The Only Constant

We met Hank at the South Mineral Campground in Silverton, CO. At first, it was like a hundred other greetings – warm, cordial, fleeting. Then we bumped into him again. He said we just had to hike along the South Fork of Mineral Creek, that we’d see no end of waterfalls. There was a wash of urgency to his words, a sense that it mattered that we went. We went and were awed. We’ve found ourselves in some lovely places, but this was different. The stone and water and trees and moss made us think of other places, and people we love and miss. We hiked up and up, the river following a rugged forest road, until we came across a camper in a snug roadside spot. It was Hank. We were happy to see each other. After a bit of talk about the beauty that enveloped us, he shared from within. He was in the woods, high in the mountains, down a road in a magnificent canyon, to reset. He talked about his father, who was in his last days, and about the yellowing aspens we watched, and about the drives he would share with his dad when he got back home. He teared up and apologized, but we thanked him for trusting us enough to share his love of his dying dad. Holly thought about Hank after, and talked about him. We saw Hank one more time, driving through Kebler Pass. I hope he and his dad found peace.

We were in that canyon for the same reason, to let the waterfalls bring our pulses down. A friend who cared about our journey enough to share their own told us about that spot. Our friend – and virtual travel guide and historian – Dave, recommended South Mineral campground. It wasn’t merely a pretty place, though it is. It’s that this place has been part of Dave’s life since the mid ‘60s, and is very important in the history of his family. Knowing the (not heavy, but light) weight of the importance of this place made it more beautiful.

These things – meaningful encounters with people – happen enough to make us realize that they are really the foundation of our journey. By walking away from our fixed abode, we have landed in the paths of people who would have been going through their lives without us, of course, had we not ventured out. Because people have have told us that meeting us meant something to them, we have come to recognize that in ourselves.

Not every day is like that though. Days are days, peaceful or stressful, smooth or jagged, pretty or plain. Patterns emerge, and here are mundane truths. We prefer to avoid people, in general, and cute towns. If someone says ‘You have to see this adorable town’, we probably won’t care for it. On the other hand, some towns we like. Shelby, MT, Salmon, ID and Rico, CO come to mind. We still need big towns to provision, and we still need Amazon. We like having Johnny the Vanlife Cat (hit his Insta) with us, and we miss his brother Ponyboy. Johnny enjoys his snoozes in the sun and catching bugs.

Colorado as a whole moved us tremendously. We had made it our mission to see the yellowing aspens in the Rockies, and we lost track of the mountainsides and valleys we saw lit up with Fall color.

[I’m writing now from someone’s backyard in Ocala, nice folks who open their place to travelers. It’s been three months since I tried to write about Hank. Longer than that since I actually wrote.]

In that span, life has kicked us sideways, pretty hard. As a result, Holly and I have done things differently. We have spent time apart while she handled things and I drove the van with Johnny shotgun. We’ve traveled super fast. We’ve stayed in one place for a month. We’ve enjoyed ourselves and each other. We’ve been sullen for stretches of days. I’ll speak just for me and say that I’ve resisted learning life’s inevitable rules: accept and let go or die fighting. I still fight things I cannot change. Accepting and letting go are not in my nature. And yet . . . I do. Living as we do demands that we accept new things each and every day – traffic patterns, the shifting sky, the conditions of the people we love.

It’s a luxury to us that we have so little. It allows us to actually see and experience our surroundings, untrapped as it were in the false security of a steady home with endless water and electricity. We are free of the trap of contrived scarcity and fear driving grotesque consumption and hate. (I know this comes off pompous, but I’ll stick with it.)

What would be genuinely pompous would be to imply that because Holly and I are pretty much alone together all the time, that we handle things alone together all the time. We do that a lot, of course, but we are buoyed by so many good people, and at least one band. What others do for us is astounding and life-saving. This is an apt moment for a picture – and bless you if you’re still reading while I ramble and don’t include pics. This is a patch of grass at golden hour, near Panama City, FL, where Hurricane Michael ravaged things and lives beyond measure, just over five years ago.

So, yes, we landed in Florida with a plan to remodel the van interior. We had bought the van already converted and made modifications enough to suit us – but the van never met our vibe, and definitely not as intimately as Sandy, our former bus. We grabbed an AirBnb with wonderful hosts John and Beverly and tore apart the inside of the van. It was a tough job, replacing cabinets, passing wires through the roof, moving plumbing. It was a welcome all-consuming task.

Holly is away for a few days, and I’ve had the good fortune to ride my bike at Santos Trails in Ocala. The van is in good shape (look for a video van tour soon), and we’re working on acceptance and listening to the world. I find it hard being stubborn and committed to reshaping things that resist.

But, The Felice Brothers have a new album, so all is OK in the world. We find abundance in the world, enough to pass from hand to hand to hand.

Those last words belong to James Felice. Buy their album on Bandcamp. We’ll be north in a couple months saying ‘bye for now’ to friends and catching up with family. Until then . . .