No Signal: Sneak Preview 1

THIS IS NOT THE FINAL VERSION. THIS IS AN UNPROOFED MANUSCRIPT

The following is from the book I wrote about the year I spent living "van life." Enjoy!

LEG ONE

This is not a vacation, this is your life.

That still hadn’t sunk in two days after leaving Portland. I was conditioned by thirty years of working, of time away from “home” being finite; of there being a home to return to.

The van is my home; there is no house, no work, no spouse to return to.

From Portland, I drove to Sequim to visit with my father for two days. He calmed me, reminded me how long I had been studying and preparing for living out of a van. My anxiety diminished only to return as I crossed the Cascades on US 12 and snow started falling at the pass: This is real, this is not following roads on Google Maps, it is just me and whatever abilities I have if I get snowed in or whatever.

I got over the pass and the snow turned to light rain. I thought I had shaken the anxiety off but it returned when I was bouncing down a forest road to check out a potential campsite. The ruts were deep and I could hear the shelf trying to shake itself loose.

Is this really what I want? How long can Pandette survive roads like this?

A mile down the road I found a place to park and eat some food. It took awhile to find what I wanted as nothing was organized. Preparing a meal in the open, I felt exposed; I was used to making and eating food behind walls and a locked door. The experience made me uncomfortable and everything tasted different out in the open. After cleaning up, I packed the van and backtracked down the rough road. My first meal on the road had been awkward and left me feeling vulnerable and uncertain; after dreaming and planning for eight years the reality of vanlife was not feeling comfortable.

The beauty of US 12 west of Yakima distracted me from my doubts as the highway followed a wild river shooting through a rock canyon. East of the Cascades, the rain and the sun brought its warmth from behind the clouds. I drove on toward Frenchman Coulee, Coulee being the term they use in Washington State to describe deep ravines. Frenchman Coulee was a series of deep cuts in the world, all manner of rude and harsh geology. And wind. Lots of wind. I contemplated spending the night there but the gusts were severe enough to rock the van.

I got signal at a turnout next to I-90. The branch of the rental car company I worked at had re-opened but they hadn’t contacted me about coming back to work. Why did I even note that? Why did it bother me a little? I had gotten exactly what I wanted: Freedom to leave Portland for good while collecting Unemployment. The world was falling apart. Uncertainty and fear was around every corner---and possibility.

Driving east from Frenchman Coulee I worked to figure out where to spend the night. Phone signal was spotty so the websites I relied on appeared and vanished like fickle ghosts. After a couple of wrong turns I found a spot at the end of a farm road. It was a simple gravel lot but overlooked a lake. I was overwhelmed by the coarse beauty of the place but there was still anxiety: What if it was a local hangout and I got hassled by drunks looking to party? There weren’t any piles of beer cans or signs of partying which alleviated some of my fear but only some---I kept looking up and down the road next to the campsite, waiting for a lifted pickup full of bored locals to come bouncing along and hassle me.

The sun brought artful shadows. The pinks of sunset left me in awe as I sipped whiskey. It was a beautiful place for the first night in the van. The bed was comfortable but I got cold. Getting out in the middle of the night to urinate I set the car alarm off. It was hardly an auspicious beginning.

From No Signal (C) 2022 Izaak David Diggs