Four Months on the Road: Can This Really Last?

We’ve moved from high mountain valleys and ridge lines, to coastal tide pools and arid western expanses. As much as this journey has been the best lesson in the school of life, after four months, how much longer can we go? Today, we find ourselves at a crossroad and we’re lookin’ to make a deal.

So dude…where to?

Four Months: It’s a Dog’s Life

Looking east as I summarily empty my bladder onto the frozen pale-white gravel on BLM land outside St. George, Utah, a sharp and brilliant solar dagger hits me straight between the eyes. The sun rises swiftly over the tilted hills of limestone, sandstone and shale. I look like a madman in ripped sweatpants, poor posture, and fleece loafers as I shuffle around in the gravel, nursing my chronic tight back.

The scene suddenly changes from a muted color palate of off-white and muddy brown, to brilliant shades of striking burnt-orange and deep-red. Snow caps the nearby highlands, and the sky is cloudless and crisp blue. After two moody days of rain and clouds, perhaps the weather we carried with us from the Pacific Northwest, the desert seems to welcome us back.

Outside my camper this morning is an incredibly cute but neglected collie. He is dropping his heavy rubber ball in continuous 30-second intervals on our aluminum step in a desperate plea for our attention. You see, yesterday I made the mistake of offering friendship and love to this forlorn creature. I’ve watched for three days as he was tied—night and day—to the side of the trashy squatter camper situated about 300 yards to the north. He barks as we walk or drive past, but his tail wags.

Collie Runs Free

Yesterday we returned to find him free of his leash, his owner gone. Skittish at first and slightly aggressive, he ran alongside our truck, barking continuously. I chucked a rock, not at him, but in his general direction. I just wanted to get him to go home and stop barking at us. Instead of retreating in fear, his eyes lit up, and he chased the rock. Over the next 15 minutes, he became increasingly less apprehensive, bringing his precious rocks closer and closer, eventually dropping them in my hand, with wide and hopeful eyes.

He was thirsty, so I gave him water. He looked hungry as well, but I was resistant to opening Pandora’s box. Once the genie is out of that bottle, there’s no getting it back in. I just wanted to talk to his owner.

This dog with a big heart stayed at our camper for the rest of the night in freezing temperatures, even after his owner returned, shut his car door, and walked into his camper without a thought in the world about his dog’s whereabouts. Humans, dogs, and all walked down the hill and stood outside the dilapidated, sketchy camper, illuminated by headlamp. We called out into the night to get his attention while the dogs crooked their heads in confusion. There was nothing. The man was inside, but he never answered or emerged. We were ignored.

The Confrontation

The next day I see the man outside his camper. I approach this ornery and leathery desert specimen, asking about the dog and frankly concerned for all.

I don’t claim him, he grunts, after ignoring my greeting twice.

The man becomes aggressive immediately, his posture assuming that of a cat ready to strike. Assuring me how this is all my problem, he challenges me to fix it. I try and calmly insist that I’m just concerned for the dog. I tell him I think the dog’s paw is injured.

Oh! His paw is injured?! Maybe you didn’t consider that he got bit by a rattlesnake! He’s cared for!

Right.

After this desert rose of a man makes a false start at me, that’s where my superhero powers end. I’m not fighting a loose cannon who lives in squalid conditions on BLM land. Destined to live and fight another day, I turn and walk back up the hill, listening as his nonsensical and belligerent shouting fades behind me.

The next morning, we packed up and left.

Just another day on the road. Sometimes, you get what you pay for.

Four Months on the Road: Can This Really Last?

First off, for those of you new here and looking for some previous updates on our travel, please check out the aptly-named Travel Page.

Leavenworth to the Columbia River

When I last left off, we were nearing completion on three months on the road, mostly in the Pacific Northwest.

At that time, we are staying in an expensive (but worth it) Airbnb for about five weeks in Leavenworth, WA. It’s mid-October, and we are looking at the calendar with some sense of trepidation. We are headed back into the camper as the seasons are quickly changing.

To my surprise, when that day finally comes, things aren’t so bad. We decide to stay another week in the Leavenworth area, for a couple of reasons. First, the conditions are finally perfect for bouldering. Second, it’s a known entity. Mrs. CC is finishing up her final week of work and we know good camping spots with great LTE. Moving anywhere out of the region is always a toss-up on cell service.

The camping conditions are far more pleasant in late October in the Cascades than any of the previous summer swelter months we experienced. Even with overnight lows below freezing, this feels fantastic compared to waiting out the heat of the day back in August and early September, unable to escape searing highs in the mid to upper 90s in some cases. We have a fantastic little workhorse propane furnace, which goes from zero to sixty in seconds. I think I might be warmer in this camper than I was in most winter days in our Denver house.

Finding Lower Ground

Eventually, the threat of 10 inches of snow and overnight lows in the teens is the decider. No one likes a teen. In search of someplace that will not destroy our exposed plumbing, we land on a sliver of hope along the Columbia River, a cliff-bound valley dividing Washington and Oregon. Although this is no climbing destination, we hunker down for four days of cold weather on a cobblestone beach beauty, waiting for much colder conditions to pass at our next destination, near Bend, Oregon.

While waiting out the weather along the Columbia River, I go to my first climbing gym since March in Hood River, OR, a quaint hillside river town I once frequented in my old Portland days. It’s surreal to be back 13 years later. We also thoroughly enjoy a long and mellow hike along the Deschutes River. Not bad for a holdover spot.

Bend, Oregon

The week of Halloween, the weather breaks and warm temperatures and sunshine again prevail. We’ve both had the central Oregon city of Bend on our list for a long time. I lived in Portland, OR briefly from 2007-2008 and always felt I had missed the mark, meaning to live in Bend instead. Bend, at the time at least, was my kind of town.

Outdoorsy, far sunnier and less rainy than the western Oregon and Washington counterparts west of the Cascades, Bend felt like a place a guy like me could fit in. Trying to build a life in the damn-near rainforest conditions of the Portland area, I kept finding myself making solo weekend drives on Highway 26, southeast-bound to dry out my soul. Besides, I didn’t have any vintage fashion choices to make my mark in Stumptown anyway.

I found a reflection of myself in the rolling high desert sage lands and basalt plateaus, slowly carved by the meandering and pale-blue Deschutes River. Prominent volcanoes, Mt. Jefferson—or the “Big Boy” as Mrs. CC calls it—as well as the alpine Three Sisters peaks tower over the otherwise subdued topography. The “Biggest Boy,” Mt. Hood, is occasionally viewed in the distance, far to the northwest.

And then there’s Smith Rock State Park. I’ll get back to that.

Certainly, as with many small western cities, Bend has grown and changed tremendously in these last 13 years, now becoming one of the darling resettlement towns in the west. With that comes the typical local bitching I’ve heard across the west for years, which has become particularly amplified this summer:

This town used to be great until all these damn Californians came here and ruined it!

“Locals” in every western city outside of California

Phew, at least I’m from North Carolina. And I don’t take a particularly hardline stance on my barbeque preferences.

Smith Rock

I needed to check out Smith Rock. You see, when I visited this area in 2007-2008, I wasn’t a climber. I did things like hike, still in search of that activity that would really spark my next obsession.

My concern about potentially relocating to Bend is that Smith Rock is sort of the main gig in town. There are certainly other climbing areas within a 60-90-minute drive, but I think we can all agree that Smith Rock is the headliner act.

And Smith has a particularly Type-2 style, requiring precision feet and savage crimping, mostly on vertical technical beauties. Frankly, it’s an old-school style of climbing, a throwback to a time long before the wild swinging and bulbous affairs favored by the modern competition and indoor setting scene. That said, A lot of really great climbers are made here. Those who master this dusty proving ground go on to be truly amazing climbers, across wildly different styles.

Luckily, finding partners here proved to be relatively easy, as this place is perpetually on the road trip scene. After nearly seven months of solo bouldering, I had to readjust to someone else’s needs, compromising on meeting times, as well as route and mask preferences. For the love of god, I had to climb in the sun. This skin princess hates climbing in the sun. I think I’m slowly becoming a boulderer.

To make a long story short, I enjoyed Smith Rock much more than I anticipated. As expected, it was not easy, but I know this place has a lot to teach me. Could this be my home crag? Maybe, but I’m still reluctant. Plus, my new penchant for bouldering has me conflicted. Of the places we’re visiting, Central Oregon appears to be the least favorable for good boulders.

As another round of winter weather approaches in mid-November, we set our sights on the sunny south. On to one of my all-time favorite climbing towns, St. George, Utah. Two days and a lot of Nevada later, we arrive in this little palm-lined desert oasis.

St. George, Utah

St. George is located in the far southwest corner of Utah, just over the border from both Nevada and the remote stretches of northernmost Arizona. The landscape is an exposed desert geologic playground, melding the classic Paleozoic and Mesozoic multicolor sedimentary sequences of the Colorado Plateau with the structurally complicated Basin and Range province just to the west. The city itself wears a crown of stunning burnt-orange towering sandstone walls, most notably presented at the Snow Canyon State Park.

I’ve been considering living here since I first climbed the magical limestone of the Utah Hills back in 2015. I’ve returned every year since. This town and the surrounding area are absolutely stacked with high-quality climbing of all varieties. Between the growing core of strong locals and visiting high-caliber climbers, I feel like I’m bound to improve by osmosis. 

The downsides are largely cultural. The city, like many Utah towns, is quite lacking in ethnic or cultural diversity. While I appreciate all stances on love, life, and the pursuit of happiness, I like to live amongst an array of choice. While the tides are certainly shifting here (see California rant above), as an outsider, I do sometimes feel a sense of inclusivity.

Is that my own bias?

The Pandemic, Again: Four Months of Cat and Mouse

Our plans for the last four months were to head east for the holidays. I’ve honestly never gotten comfortable with that idea. I mean, let’s be real, right? Don’t we still have a pandemic because people choose to mix together, especially indoors and without a mask? Have we all not been guilty of this somehow over the last eight or nine months? We have.

There are a lot of ways in life where we can have our cake and eat it too, but this is not one of them.

I know in my heart that if everyone proceeds with the holidays as usual, amassing in family and friend gatherings, we will see staggering losses from this virus, both to human lives and economic contraction. We are already seeing it. I can’t justify it for myself and expect that everyone else will stay at their respective homes.

Yes, we are in a tiny camper and we’re growing a bit tired of this existence after four months. Yes, a home with people we love sounds amazing. No, killing the people we love does not sound amazing. Do I think I would actually infect anyone? Probably not, but neither did the roughly 70,000 people who are alone under incandescent light, sucking air through a tube as I type these words.

We are calling off our plans to head home.

Four Months and Counting

That’s it, folks. I have to say, other than the muffled sound of high-caliber weaponry just hundreds of yards away from where I lay my head, I’m content with life on the road at this moment. But 3:00 pm could dawn a new desire to throw a shoe. Every day is different.

It’s been surreal to follow endless beautiful weather in a time where I’m usually beginning to wear thermal underwear. That’s pretty cool, at least.

That said, I see some sort of home base in our near-future. We are once again getting serious about buying a home, but I carry a sense of trepidation about that too. With tight inventory and crazy demand, I really don’t care for feeling like a hamster in a cage, clawing and overbidding for some turd house. I know there’s a lot of questions about entering the housing market, and perhaps I will address those next week.

How are you guys doing? How are you considering upcoming travel plans, holidays, or general sanity? We’re out of the loop over the last four months, so keep us posted.

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