2 Hippies

An east wind blew a rooster tail of dust off the dirt road a few miles a head of us in the Valley of the Gods.  Oscillating between second and third,  the Syncro kicked up its own kicking up its own cloud as we cruised down the washboarded road.

"I think thats a VW," I said,  squinting at a red and white blob slowly emerging into view.  "...looks like an old Westfalia." I directed towards Tim.

"Out here?"  Tim reached for the binoculars laying on the center console and adjusted them into focus. "Yup,  sure is."

Pulling the Syncro out of gear,  we coasted down the slight hill towards the oncoming van.  "I'm going to stop..."

"Of course you are."

Noticing a fellow VW van,  the Westfalia followed suit and slowed to a stop.

"Nice ride!"  I grinned, sticking my head out the window to give their van the once over.

"Like wise.  Is that thing four wheel drive? A Syncro?" A man in his late 50s answered in a deluted English Accent,  killing the engine mid sentence.

"Sure is,  front and rear locking differentials too."

"And big mud tires! You've come to the right spot to use those," a chipper women of around the same age as the driver interjected over the rough chugging of the syncros engine.

"It looks like it," Tim replied,  leaning over the center console.  "How long have ya'll been traveling?"

Bases on a mutual connection with the road and life spent in a van, our conversations skipped the routine pleasantries.  Our professions were never discussed. Instead we focused on the important things,  like the logistics of boarder crossings in Central America, and van break downs.

 In 2009, Wendi and Stephen left their home in Canada, and hit the road in a 1972 VW Westfalia. Two and a half years and 50000 miles later,  their still at it.  They've been to Panama.  They've been to Kalamazoo. Their optimism and sense of adventure was contagious.  Check out their blog for some of their stories and photos.

Micro #vanlife.

After half an hour of comparing stories from Baja, Nicaragua and tips for finding free places to camp, a stream of dust appeared on the horizon,  signaling the arrival of another travel.  Parked side by side, we blocked the road. As the pick outfitted with a large camper approached

"We should be going," Stephen looked at his watch.

"As should we,"

"Maybe our paths will cross again," Wendi yelled as Stephen reved up their air cooled engine and rumbled into first.

"I bet they will," I smiled.

With a quick set of honks,  Wendi and Stephen's van set off.

"I hope I'm that alive and in love when I'm in my sixties," I said, watching their Westfalia crest the hill behind us.

"Meto.  They have something figured out alright."

"Sure do."

Here are some more links

 Living The Dream (Wendi and Stephen's blog),

2 Hippies (Facebook).

Four Corners

We followed US 89 out of the east end of Flagstaff as the lengthening afternoon shadows and dropping temperatures signaled the eminence of the high desert sunset.

"How far do you think we should make it tonight?" I asked Tim as he peered at the Gazeter of Arizona.

"Ehhh it all depends..."

"Just pick a place, and we'll head there.  All this," I motioned out the windshield towards the expanse of sage and sandstone, "is government land.  God's country.  We can camp where-ever-the-fuck-we-want."

"I know, but we're getting close to Navajo Nation.  I feel weird for camping in their land."

"Are you serious?  This shit is abandoned.  There's a gazilion dirt roads leading off into the middle of nowhere."

"I still feel strange about it.  If I were them,  I wouldn't want a bunch of gringos camping on my land," Tim said, as if addressing the possibility of Sasquatch.

"Alright, alright.  Let's head towards a monument then. I want to be within striking distance of Four Corners tomorrow.  I can't do any more of this interstate highway shit," I said, alluding to the hours spent tracking east out of LA on the 40.

Nodding in agreement, Tim flipped to the page, searching for suitable monument or national park.  " Navajo National Monument is....less than 100 miles from here.  Lets head there."

"The Dude Abides."

Rolling down the window,  the warm desert air masked the smell of sweat and dirt has amassed in the Syncro over the last nine months.  With a destination picked, my angst  settled and I stuck my hand out of the open window.  Flowing like a sine wave, I hummed the melody of a familiar Warren Zevon song.  The miles ticked by.

Juniper.

Mexican Hat.

Campfire.

My brother Tim has a photo blog called Cairn Culture.  Take a look.

Last light.

Yours truly looking over the edge. Timer.

Canyons.

Shadow.

The Clan of the Van.

Views.

Switchbacks.

Burning the last rares of daylight,  we pulled off the empty two lane highway and headed towards the Monument.  Judging by the suns position, hovering a few degrees over the horizon to the west,  we hand less than an hour before the first stars would dot the unpolluted sky.

"I wonder what's at the Navajo National Monument,"  I mused, half to my brother, half to my sleepy self.

"We'll see first thing in the morning."

Pulling off on a packed dirt road with scraps of spring grass growing in the middle, we headed half a mile towards a canyon.  Periodic slabs of sandstone broke broke the ground,  sending the Syncro on a trail that resembled a centerfold of an off road magazine.  Arriving on one such sandstone bulge,  I rolled to a stop.

"This looks about as good a place as any."

"Sure does."

Pulling the parking break, I slipped into second gear and released the clutch.  Popping my seat belt, I opened the door and jumped down to the still warm sand stone.  Stiff from the hours of driving,  I spread my arms and arched my back.

"Home is where you park it!" I laughed.

Here are some more links,

Four Corners (Facebook).

Life is Better When You Surf

"It has a really shitty learning curve," I said to Tim as he sat in the sand with his arms crossed on his knees, still dripping from an outside set.  Setting my board down in the sand,  I unzipped the chest zip and pulled the flap over my head.

"You get rocked for awhile.  It goes with the territory.  When I started surfing,  I rode one of Dan's thrusters.  I got slammed by 40 degree hurricane swell for a year or two before I finally figured out what was going on. It was so fucking cold."

"I just don't feel like I'm going anywhere when I paddle.  I can't get any speed."

"Yea, that feeling sucks.  It's all about making small adjustments, moving forward and backwards until you get balanced."

"I was trying that." Tim pushed his toes down into the granular and then flicked them up. "Let's go hike up one of those," Tim nodded towards a nearby hill."

"Comme onnn Tim.  It just takes time...practice.  It's like learning to snowboard or skate.  You just have to do it."  I flipped my 6'3 hull over and inspected the finbox.  Pulling the board up towards my mouth, I sucked at a recently repaired crack along the front of the finbox.  No water or air escaped despite my attempts to give my beloved board a hickey.

"I'm going back out."

"Wait, I'll go, just let me chill for a second. Let me catch my breath."

"Alright."  Laying back down on the sand, I propped my head on a round rock.   A few driftwood structures dotted the empty beach at Andrew Molera State Park.  We were the only surfers at the beach on an unremarkable Wednesday.  The waves were small but protected from the howling north wind by the point.  I closed my eyes and listened to waves break.

Bananas.

Sunset in Big Sur.

Blam's set up.

Hand painted.

Campsite.

Classic sticks.

Girl Scout cookies stacked 7 high and guarded by loyal pooch.

"If you want the ultimate, you've to got be willing to pay the ultimate price.."

Spring green.

Chaco tacos.

This dude is DTVL.  Down to #VanLife.

An especially loud crash made me sit up, "When you get it,  you're going to rip.  It's such a wild sensation."

"Yea, it looks fun," Tim grinned. "Everyone that's riding waves looks so pumped."

"It just takes patience.  That's one of the reasons I like it so much.  I'm not good at waiting for anything,  but with surfing,  you have to wait for the waves to be good and  the wind to be right.  Then, when you paddle out you have to take the right waves.  A good surfer is wise.  That's not the case with snowboarding or skating. Surfing makes you more wise."

For a minute we sat and watched a few waves roll through.

"You ready?"

"Alright,  I'm ready."

Here are some more links,

Life is Better When (Facebook).

#vanlife (Instagram). 

Sometimes A Great Notion

One chapter of Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion bled into another  as we hummed north out of Los Angeles.  The Syncro revved up towards the redline in first gear, obscuring the narrator's voice.  Fresh off the plane from a three month stint in New Zealand,  Tim was adjusting to the pace of traffic in the San Fernando Valley from the passenger seat. Periodic grunts and his constant gaze at the seemingly endless lines of suburban landscape conveyed his feelings.

"Pretty different from New Zealand huh?"

"I haven't seen this many people in three months," Tim explained. "The cars here are totally different too. Pretty much everything that's 4wd has a snorkel on it.  They use 4wd drive down there.  Not like that."  Tim motioned to Cadillac Escalade weaving through traffic.

"They are different animal," I agreed nodding towards the vanishing Escalade.  "Want to listen to some tunes or stay with the book?"

"Leave it here.  I'm getting into it."

Kesey's novel about the brotherly corrals of a logging family in Coastal Oregon continued as we left LA's smog behind us.  A few days earlier, I had dropped off Tucker in Northern California and bee-lined it down to pick up Tim at LAX.  For three months, Tim backpacked, sailed and sea kayaked on New Zealand's South Island. Save for a few two line emails and ten minute Skype call, I hadn't heard from him since I headed south towards Baja in January.

Two years and two months separate us in age. Growing up, we spent all of our time together.  If one of us was into something,  the other soon would be too.  Our relationship was less of brothers, with a clear hierarchy and boundaries, and more an impervious friendship.

For a few days, we wondered LA catching up.  For a short while,  our conversations focused on his experiences in New Zealand,  but they soon gave way to familiar conversations and idiosyncrasies of two very close people.  After a night or two and few hours spent bumper to bumper in LA's signature traffic,  we decided to head north and explore the southern Sierras.

A year ago, sitting in my Manhattan office building, the importance of maintaining and contributing to this relationship with my brother was slowly giving way to a storm of professional aspirations, grown up responsibilities and the desire to build a new life.  Following in parallel with Leland Stampard's (a character in Sometimes a Great Notion) return to the Northwest,  I too left New York, and headed back towards my routes in the Northwest last August.  Unlike Leland's desire for revenge on his older brother,  a burning wanderlust and desire to spend more time with people important to me drove me home.

For 27 hours, Sometimes A Great Notion provided the backdrop for our travels.

Painted.

Yours to keep.

Cairn Culture.

Wet roads.

Sage.

Hammocks.

Dark and Stormy.

Toppings and Salsa.

For longest time, I called Tim my little brother.  He's 6'8. Now he's just my brother.

Green hills.

"We never fought like this did we?  I mean we argued some when we were little, but nothing this deep-seated," I said turning down the stereo, after the climax fight between the two brothers in the book.

"Yea, never like this," Tim said as he grabbed the binoculars and peered out the window towards the distant hills.

"I think the last time we got in a fight was, maybe 7 years ago when you threw that stool at me."

"Yup." Tim adjusted the focus. "I don't think we ever will."

"Me too."

Here are some more links,

Sometimes A Great Notion (Facebook),

Sometimes a Great Notion (Amazon).