Off the Grid: Van life might be all it’s made up to be

For years now, we’ve seen a growing number of these tricked-out vans taking over the roads, campgrounds, Walmart parking lots and state land oases in a kind of quiet revolution of mobility. A migration of millennials, perhaps, without the impetus of the Dust Bowl, embracing their values of freedom and flexibility, bagging peaks by day and writing code by night.

They even sit a little higher than the rest of us on the road, looking down on our commute, no doubt, while they sip cold brew or mushroom coffee. Even their exhaust smells like … possibilities.

Van life, and all its associated hashtags, is not limited to those who have shunned house life (a much less popular influencer trend). There’s a growing faction of people that has tasted the promise and has both van and home. Perhaps those people have, at last, arrived, and can still depart if the luxury of a full bathroom loses its luster or the call of the van-camping expedition becomes irresistible.

Considering my clear prejudice, it was a wonder that I recently found myself careening down the highway in a customized Ram ProMaster, headed for the coast, and unwittingly, a change of heart.

Until now (known as the Raising Teens era), I have considered two forms of vacation accommodation acceptable: a tent and a sleeping pad or an overpriced hotel with obscene amounts of pillows. A camper van seemed to land squarely in the middle of “soft and uncommitted.” Here’s the thing, though: It’s hard to convince my kid to camp in the rain, and I don’t want to share a five-star bed with a lanky-limbed adolescent.

Some weeks previously, I happened across Michael Gustafson of Spokane Valley’s GustoVans at Spokane’s Great Outdoor Expo. Parked on the floor was a converted van with all the amenities, but it was the floral bedspread and excessive pillows that caught my eye.

“Take a look inside,” said Cat Macpherson (competent expo sidekick and van convert), waving me in with a friendly smile as I strolled by. Trapped by an invisible tractor beam of curiosity and the mention of heated flooring, I knew if there were chocolates on the pillow, I was a goner.

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to try one of these,” I lied out of politeness.

My big brother owns the same van, only with more boy stuff. I’m pretty sure it’s why he’s still single but somehow heralded by his fellow climbing buddies. And though I’m married, I could easily mistake a van for an escape pod, particularly if it had down comforters.

Peering at the walnut cabinets and failing to hide my awe, one thing led to another and suddenly Gustafson had offered me a van for a spring break trip. Like a peaceful missionary, he seemed to have a calm confidence that the inevitable truth would be revealed to anyone who had a chance behind the wheel.

Macpherson pointed out that it even had a toilet, but there is a level of intimacy I hope to never achieve with my family. Though the idea of a morning constitutional while making coffee while sitting at a breakfast nook while executing a Zoom conference does seem efficient in the very least. Maybe the millennials are onto something. I accepted their offer, then said a silent prayer to the backcountry camping gods so they would not spite me for my traitorous acts.

Now, my kid and I were blasting an audiobook (“Mortal Engines,” 44 hours of roadie entertainment) on the interstate with an uncharacteristic amount of fun in the cabinets. We brought water color painting kits, knitting projects, one guitar, one banjo, sketch books, two pounds of colored pencils and markers, iPads and several heavy novels, including at least one hardback.

We’re used to cutting our toothbrushes down and bringing only the half of the paperback we’re still reading, then burning it along the way. I wasn’t sure we’d fit in with van life hooligans, their powdered super greens and solar-powered work stations, though we do own enough Patagonia clothing to look the part. To my surprise, we all have something in common beyond our love of Smartwool: The desire to go places and see things. And maybe to not be totally miserable while doing it.

What renting a van is not about: a cheap vacation. Sure, you can bring your food and slap together a salami sandwich while you are pumping gas, but you’re basically a hotel room in a rental car. That’s kind of the point. Would you like your hotel room to be among the towering redwoods of the coast? Or at the edge of sand dunes? Perhaps you’d like to cruise your room through Hell’s Canyon or wake up to the sound of whitewater rapids tumbling by?

It was 40 degrees and pouring rain nearly every day of our trip. Once, it crept up to a balmy 45, and we immediately staged a spontaneous jam session underneath our extendable awning on what we labeled “the front porch.” I recalled being stuck in a tent with a double deck of Uno for days on end with a much smaller version of my offspring in the very same campground. That version was thankfully forgetful and forgiving. This one would never vacation with me again in the same circumstances. In a world where impressing a teen is a statistical anomaly, the van was a hit.

We rendezvoused in the high desert with my brother and my cousin, three vans stuffed with kids and kid things. It was as if the bedding section had vomited in one and the alpine shop in another. Our van was, of course, the sophisticate of them all, what with our art supplies and literature and musical instruments. We were very proud.

My brother has a 6-year-old. Trix cereal was strewn about, socks, smelly shoes, climbing gear, skis, an ax throwing set, cocktail fixings, 10 pounds of grass-fed beef, ice. My cousin brought his whole family: one infant, one child, one partner, one Rottweiler, a full-size Backgammon board. Their van was like the utility closet of a preschool with a breast pump for good measure. Clearly, I had been typecasting van owners. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, pronouns, ages and varying affinity for organic produce.

They are the moving targets of what is seemingly appealing – a care-free, unscheduled, independent experience, whether a temporary or more permanent housing solution. Having apparently driven right out of The Who song “Goin’ Mobile,” the Van-ites have an autonomy that is, in the very least, alluring.

I don’t care about pollution

I’m an air-conditioned gypsy

That’s my solution

Watch the police and the tax man miss me

It would have been weird if nothing had gone wrong, of course. So when the heater started coughing and sputtering, I was almost relieved. I was getting spoiled by “camping” in 65 degrees.

Oddly, this is what made me want to buy my own van. I called Gustafson (at 10, on a Saturday night), who sent me into the bowels of the beast and taught me how to log into the furnace software from my phone to locate the problem. As an off-grid aficionado of self-sustaining systems, the simplicity of digging into this one for a solution had me chirping at it like Scotty from “Star Trek.” It’s the same, loving relationship I had with my propane generator for years.

Eight days later, we returned from our maiden voyage and reluctantly returned the keys. I had slept well (barring one night of a crowing rooster), read several books, written letters, learned a new banjo tune, drank enough coffee to burst the heart of a racing horse, enjoyed a sit-down meal with my kid each day (not just chili out of a can), and had one of the easiest, most relaxing adventures I can recall. Best of all, my kid and I had been stalwart collaborators and navigators the entire trip, and dare I say, delightful companions.

A thousand miles on the road has not been known for its familial bonding powers since the days of our parents tossing a mattress and a loaf of Wonder Bread sandwiches in the back of the station wagon. But maybe the freedom and fun of those adventures has been restored, along with safety and the convenience of a microwave.

Which, of course, in my van, will be replaced with an espresso machine.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com