We started this trip from Seattle with clear eyes, no plan, a whole lot of naiveté, and a car full of crap. 4600 miles and a handful of things thrown out the window later we’re…Wait, Emily, where are we? “Lake Mead.” That’s right, Lake Mead. The speck of blue on a map that sits behind the Hoover Dam. The Hoover Dam kind of sucks. It does. There’s no other way to put it. The Hoover Dam is a giant block of concrete that clogs up what would otherwise be the western end of the Grand Canyon, creating Lake Mead in its place, and allowing desert metropolises like Los Angeles and Las Vegas to exist. You can walk across The Hoover Dam, for free even, which is a rare fact among most tourist destinations. However, when doing so, you share the dam with hung over day-trippers, wasting daylight until the craps tables get busy again in Vegas. Day-trippers like us I guess.
Lake Mead though. Or Reservoir Mead. Yeah, that sounds better. Reservoir Mead. Emily, why are we here again? There’s no hiking, really, at least none worth mentioning. In the summer it is a boater’s paradise, but we don’t have a boat. It’s warm here, for February: low 70s. But it’s warm in San Diego, and Tucson, and Mexico. The water is nice, always weird to see a giant lake reservoir in the middle of the desert. Except a quick swim upon our arrival proved to me the water is far too cold to spend the day lounging in my trunks (did I mention it’s February?).
The truth is, we have no idea why we’re here. We’ve been wandering aimlessly, “wanderlust,” Emily calls it, and somehow we ended up at Reservoir Mead. I thought this trip would cure that sense of wanderlust. Or at least slow its pull on me. Our tendencies towards planning and exploring seem to contradict on a trip designed for spontaneity. I’m restless. It’s nearly impossible to explain: how could wanderlust not be satisfied when I could wander anywhere, anytime? Perhaps it’s the preconceptions about what this trip should be, or what the places should be. Perhaps it’s the anticipation of a full summer season as nomads. Is the grass greener on the other side? Will the next location bring that inspiration for “going hard” (pushing myself to hike and explore), rather than seeking normalcy in a coffee shop, or hitting snooze on the 7am sunrise?
We planned to see so much on this trip. Completely reasonable for three months on the road. But instead of relishing each place, we want to push to the next, hoping it’ll be warmer or newer or something closer to vacation. It’s a lot of work to travel, set up camp, break down camp, cook, clean, survive. It’s not vacation. It’s the most freeing, privileged opportunity to see this country. To be young and adventurous and curious. But it’s not vacation.
Despite this feeling, our report card is still outstanding. We snowshoed around Crater Lake; spent an afternoon completely alone atop an icy Yosemite Point; climbed in the Buttermilks of Bishop; hiked to the bottom (and back out) of the Grand Canyon; got a tan in the lowest point in North America; hiked the Narrows of Zion; and now I’ve swam in Stupid Reservoir Mead.
More important than the places is the knowledge we’ve gained along the way.
1. The cold gets old. Fast. We have all the gear to stay warm in an arctic winter, but nothing beats stepping out of the tent in shorts.
2. Campfires are crucial. Especially with the long nights of winter to keep you awake past 7 pm. You know when you get too much sleep and you wake up feeling tired instead of refreshed? Well, that’s been our entire trip.
3. Desert sunsets are the best. Every single night the sky lights up for a free show out here. Right now I sit with a few beers, staring at purple mountains to the east, a few scattered pink clouds overhead, and a golden western horizon. I would rate this sunset as “average.” Sunrises are the same story.
4. Good books are important. They turn down days into learning days. Boredom into adventures.
5. It’s important to be outgoing and meet new people. Despite our introverted tendencies, one of the highlights of this trip has been meeting our new friend, Ryan, in the Grand Canyon.
6. It’s all about your attitude. A bad day in the woods still beats a good day at work, and it’s easy to forget that sometimes.
So what is this trip if it’s not a vacation? A learning experience, I guess. A test of our resolve. I still don’t know. Maybe I was after wilderness. Ed Abbey said you can’t drive to wilderness. You can only walk, or crawl, and even then you probably won’t see anything. Fuck you Abbey. My wilderness includes the crying baby in the campsite next to us. My wilderness includes the cooler full of beer in the trunk. My wilderness includes the weekend in Sin City. And my wilderness certainly includes the 2am wake-up knock on our trailer window from a ranger wondering why we are illegally camped at this overlook. Excuse me sir? No, we didn’t see the sign. We were just taking a short nap, not sleeping, I promise.
That’s my wilderness, and I love it.