1-8-14 - I Made it Through the Wilderness

Who said living in a van sucks? Why do we look down on this lifestyle as a society? The beer is plentiful and the food is hot and savory. We have all the time in the world to sit and take in the patting of rain on the roof, the calls of frogs, and the trees saying "Shhhhhh…" in the wind. We wrap ourselves in what clothes we have, we head in the direction that suits us each day. Our days are spontaneous and each night we all three settle in to bed with contented sighs.



In the morning I usually wake first, sometimes to muted rain drops, sometimes to sun and blue sky. I put on a pot of water to boil for coffee and sit taking deep breaths in the silence. If it's cold, I snuggle back in bed with Dave until the coffee sputters and spits. If not, I step outside to check what has happened in the night and to examine how our new landscape looks in the light. When we both have a steaming cup of coffee, I get breakfast going. We both slurp down huge, hot portions of breakfast burritos or eggs and toast with a side of grapefruit juice.



I do miss daily hot showers, which surprisingly is the only modern convenience I really can't do without. Everything else is perfect. We are camping all the time, but without the discomforts that come with sleeping on the ground and carrying your home on your back. We have shelter, water, food, the ability to travel, and each other. Although some might see this lifestyle as a sacrifice, I revel in the luxury of it every day.



Tonight we found ourselves winding back into the Apalachicola National Forest. (I warn you, there are many more incomprehensible and downright ridiculous names to come, so hang in there with the pronunciation. Your guess is as good as mine on most of these.) The roads are white sand and red, powdery earth bordered in all directions by spindly pine trees and saw palmetto. Occasionally we'll catch a glimpse of black, still water that give me the shivers. As we pass one such pond I just catch sight of an otter's cream-colored belly flashing, and with a splash he disappears into the inky water.

The light fades as we drive deeper into the forest, and soon we're engulfed in darkness. It is at this point that the van's headlights stop working.

Dave swears and works the switch, and I grip the seat's armrests with white knuckles. The rutted dirt road becomes visible in strobe light flashes as the headlights sputter on and off, on and off. The farther we go, the worse it becomes until we look like some sort of blinking satellite beacon, bumping and fumbling down the road. I nervously whistle a few bars of a tune.
"I made it through the wilderness, you know I made it through-ooh."


Luckily Dave is an excellent driver and we navigate the potholes and sand washes without wiping out. We take the next side road, and find that it dead ends in brush and swamp and with great relief set up camp for the night. The woods here spook me and I find voodoo and ghost stories a little easier to believe than normal. We walk back on an overgrown side path that ends in a swamp of mirror-calm water as black as tar. For reasons I can't explain the water and the heavy stillness raise the hairs on the back of my neck, and I hurry back to the van with nervous backwards glances. We have a fire that night to ward of chills of many kinds, and I sleep fitfully.