60,000 miles and two years in our converted van
January 26th marks a year and a half since we moved into a yellow van named Hermes.
January 26th. Two years, exactly, since we backed down our Florida driveway for the last time. We sat on brand-new swivel cab chairs. We left our house in a realtor’s hands. We felt giddy (perhaps Scout a little confused).
The past 732 days feel like a dream. Maybe I have been watching someone else—someone better—live my life for me? Each experience was bright and real and mine, but now they’re fuzzy around the edges and I’m not sure how I’d begin to describe them to a stranger. Like waking up in the morning, slow and content, then trying to explain the details of your subconscious exploits to someone else.
How different am I from when we began? Would I be this different if I hadn’t moved into a bright yellow van and driven an absurd distance in a relatively short amount of time?
Some changes feel like a direct consequence of living on the road. I shower less and hardly ever use soap except on my hands. (My skin and hair microbiomes have adjusted—the flexibility is so freeing.) I can tolerate a much larger range of temperatures. I’m less bothered by dirt and grime (at least the kind that comes from actually being outside). I get antsy when we stay in one place for too long. I relish a deep comfy couch and a long hot shower with an intensity Past Me, who never wanted for those things, couldn’t conceive.
Other changes are harder to assign a cause. I take writing more seriously, trying to feel proud of my work even when it seems “silly” (as strictly pet-related things sometimes can with so much else going on in our world). I read even more—and give greater thought to what I consume, planning my holds weeks and months in advance. (I now have three library cards!) I pick and choose my battles more discerningly (though this might not say much given that the bar for “more” was very, very low). I marvel at nature all the time. I feel closer to some friends and further from others.
“Van life” has been built of trade offs. I think all lifestyles are. This one just highlights them—then shifts your baseline, juxtaposing new normals with old extremes to make you wonder which is actually which. Sometimes I miss coming home from a long day of work and kicking my feet up and being able to truly stay in, to not leave my own property, to not drive or park or look up city bylines about RVs on the street. Sometimes I tire, exhaust myself, running through far-fetched “what ifs” about our sleeping arrangements and physical assets. On occasion I resent the struggle to build a deeper in-person community, slowly, over time, on my own terms (read: not strangers coming up to our van). But none of those feelings overshadow my love for this life’s spontaneity. How many hundreds of sunrises have I watched, over how many dozens of landscapes, all from the comfort of my own bed? How many stressful situations have we bypassed with sensitive Scout by having constant access to a temperature controlled environment? How much perspective have I gained?
Sometimes we can’t imagine taking a different path simply because we know any guesses we make will be wrong—we don’t actually know our future selves, even our past selves, as intimately as we like to think. There’s some of that going on here. I simply can’t construct an accurate mental image of what my life would look like if I hadn’t moved into a van.
But I also can’t imagine it in the sense of “I wouldn’t have it any other way”—I don’t want to imagine it.
We have no desire to stop living nomadically. I’m sure it’ll happen, but for now Sean and Scout and I want to keep chasing adventures and experiences and wonder and awe, and it feels right to make those pursuits on the road. Even when we do stop, on that faraway future day, I want to hold onto what my bright yellow van has taught me: practicalities like conserving resources (water, electricity, storage space) and eschewing materialism, loftier ideals like pushing past my comfort zone and not burning the future to stay warm (thanks to John Green for the latter metaphor), and above all, love love love love.
A summary (mostly) by the numbers
732 days
96 percent of nights sleeping in the van
23.7 percent parking lots
20.6 percent public land
19.1 percent street parking
18.4 percent campgrounds
11.9 percent on friends or family’s property
6.3 percent Harvest Hosts
14 percent with electric or water hookup
Average length of stay: 1.3 nights
4 percent of nights outside the van
24 nights staying inside friend’s or family’s homes
5 nights in hotels
~$6,000 on lodging
$3,100 on campgrounds
$2,000 on Harvest Hosts
$650 on hotels
$230 on parking lots
60,000 miles
46 US states and 9 Canadian provinces/territories
Every US state except Hawaii, California, Nevada, Oregon
8/10 provinces: British Columbia, Alberta, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, and Ontario
1/3 territories: Yukon
23 national parks
Acadia, Arches, Bryce Canyon, Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, Denali, Everglades, Gateway Arch, Glacier, Grand Canyon, Grand Teton, Great Smoky Mountains, Hot Springs, Indiana Dunes, Kenai Fjords, Mount Rainier, New River Gorge, Olympic, Petrified Forest, Shenandoah, Theodore Roosevelt, Yellowstone, and Zion
209 books read
2025 so far: 4 fiction, 7 non
2024: 56 fiction, 42 non
2023: 81 fiction, 19 non
7 out loud with Sean
8 audiobooks
The rest on Kindle or hard copy
Countless shenanigans
Three tow trucks (all in the first three months… we rocked that learning curve once we were on it 😉😂)
Two trips to Colorado for our conversion company to fix electrical issues
One lithium ion battery explosion
Hundreds of miles hiking and running
Several weeks with loved ones
So many creature sightings!
One naked swim under a remote waterfall
Nine new tattoos
A third of Scout’s life with us
Two years in our van also marks the point where Scout’s life with us is nearly perfectly divided into thirds. For two years after I adopted her, we lived in three apartments (two in Wisconsin and one in Florida). For the following two years, we lived in a Sherwood neighborhood house. For the last two, it’s been Hermes the van. Who knows what our cattle dog’s life was like before us—your guess is as good as mine—but since she walked out of that shelter on the other end of my leash, she’s been equal parts apartment dog and house dog and van dog. I am now an even more fervent believer that it’s less about where you live with your pet and more about what you’re willing to do with them.