In Praise of Van Camping
…especially in the rain
Raindrops pitter-patter on the roof of my Roadtrek as I sit in the captain’s chair with the furnace cranked, watching from the passenger-side window as droplets form on the tip of each spruce bough. The trunks of the spruce, fir, and maples that surround my campsite are covered in large map lichens, iridescent green splotches on the brown tree trunks. Moss covers the maple trunks too, and the hummocky mounds at the base of the trees. The Black Woods for which this campground is named seem accustomed to the damp maritime climate, thanks to the many storms that sweep the coast of Downeast Maine.
As I watch rainwater pool in the center of the tarp strung over my picnic table, I wonder how I ever survived camping without an RV. My campground neighbors arrived after dark last night and pitched their tent just before the storm started. By the time I awoke, they had already packed up their soggy gear and left. Meanwhile, I lounge in the climate-controlled comfort of my camper, a solid roof overhead, hot water for showers, and a propane heater that blasts warm air at the flick of a switch.
I used to think RV camping was cheating. Maybe it’s more like having a tiny mobile cabin: small enough that you spend much of your day outdoors if the weather’s nice, but cozy enough to escape from the rain and cold. If I didn’t have my camper to relax in, I would probably be in downtown Bar Harbor staying warm and dry in a museum or café. I might try that another day, since rain is forecast for much of my week in Acadia National Park. The downside is that I can’t bring my dogs to those places. Baxter and Laney would be fine in the van on a cool day, but I like to keep them company when I can.
Baxter is sprawled next to me in the driver’s seat with her head on the center console, looking bored but content. Laney is curled up on the floor between the back of my chair and the dash, hiding out in her den. The dogs’ fur has finally dried from our morning walk in the deluge. My indoor plumbing is of no use to them, so we venture out into the storm every few hours and they take care of business.
Two days into my trip, I’m settling into the familiar rhythms of van life. I wake up to a dog snoot or two in my face (which is reason enough to celebrate—it’s the first time since Baxter’s knee surgery three months ago that she is allowed in my bed!). I snuggle in the warmth of my sleeping bag until my bladder beckons. Luckily the bathroom is adjacent to the bedroom, so to speak; the closet that contains the toilet is literally at the foot of the bed. Bladder relieved, I spin 180 degrees and I’m facing the kitchen sink, where I wash my hands and face and brush my teeth. If I want breakfast, I bend down to open the fridge or reach up to access the pantry (which overhangs my bed). I’m ready for the day before I’ve even taken two steps.
The simplicity of van life suits me. At my house in New Hampshire, I am easily overwhelmed by the tasks and clutter of everyday life. Junk mail piles up on my office desk. Bills need to be filed. Shopping bags sit on the kitchen floor until I feel inspired to bring the spare Kleenex boxes to the basement. Gear of all kinds accumulates—ski boots and skijor harnesses in winter; backpacks and bike helmets in summer; duffel bags of clothes and shoes that are on their way to or from an adventure.
In the van there is no mail, no pile of bills, no mound of gear making its way in and out. Everything in the van has a home. There are no duffel bags of clothes and shoes because there is a closet. I move into my camper once, at the start of the season, and I have everything I need. There are no grocery bags on the floor because there barely is a floor; everything in the van gets put where it belongs, and if it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t come along.
Routines are easier in the van because life is condensed. Everything I bring has a place and a purpose. Living in such a small space could be maddening, but I choose to make it mindful. Raking the dog hair off the bed and wiping condensation from the windows every morning becomes a ritual. Washing hands and doing dishes in the small sink requires patience. I am forced to slow my tasks and really pay attention, otherwise I might bang my head on the cabinet when I spit out my toothpaste.
At night, it takes me an hour from start to finish to shower. First, I roll up the rug and unplug the drain in the floor in front of the bed. Then I open the door to the toilet-closet diagonally across the hallway and latch its hook to an eyelet above the stove. I have to remember to remove my bath towel from its hanger on the bathroom door and put the toilet paper roll onto my bed, otherwise they will both be soaked by the time I’m done.
Then I take the shower curtain (which is tucked next to the toilet) and slide it out of the closet and around a square track in the ceiling in front of the bed. This creates a shower stall, and the shower head pivots out of the closet and between the two ends of the curtain into position. By this point, hopefully I remembered to turn the hot water on twenty minutes ago, otherwise I’ll be undoing the whole contraption so I can reach the switch on the wall, then standing naked in the cold until it’s ready. From there, it’s your typical Navy shower—get wet quick, turn the water off, suds up, rinse, repeat.
The fun part is when I finish and I’m standing there in my flimsy camp towel and I still have to squeeze out the shower curtain, squeegee and mop every drop of water off the floor, clean out the drain, and put everything back where it came from. That takes longer than it seems like it should. But on a cold night like last night, when I’d just walked the dogs four miles to Thunder Hole, then done a solo trail run four more miles to Eagle Crag, and I was soaked and chilled to the bone, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for a hot shower. (There are no showers at this campground, and the private shower facility outside the park is not always open.)
The cold, gray day had taken its toll on me, but by the time I crawled under the covers into my sleeping bag, clean and warm with a microwaved meal in my belly, I felt ecstatic. Meanwhile, my neighbors climbed into their tent in the rain.
A new neighbor has just arrived at that campsite—a woman clad in a yellow rain slicker like a lobsterman fishing the Gulf of Maine. She sat in her SUV for a while, probably strategizing how to set up camp as quickly as possible in the rain. I watched her drag her tent through the dirt and prop it up with poles, then unfurl a rain fly over the already-soaked nylon. Then she ferried armloads of supplies from the car to the tent, unzipped the door, and disappeared inside.
I thought about how cold the 40-degree air will feel tonight as puddles pool beneath her sleeping bag. I imagined her balling the whole mess up tomorrow and stuffing it in the back of her SUV on her way home to Massachusetts, spending the six-hour drive dreaming of a hot shower. I remembered myself three years ago, before The Dream Catcher came into my life, setting up my ten-by-ten tent and riding out the storm (I was more of a fair-weather tent camper, though, and probably would have postponed my trip on a weekend like this).
My van may be small, but it’s cozy and dry. It has everything I need, and nothing I don’t need. Every time I step inside, my body relaxes. I exhale deeply. I feel cocooned, safe, protected.
This trip to Acadia is the first time I’ve lived in the van since I abandoned my winter road trip in December. Turning around a thousand miles into that journey left me questioning my ability to do another big solo trip like the one that took me to Baja last year, or Alaska two years before that. Being constantly on the move is stressful—figuring out where I’m going, finding a place to park every night, dumping and filling my tanks every few days, and dealing with everything that breaks or breaks down in transit. Spending ten days in this campground will allow me to ease back into van living and figure out if I’m ready for my next big adventure.
So far, it feels like I’m exactly where I need to be.
NOTE: I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, but didn’t have enough cell service in Acadia to post it. Sorry for the delay!
"My van may be small, but it’s cozy and dry. It has everything I need, and nothing I don’t need. Every time I step inside, my body relaxes. I exhale deeply. I feel cocooned, safe, protected." This is how I feel about our bus-home. Deeply resonate. Thanks for sharing.
I feel the same way in our van. Safe, relaxed, happy... I wish I felt that way at home. Never been to Acadia, but it's on the list! Looks beautiful, rain or not.