This is a reanimation of the Vicaribus blog as lived by Miro Kazakoff and Ehren Foss in 2004 and 2005. The photos may be spotty.

Squamish

Posted by ehren

In Bellingham we broke camp, it looked like the batteries charged overnight after all (I could go on and on about the weird things the electrical system has been doing, but to sum up "Everything is a little bit broken" can be applied to all bus systems). We went to a supermarket to stock up on food, as Sean had called to say Canadian prices were high and could we pick up a few things? I chatted up the cashier and the guy behind us in line, and managed to give away our fireworks stash (purchased at South of the Border on I-95 by 'Dick Waddums' in December) to a complete stranger, a big Army dude. We gave our firewood away at the RV park that morning as well.

The border crossing was thankfully uneventful. He asked a series of increasingly specific questions (they always do that) which we answered honestly, and then, by God, we were in Canada! How abewt that.

Miro hung out in the main cabin talking on the phone (it's quieter) while I not-so-quietly got lost a few times in Vancouver, which is a sparklingly new and clean looking city with architecture not unlike Hong Kong's (from pictures, anyway). But, we weren't staying, and found the 99N to Squamish.

We met up with Sean and Rana, I bagged rock climbing that afternoon and worked instead (finally, wise moves!), they cooked veggie fajitas for dinner, and we all talked for a while and then went to bed. The Hope Sound fjord is beautiful, the mountains across from us are tall and partially snow capped, and much of the valley is lit by the lights of a paper mill, or power plant, or something which produces enough smoke to improve the sunsets substantially.

In the morning I woke up before 8 to climb the back of The Chief, an imposing thrust of granite, around 1800 feet tall, that looms above the campsite. The hike was short, an hour or a little more, because it went straight up as stairs. I think I was the first person on the summit that morning, and I enjoyed the overcast view for a while before creeping to the edge for a healthy slap of vertigo and a picture of the bus from 1600 feet almost directly above it. On the whole of the hike I was stumbly: These new boots have far more tread, and I guess the way I step the old ones clear obstacles by less than an eigthth of an inch, as now I'm tripping over everything.

I returned around 10, and by 11 we were ready to go rock climbing.

When we arrived the day before and met Sean and Rana, she let a cat out of the bag: Sean was hoping that the climbing would go well enough that I could be convinced to attempt a 6 pitch, 700 foot climb on the sheer granite face of The Chief. I entertained the idea, flattered that he would consider me capable of such a thing, but within seconds of climbing onto a rock face today I rejected any thought of it. I know I'm capable of the climb he described (he knows better than anyone what my physical limits are) but I also know that I would spend all 6 or 8 hours of it in sheer terror and misery, which is, to a greater extent, how most of Sean's trips go. Adrenaline and nerves are not your friend at such times, and I knew it wouldn't take much, 350 feet from the top and bottom, to turn me into a basketcase.

Rock climbing is not my sport. Above all, it is a psychological activity which requries a certain personality or mindset for high performance. When overwhelmed by a difficult patch and my instincts tell me that climbing a rock face is difficult and stupid, I listen and come down, while this would not occur to a rock climber. I understand the logic and safety of the equipment, and though I know it is all trustworthy I do not trust it. I've had enough frustrating experiences rock climbing, perhaps a half dozen, that at this point all I feel on a nontrivial route is frustration, anger, and impending self defeat. Everybody accepts defeat in some regard -- some hate public speaking, some dancing, some swimming -- and I tell you that I hate rock climbing because it has beaten me many times.

Ok, enough excuse-as-exposition, I suck at climbing. Back to the what-we-did.

Sean started us out by selecting an extremely difficult 5-10c that he was only barely able to climb (the rest of us got off the ground, a little bit). We moved over to a different route, and this time everybody made it up save me, which might have something to do with my bitter little rant three paragraphs ago. My foot (wearing Sean's skin-like climbing shoes) slid down into a crack, and that hurt, then it got stuck, and then I kept slipping off the wet rock, and after about 5 or 10 minutes I gave up and came down, really pissed off with myself.

Eventually it started to rain, and persisted just long enough for us to load up the car (with Rana and Miro sharing the weird space beneath the platform Sean built into his Subaru, for lack of a back seat) and head back to camp. After I worked for an hour, Sean and I took a short hike to a spectacular 500 foot waterfall, and sat watching a large family attempt to get a group photo on a small outcropping in the raging creek. It was a half hour's entertainment waiting for one of them to fall in. Nobody did, but there were some spectacular near misses.

So much happens in in any given day, and I go on for such length about it, that it's rare in this forum to step back and talk about what the trip is really like. Miro is driving on I-5 today, so I have some time (Ed. update...now several days later).

It occurred to me just the other day that in 8 weeks we will roll into Wisconsin, which in the late winter doldrums of Arizona and Nevada I somewhat unilaterally declared (during the cold, wet, miserable part of the trip) to be the end of the line for this grand adventure. I mentioned the remaining time to Miro and he was likewise very surprised that far more of the road life was behind us than ahead.

I personally feel that the trip has lost a bit of inertia now that our lives are more smooth. We've learned how to negotiate cities, parks, and countryside alike, and we are well adapted to the rhythms of travel. I'm comfortable working from the road, and I find it very relaxing to remember the big, almost guaranteed software contract which will keep me busy into the fall. In short, there is less adventure. Peaks and valleys are fewer. Life is comfortable. November was a different universe, and now it is June. I'm still living a dream, though it is changing.

It is my way to think about and plan for big changes long before they happen. I thought about how the bus might be built all spring of 2004, took measurements from school buses before I owned one, and tried to anticipate what would be needed on the voyage so as to inform the design. It certainly didn't help at work that I was mentally elsewhere. I thought about the freedom of the open road, and all the places and things to see and do. The danger of thinking too much of future is that the present isn't as well cared for, and it's likely we put too much stock in plans as a remedy to as present uncertainty. Longterm travel takes a heap of energy, but it's important to remember that the best experiences I've had on this voyage occur when we take a few blind steps into the unknown. Innisfree, Koinania, Harbin Hot Springs all fall into that category. The most interesting people we've met are the ones we didn't know before: Alecia in Atascadero, the Kiwi in Houston, Innisfree Tom, our few hitchikers, neighbors at the bar, neighbors at the campgrounds.

The fall is a big puzzle for me, with so many unknowns. I don't know where I will live, or where I will work. I've never (as an adult) lived in a standard, residential apartment, and though it pains me to give up another experience like ADP, Cruftlabs or the bus, perhaps a more conventional life is worth a serious try. It takes up a ton of time to maintain the bus and to find utilities in every new location. Previously it was great fun, but ultimately very consuming, to live in and help convert a warehouse. I'm hoping that with someone else taking care of utilities, I'll have more time to pursue projects I'm far more interested in. The entire world is designed for the way most people live, and there is some advantage to that. The trick will be to live a conventional life in a satisfying way, to always be doing something new, even within the same city. The bus is just one of many ways to overcome my natural inclinations towards routine and sloth.

We were very careful not to call this a "trip" in the beginning, referring to it and thinking about it as simply a new place to live. We "moved out" of Boston and into a mobile house in every city in sequence. Sean asked me how it is that I don't get wrapped up in planning the future. I think it's mostly that there's so much to do and see now, and the life at the moment is so good there's no need for grass-is-greenerism. It feels great to be coming back to society on my own terms.

I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with the bus, but I plan to keep it closeby for weekend use or shorter future voyages. I will not be living in it. Based on what we've found on this trip, the bus can be kept 30 minutes or an hour away from where I'll live with no problem (LA or Manhattan maybe not...).

I started writing this post with a bit more direction, but it's a difficult life to explain, and a wonderful life to live.