Dry Sea

It was late after a long drive through lightning. I'd made it through the storm and settled into my home for the night. A barren stretch of Salt Flats in the middle of Utah. Nearly everywhere I looked was empty except for an outcropping of small mountains — like islands rising out of a dry sea. Along the distant horizon, a small flickering of light. Then my van, somewhere in the middle. All of it blanketed by clouds blocking away the full moon and night sky. 

I was out on the road, living my dream.

The start wasn't as clear cut as one might expect for such an adventure. I sort of found myself doing van life without exactly realizing that's what I was doing. Before I'd even fully committed to the idea of setting out on the road entirely alone. I had bought the van half a year prior, not even with the intention of living in it full time. Had I known, I would have gotten something with a taller roof. One I could stand up in.

My best friend Zach drove me down to Bakersfield to get my van out of the shop. It was there for over a month because of a blown motor. While I was waiting to find out whether warranty would cover it or I’d be stuck with a bill I couldn’t afford, I was stuck in Fresno on the edge of an un-walkable city. Aside from work, my only escape was reading Into Thin Air – Jon Krakauer’s account of the 1996 Mount Everest disaster. 

I was 28 years old and desiring more from life than what I had been going out and getting. When I broke my day down, I had more time and freedom than I wanted to admit. I just wasn't utilizing it.

Warranty covered the bill. I took that as a sign to seize the moment. Immediately after getting the keys to my van, I headed out to Bishop. This was March 4th, 2025. There was still active snowfall.

I was sweating bullets in my van parked just outside of Vegas city limits, in a parking lot between a Starbucks and Planet Fitness. Most days looked something like this — spending hours in a Starbucks recharging my portable battery, working on my laptop, sipping a $3 decaf house coffee and taking advantage of their complimentary refills before washing the filth off at a Planet Fitness. The deals these companies offered felt designed to lure you into spending more than you intended. I played their game trying to tilt the favor in my direction. I'd eat my lunch of deli meat on wheat bread with a healthy handful of spinach in my van before heading back in for another refill. It felt like I was getting more than I was giving. As a family friend I stayed with in Canada later in the trip would say — if it's a chain, it's fair game.

It was in this same parking lot that I tried to hold back tears on a Zoom call with my therapist. I was feeling immense guilt around this trip. Was I being ungrateful? I was dealt a good hand. Two parents who are still together and at their core love my brothers and I. Good friends who care about me, know how to have fun, and have stuck by my side through the years. A good stable job that allows me the work-life balance I'd always wanted. And yet here I was, in a hot sweaty van in the middle of the desert, crying.

I had lived the first 3 months on the road not allowing myself to stay in a place long enough to settle in.

My first night in Bend, I went to an ecstatic dance event. I arrived embarrassingly early. The only people there were the organizers. Nikki greeted me with a big bear hug and a huge smile. She smelled of burning sage. She said I was welcome to sit inside and wait. I wasn't sure whether I truly felt seen by this stranger, or whether I just desperately wanted to.

As I walked into the basketball court of the Boys and Girls Club that had been turned into a makeshift dance hall, I met Wren. Wren was quiet, with a somber energy. I walked up with the intention of asking if they needed any help. They turned around and gave me a hug before telling me I was welcome to help set up the altar if I'd like.

It was the summer equinox. The altar featured a bright glowing orb representing the sun, and string lights circling an area of floor pillows and tarot cards. As we set up together, I thought briefly about pronouns then decided against it. Not because I didn't want to respect their preferences, but because at that moment it didn't matter. We were just two people on our own paths, sharing a moment of peace. 

After the dance, in the closing circle, Nikki announced that Temple was open. All were welcome. She said if you don't know where Temple is, look around for someone who seems like they do. To my untrained eye, everyone looked like they knew.

I found a ride over and discovered that “Temple” was actually just someone's house about a block away. Once again, I was incredibly early. When I got dropped off, I was told to head on into the backyard — people were probably already there. They weren't. I was the only one. I sat for five minutes on the deck looking at the giant tipi a few feet away from me which someone was clearly living in. Feeling awkward and tempted to leave, the first few people began trickling in. By the end of the night, everyone had some sort of instrument in their hand, singing, playing music, cuddling up with one another. They called it medicine music. It really did feel healing.

I stayed in Oregon for two months — the longest of anywhere on this road trip. I was barefoot nearly the entire time. On more than one occasion skinny dipped with people I met the same afternoon. Micro-dosed mushrooms while floating the Deschutes on a giant inflatable raft with twelve of my closest strangers. I’m sure we could be smelt coming from miles away. I soaked up every last moment.

I arrived in Seattle from a stint in Canada. The rain had become relentless. For three weeks throughout the Canadian Rockies and the Pacific Northwest, it felt like every day brought some moment of solitude hiding from the rain inside my seven-foot-wide, five-foot-tall metal box — just long enough for a bed, a space to sit, and the front cab. The same object that had allowed for such free and joyful experiences in the summer sun began to feel like a prison.

Parked with a view overlooking Bellingham Bay, the rain lightened just in time for me to get out and watch the sunset. In the distance, the noise of an approaching train grew louder with every passing second, crescendoing as a perfect silhouette against a neon pink sky before fading into the distance. In the silence that followed, I couldn't help but think about the girl I'd met in San Francisco. The connection was deep and immediate. Leaving it to stay on the road was one thing. Staying on the road now, missing her, was another. The bay sat quietly in front of me. Not saying a word.

Driving back from Colorado — the last leg of my trip — I felt relief. I walked back through the same door I'd walked out of months ago. It was nearly midnight on a weeknight. Zach and my cat were waiting. Zach handed me a cold seltzer, a bag of popcorn, and we sat on the couch.

I had imagined coming back to a perfectly cooked meal, still hot, waiting exactly as I'd left it – only now with a new perspective. But in reality, the food had gone cold and there were dirty dishes everywhere.

I wanted to wrap this chapter of my life up and say that I found exactly what I was looking for. That all the good times, tough times, and moments in between added up to something neat and earned. But what I took away is something more complicated than that. I didn't find belonging. I returned with a clearer understanding of how badly I needed it. How hard it can be for me to actually let it in.

I'm still chewing at my bones, unresolved.