can easily spot me in the distance.

Before our winters became completely consumed by squash either with junior tournaments or more recently college coaches forbidding skiing in season, my family spent weekends traveling to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine, took annual spring break ski trips out west, and then, while living in Switzerland, skied every chance we could in the Alps all the while collecting pins from every new mountain we visited.  Our family room at home is lined with family photos from each big ski trip as well as each of our pin collection boards. Leave it to the Blasberg’s to make a recreational family activity some sort of competition.

At 11 years old, on a beautiful bluebird powder day at Heavenly Mountain in Lake Tahoe after complaining of a debilitating stomachache on the chairlift, I was told to sit in the lodge so as not to ruin a perfect ski day.  When the rest of my family came in for lunch, I was found curled up on a bench clutching my stomach.  An hour later, I was getting my appendix out in the local Truckee Hospital while my brothers continued to ski.  A powder day in my family is worth almost having an appendix burst. While my parents look back at this time as perhaps a moment of parental negligence, I have no doubt that somewhere down the line I, too, will tell my future child, “Suck it up, there’s fresh snow.”

Here I am now, enduring a little pain and some discomfort while on a hunt for fresh snow and collecting pins from new mountains along the way. I’ve skied at Telluride, Crested Butte, Bluebird Backcountry, Snow King, Jackson Hole, and will be making my way to Sun Valley, before hitting Park City. In addition to overcoming the winter conditions in the van, I’ve also introduced myself to a new form of pain when it comes to skiing. At Bluebird, a no-chairlift ski startup cofounded by a Dartmouth ‘06, I did a series of three backcountry ski touring clinics and fell in love with skinning. As lift tickets have started to add up, I recently invested in a used touring set up I found at a gear consignment shop in Jackson, WY. From now on, I’ll be earning my turns as many mountains allow free uphill access before the chair lifts start running. Though I love to speed down the slopes, ripping wide turns like a Super G racer, after skinning a few miles up the mountain I take my one run nice and slow, savoring every turn.

Besides skiing, my other favorite activity has been seeking solace from the cold in hot springs. Soaking for an hour in natural hot water surrounded by mountains and snow is a magical experience. I would go as far as saying my hot spring soaks are spiritual like a baptism or going to the mikvah. I don’t even mind the shock of the cold when it’s time to get out and hike back to the van, because I’m filled with such an overwhelming sensation of warmth and happiness from the experience that penetrates me to my core.

Unlike the stretch of my journey from the south to the southwest, my stay in Colorado was filled with many friends, nights in beds, and showers which I am very grateful for.  During these visits with friends, I was also reintroduced to an old acquaintance, alcohol.  And, all I have to say about that is wow, I am not in college anymore.

I left on this journey without a plan or an end destination and was just figuring it out as I went.  I embraced the uncertainty and the freedom that came with it as I wandered discovering new places as well as new things about myself.  Unlike before when I had no clue where I was going, I now have a semblance of a plan and an idea about where I want to end up.  There’s something exciting on the horizon ~ stay tuned.

This blog post can also be read on Medium.

I turned the faucet as hot as it could go letting out a sigh of relief as the water began to defrost my frigid hands. Once I could bend my fingers comfortably again, I took two pumps of soap from the dispenser and began scrubbing them clean. I examined myself in the mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent light, I could see my face was in need of a good wash. Despite using my 18 and 1 biodegradable soap, I was still covered in a layer of dirt and grime. I knew the Neutrogena exfoliating face wash shoved in my jacket pocket would get the job done. In the other pocket, I carried Crest toothpaste and my toothbrush. I had been craving the minty fresh sensation of Crest over my all-natural peppermint essential oil toothpaste. Because the water from the sink in my van all drains into one tank, using only environmentally safe, biodegradable products allows me to dispose of this grey water pretty much anywhere.

A flush sounded and a Walmart employee emerged from one of the stalls adjacent to the sinks. I could feel the woman looking at me through the mirror as she began washing her hands. I watched her eyes move from my beanie, to my fuzzy fleece layered over a sweatshirt, to my sweatpants, and finally to my wool socks and moccasin slippers.

She chuckled, “Well, don’t you look like a teddy bear this morning.”

It was getting warmer now that the sun was up and would probably be in the low 60s in a few hours, but the temperature had dropped into the 20s during the night.

“It’s a cold one!” I replied from under my mask.

“I’m from the northeast,” the Walmart employee informed me, “so I know what cold really means. People down here don’t know what a little chill is.”

I suppressed a laugh, amused to have been mistaken for a Southerner who couldn’t handle a morning chill. Four years in New Hampshire taught me a lot about the cold, and the proud New Englander in me wanted to correct her. But, I wondered how I could explain that the only reason I was in the Walmart bathroom at 7 am dressed like a teddy bear was because I had slept in my car in the parking lot that night. Instead, I helplessly shrugged. After she exited the bathroom to return to her shift, I excitedly removed my face wash, toothpaste and toothbrush and continued to indulge in the warm water and my non-biodegradable products.

A Walmart bathroom may seem like a grim place to start the day, but, in reality, it is not so different from the many communal dormitory bathrooms I grew accustomed to over the years. They have similar configurations, the same terrible lighting, and the same single ply toilet paper. However, at 7 am Walmart’s bathrooms are probably cleaner. Sharing a bathroom with 15 other girls prepared me for everything ranging from sinks covered in gold glitter residue to pizza in the toilet. And, if you’ve ever stepped foot in a fraternity house bathroom on a Sunday morning, you might go as far as saying Walmart is heavenly.

Though the #vanlife dream is to spend the night parked at an Instagram worthy vista, a scenic lake, right by the beach, or on a mountain side, the reality is that in between these beautiful destinations when I’m driving trying to cover ground the last thing I want to do at the end of the day is stress out about finding somewhere to sleep. Luckily, there’s always a Walmart within a ten minute radius thanks to American capitalism. My love for Walmart parking lots may seem odd juxtaposed to some of the other locations I’ve called home for the night, but I appreciate them for different reasons and have begun to realize that it’s not always about the view. I enjoy the thrill of trying to find the ideal camping spot, however there are also a lot of unknowns and uncertainty that come with it.

Last week as I was making my way from Ouachita National Forest and into the Ozarks, I found a US Army Corps of Engineers free campsite on Blue Mountain Lake. Arriving at golden hour, the lake reflected mountains in the distance. The site was empty besides a few fishermen, so I claimed the prime real estate right by the water admiring the view as the sky boasted pinks and purples before turning dark . As I was reading in bed at 11 pm, I heard a car pull up next to me. Churro, being the dutiful guard dog that she is, began barking. Despite knowing my doors were locked, my heart raced and I reached for the pepper spray on my keychain. A wave of relief rushed over me, quickly replaced with dread as I heard what sounded like a police officer reading my license plate number into a radio. Then came the knock on my window. Though prepared for it, I was still startled. Flustered, I removed the window cover, unlocked the door, and was greeted by the town sheriff. He confirmed that I was allowed to park there and said that he was just doing his evening round. He checked my license, noted that I was quite a ways from home, and then asked if it was just me.

“Me and my dog” I replied as Churro continued to bark up a storm.

“Do you have a gun?” he asked.

“No, just pepper spray.” I answered, remembering that I was still clutching it tightly in my hand.

“It’s generally pretty safe around here, but it’s hunting season so there’s lots of people coming through. Keep your doors locked. And, I’m going to give you this,” he pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me, “Call if anything happens or you need help while you’re in the area. Have a nice night.”

He left and I put down the pepper spray, relocked my doors, replaced the window covers, closed my curtains, got back in bed, and examined the card:

Logan County Sheriff’s Office, Patrol Deputy Mark Walker LCII, followed by an address, phone number, and email. As friendly as he was, I hoped that that was the first and last time I’d talk to Sheriff Walker. As I tried to fall asleep, I wondered if maybe I should have that taser my grandfather offered. Or, at least the baseball bat my dad suggested. But, what was I going to do? Carry those around with me at all times and then try to combat someone if something happened? Twirling my pepper spray on my keychain, I reassured myself of my plan. Pepper spray, lock doors, and drive.

Sometimes it’s nice knowing exactly what to expect when so much of my day is spent not knowing what’s around the next corner. I recently stopped at a Home Depot in Fayetteville, Arkansas to pick up a few items for the van and found myself smiling as I navigated the aisles with ease. Despite being a thousand miles away from the location I had frequented almost every day for 3.5 months in Westerly, Rhode Island throughout the van conversion, I was momentarily grounded in a sense of familiarity.

Pulling into a Walmart for the night every now and again similarly provides a break from the unknown. There are no surprises. I know I am allowed to park overnight. I know there are security cameras. I know I’ll have cell service. I know I have access to a bathroom. I know I can fill up my water bottle. I know I can restock whatever I need. Once it’s dark, with my doors locked, window covers on, and curtains closed, I could be anywhere and still feel at home. I sleep easy despite the hum of nearby traffic.

This blog post can also be read on Medium.

After the sun sets and darkness sweeps over whatever landscape I am inhabiting for the night, I layer on another sweatshirt, slide into my slippers, and start winding down from the day. I prepare, then eat some sort of dinner, journal, read, and configure a plan for the following day. Unlocking my phone, my thumb now instinctively taps the Maps app instead of Instagram. I zoom in to my little blue dot, drop a pin, title it “Holly Springs National Forest Camp Spot”, and save it to my “Ody Advanture” list. Pinching the map with my fingers to zoom out reveals a bread crumb trail of dots resembling a lumpy, backwards L beginning in Rhode Island and ending in Mississippi. I swipe back and forth between Maps and Safari plotting a few bread-crumb pins to follow the next morning.

At different stops along the way I’ve had to explain what I’m doing, traveling solo in a van meandering cross-country with my dog, to countless people. Whether it’s strangers I meet in grocery store parking lots or friends on FaceTime, the most common reactions I get are “How do you go to the bathroom?” and “Is it hard being alone?”

Going to the bathroom isn’t all that difficult to figure out. I go to the bathroom like all of you… it’s just not always in a glamorous porcelain bowl. But, if you gotta go, you gotta go.

Is it hard being alone?

I like to describe myself as an introverted extrovert or would I be an extroverted introvert? I’m not sure. Anyways, I love spending time with friends and socializing, but have always needed to balance it out with adequate amounts of “Annie time.” On the road, my days are packed. Work, drive, adventure, sleep, repeat. I often have a playlist bumping, an audio book or podcast playing, or am singing- no longer self-conscious of being tone-deaf, off-key, or messing up lyrics. I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I love the freedom that comes with it. The freedom to be myself with abandon.

I do what I want when I want. I wear whatever. I’m unshaven and un-showered. And, I feel amazing.

While watching the sun slip behind the Smoky Mountains over Lake Santeetlah on a Saturday evening, I thought about what I might be doing if I were with my friends in a parallel universe. Upbeat, poppy, pregame music would be playing. Outfits would be changed and new ones tried on, only to put back on the first. Final makeup touches applied while the night’s first shots would be poured and passed around. The sensation of nausea produced by the idea of taking a shot lurches me out of this brief fantasy. I think back to months ago when I’d put on an outfit, apply makeup, and then analyze myself in the mirror before going out wondering how I’d be perceived by others. Do I look pretty? Skinny? Is this hot enough? Does this make me look fat? Is that pimple noticeable? Will the guy I like text me tonight because I look good in this shirt?

…absurd. Absurd on so many levels.

Makeup is now a foreign substance I don’t touch, not that I was an excessive makeup person to begin with. My routine was pretty simple: recklessly smudge eye shadow on with a pointer finger, generously dust bronzer across my entire face, and try to apply some eyeliner and mascara without poking an eye out. If my makeup ever looked nice, it was because my best friend, Julia, did it for me. For my birthday one year, Julia got me a makeup bag that said “Face Shit” containing all the products she typically used on me: highlighter, blush, bronzer, contour brushes, the cute silver eyeliner to apply in the corner of your eye for a “pop”… the works. I have my “Face Shit” with me, but the only time I look in the minuscule mirror in my van is to hurriedly brush my oily hair into a ponytail in the morning. Well, sometimes I give myself finger guns and a smile in it later in the day, but that’s about all. The rattan, sun-shaped mirror serves more of an aesthetic purpose rather than functional.

Makeup, mirrors, and clothing can be empowering and used as forms of self-expression. However, they can also lend themselves easily to unhealthy relationships. It’s so common, especially for women, to become consumed by physical appearance, compare ourselves to others and fixate on how we are perceived. Through high school and college, I tried my hardest not to entertain this mindset. Constantly bombarded by images of perfect, skinny, toned, thigh-gapped women in the media, being in places where disordered eating and eating disorders were more common than not, and surrounded by friends struggling to find their own way through it, peers that could be models, and peers that actually did become models, it was hard not to sometimes slip into this body-obsessed and appearance-centric mindset.

This spring during a session with a Medium/Intuitive Healer (my therapy of choice), she told me that she was having a vision of me wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers and asked if this was my ‘uniform.’ Sitting there in a t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, I thought to myself, “Damn, she’s good.” I like being comfortable. 95% of the time comfiness will take priority when I’m choosing an outfit. I’d rather be comfortable in a t-shirt than be wearing one of those tight, strappy, bodysuit shirts that gives you wedgies. The other 5% of the time, I’m wearing something silly.

At the end of last fall, I was lamenting over the lack of male attention I was receiving to a friend. Laughing, she reminded me that the past two consecutive weekends I had gone out in a large, gold fat suit followed by dressing up as the bearded, male, drug dealer, Fez from the show Euphoria (very convincingly might I add), for Halloween. She suggested I might have better luck if I put in a little more effort to look hot or at least wore something normal the following weekend. Though her advice might have worked, in my eyes, those outfits were iconic. While they certainly did not showcase my boobs or butt, they exemplified my personality (which in my unbiased opinion is pretty great) and if a guy wasn’t into that, then I was not into them.

Though it’s still a work in progress, detaching my self-worth and body image from male attention, likes on Instagram, and how I look in the mirror, has been liberating. I love my body for what it can do. As an athlete, I’ve always wanted to be strong. In those moments that I do find myself self-conscious about or critical of my body, my attention is focused on my legs. But, I remind myself of everything these legs have done. These legs have out lunged and out lasted opponents in squash matches. These legs have done triathlons. These legs biked 100 miles. These legs (though they were mad about it after) ran a half-marathon with no training. These legs have carried both me and Churro on hikes and up countless mountains the past six weeks. They are strong from years of sports, adventures, and doing things that make me happy. And, I love that.

Feeling completely confident in yourself, your body, and your ideas is a lifelong effort. There’s bound to be ups and downs along the way. This past year, I felt like I was making strides on this front partially due to feeling comfortable in my environment as a senior on campus. Now, with COVID and the van essentially removing all aspects of a social life and the feelings of external judgment that comes with it, I’ve had the opportunity to get even more comfortable with me.

I used to have a constant reel of negative self-talk circulating in my head. A sports psychologist once described it to me as the voice of my “inner gremlin.” Since being in the van, that voice has evaporated. Thank god. Traveling alone would be no fun if I was constantly telling myself how dumb I am and how much I suck. This experience has taught me to be my own best friend, biggest cheerleader, and hype girl. I’m no longer reliant on outside positive reinforcement or lean on others to help make decisions. I’m loving this bad-ass, confident, empowered, I can do anything, idgaf version of myself that I’ve found from spending so much time alone.

Sometimes I find myself opening up Maps and typing in my home address in Boston to see how long of a drive it would be. Over the past six weeks, it grew from a mere four hours to a formidable fifteen. Because I haven’t been traveling a direct route, zig and zagging down the East Coast, my conception of how far I’ve come, geographically speaking, often gets muddled. While I wish there was a simple app that could map the journey that’s taking place within me, my thoughts, and my changing perspectives, I’ve been enjoying the struggle of trying to articulate it in my journal and on here.

The triangle extruding from my blue dot on the map, indicating my direction, now points west. I finally made the big right turn. The Maps app now suggests flights home instead of automatically offering driving directions. Each day my blue dot, which I know my mom is tracking just as closely as I am on Find My Friends on her own phone, moves a little farther across the map dropping bread crumbs along the way.