Before we moved into the Airstream, I had this loose vision of what it would be like based on – shocker – stuff I’d seen online. You’ve probably seen the video: there’s a frame around a beautiful beach scene. You quickly realize the the POV is from the open doors of a campervan, and you’re in bed with a nice steaming cup of coffee. Music plays, a dog snuggles, the sun rises, etc.
There have been moments, having lived our version of “van life” for almost two years, that I have felt something like that. I remember waking up last year in southern Nevada’s Pahranagat National Wildlife Refuge while we were moving from St. George, UT to Reno for the summer. I saw green leaves fluttering in the breeze right outside our oval, shiny aluminum-framed windows, and I felt a bloom of elation in my chest.
All images from Pahranagat National Wildlife Refuge in Southern NV!
“This is home!”, I exclaimed to still-waking-up-Wes. “We get to be right here in our home, and that means here, today!” I felt grateful, lucky, and filled with excitement about that very moment. Wes felt grateful, lucky, and filled with excitement to have his effusive wife already up and emoting before he’d had coffee.
Honestly, I live for and strive to create conditions to enable moments like those. And they’re special enough that I can describe the above to you in vivid detail nearly one year later. (An alternative word for special: rare).
The reality that I will share, and one that may not fit as neatly or enticingly into a 30-second video reel, is that full-time Airstream life is a whole lot like real life.
Consider, first, the costs and bills. Sure, we have a small and relatively compact setup. But we have insurance policies on that setup: the Airstream, the towing vehicle, the Prius, and all our belongings crammed into the all of the above. The vehicles require gas, tire checks, changes, and rotations, oil changes, maintenance. We use propane for cooking; gotta grab those tanks and fill them up from time to time. When we’re not on our property (still a pretty new development) or boondocking, we pay camping fees, including dumping black and grey water from the trailer, and filling up on fresh water.
Keeping up with the costs means we’re both working and budgeting. And, since we switched from salaried jobs to gig-by-gig, both our hustle and our management of cash flow require more consistent and proactive attention than they once did.
It also means we’re navigating who gets to use the Airstream, when. If I have a painting I’m working on, it’s nice not to have Wes constantly thudding around on the floor when I’m going for precision (he will deny his thuddery; the paintbrush doesn’t lie). When one of us is on a professional call – me more than him, but he still has them – the other needs to GTFO. Sometimes this means setting up shop in the front seat of the truck, a newish and surprisingly cozy remote office setup.
Finally, the reality of hitching up the Airstream and moving from one location to another is not the easy-breezy, vagabond, I go wherever the mood takes me type of endeavor. My opinion is that the above is actually more viable in a truck camper or van, although when we rented a campervan for three weeks we still found ourselves low-or-high-key logisticizing much of the time. How long will it take us to drive from point A to B? Where will we sleep? Do we need to do laundry? How’s our water situation, and are we running low on groceries?
With the Airstream, we have all of the variables listed above, but also add that it is a trailer which literally means our home is attached to the butt of the Tundra and wherever we haul, it goes. It’s amazing, and it’s also cumbersome. It rattles and threatens to/sometimes breaks. Dry goods fall out of the cabinets. The fridge door sometimes swings open, freeing the yogurt to barf across the floor. Once I opened the Airstream door to lentils – so many lentils – scattered everywhere. The bag had fallen and busted, freeing its contents and shaking them up all during our journey.
And I haven’t even covered backing up. It’s totally doable, of course. But it is a thing, and I’m not going to chance getting into a hairy situation by, for instance, pulling up just any ol’ anywhere after dark and then waking up to realize I need to back the trailer up half a mile.
I share all of this not to complain, but to debunk my own former vision and make it clear that while I am certainly living the dream, our dream, it’s still real life!
I get this reminder every time we prepare to once again hitch up and move the Airstream, for a season or for a quick trip. My anxiety kicks in as I wrestle with the familiar, yet still annoying, knowledge that things are about to be in motion and about to change. My default desire for comfort cries about wanting to stay still, in safety. My ambition to lead a bigger life than that overrides her, but she doesn’t stop whining. The work ends up being coaching myself back into doing my best to prepare, dealing with unknowns, and staying present.
After all, when I do manage to get myself into this mindset, I get to experience those moments of awe like I did in the wildlife refuge. Maybe tomorrow the wheels will fall off the Airstream while we’re towing. I could hit a rock while I’m backing it into our next campsite, I could jackknife, it could be sesame oil all over the floor (vs lentils); our health insurance premiums might skyrocket. There’s a lot worse that could happen.
But right now? We’re “here”, wherever that is. We’re home. Even with all of its eerie resemblance to reality, it’s got truly high highs. It’s all just so much more real, in good and bad ways, than I once believed.
2 responses to “A “Van Life” reality check”
Great write-up with real-life experience mashed up against expectations. Some day you will have your own studio window looking out over your property – a window frame within a structure set in a foundation. Wes will be in the kitchen drying the dishes and staring at the calendar to mark his next adventure guided tour. But there will be a day when a desert breeze will carry that call of the road to remind you of the “freedom” it promises, and hopefully you’ll look out the other window and your faithful Airstream will be quietly grazing in the gravel driveway…and you and Wes will hear it, look at each other, and both call out to each other, “Let’s go!”
Jeff – I read your comment, and made Wes read it, and just have to tell you it made my day. As always, I and we feel grateful to know you. You have a solid spirit, friend – but I don’t need to tell you that. Thank you for bringing that image to life. AND, it’s official: we’ll be in STG in the fall! Booked ourselves back at Hillside just yesterday 🙂 Looking forward to seeing you!! And, you know you will always have an open invite here.