Van-is-gone

We are homeless once again. The van is gone. I drove her for the last time down the ten mile stretch from Jackson Hole airport into town. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty van. We had lived in that space for the last three months and I would miss it. The van now looks so different. I thought of the time we spent cleaning it readying it for this trip. For an instance it felt like time had stood still.

yesterday the van had been piled with boxes. There wasn't an inch to step after we emptied the cabinets and seat compartments. Everything we had been living with had been heaped in the center while we prepared to once again rid ourselves of our worldly possessions. For some reason this process of elimination seemed even harder now than it had been before we left. When all you own is the basics, throwing away even one spatula or a stained T-shirt can seem monumental.

We did our laundry for the last time and pinned a 'FREE' sign on the laundry bin and its contents. We were reducing our belongings to the bare minimum. The basics we had lived with in the van, we would look back on as lavish.

Paula at the H & R Block was eagerly waiting for me when I pulled into the lot. I rotated the van keys from my key ring and stuffed them in my pocket. In the reception area, I grabbed a pink sheet of paper from the copier and drew up a quick bill of sale. We did the necessary signing of papers at the bank and I handed over the Massachusetts title for the van. Paula in return, handed me a cashier's check for $7000. I would miss the van, but I would be crying all the way to the bank.

I said good-bye to Paula and to Jackson Hole then hoped into our rented green Ford Taurus. We were off to Salt Lake City. But driving in a car again required some getting used to. After three months of sitting at eye level with road signs we were not prepared for life in a compact. With this car, we were sitting at most, a foot from the ground. Where was the huge windshield? Why was my chin only inches above the dash? What if I felt a sudden urge to crawl to the back? How could people drive like this? We felt closed in, constrained. In the passenger seat, I felt as though I could poke my feet through the floor and skid to a stop. Yaba-daba-doo!

But despite all of that, the drive was nice. The scenery was beautiful and to both our delights, we were climbing hills at well over 30 mph. On one steep section we found ourselves behind a yellow VW van. She was chugging along as best she could. Out of respect and understanding, we opted not to pass. Only that time and one other did I catch myself giving the customary salute to a fellow Vanagon owner. I'm sure they were puzzled.

By 5:00pm we had exhausted our car complaints and our Fred Flinstone impersonations and were pulling into a forestry campground. The van had been so much easier. Here we had to pitch a tent. By 7:00 we were finding out through experience what all those tenters we saw on our trip did after the sun set. Nothing. So, we climbed back into the Ford (it was at least warm in there) and somehow managed to kill an hour and a half before convincing ourselves that we were exhausted.

The tent wasn't nearly as comfortable as the van. Hell, it wasn't even close. Our brand new Thermarest pads hadn't had enough time to inflate after having been compressed on the store shelf for so long. By 4:00am I was ready to get, give my sore butt a break and hit the road again. I managed to fall back asleep for a short time, but by 6:30 the car was packed (ok, thrown together) and we were out of there. John reminded me that in Hawaii the days would be longer and I felt a bit better.