Vignettes
Livingston
We exited Interstate 90 on the east side of town. The Absarokas were still wearing their winter white. I rolled down the windows and could feel the katabatic pawing at the air moving past the car as we accelerated, trying to find its way into the cabin. As we hummed over a cattle grid, the wind pushed growing piles of dead brush against a crumbling fence, it’s barbed wire decorated with torn paper and plastic trash streamers. The breeze was fresh, but the sky soft and muted, and the dullish, dun colored light did nothing to emphasize the beauty of the landscape. We had been to Livingston once before, in July, when the summer sun turned every riffle in the Yellowstone into an individual diamond facet and forced us to squint as it danced past, but this was late march and obvious that winter was reluctant to give up the ground it had gained this season. Inching in to town, we passed the Teslow grain elevator, at the time recently spared demolition, a crown of fresh lumber the first sign of its refitting. Downtown stood low slung and sturdy against the wind, and the retro neon’s of The Mint, Murray, and Hiatt House, cast a familiar glow. Trains were stacked up north of Park street, grain hoppers, coal cars, tankers, and graffiti covered boxcars lined up and awaiting orders. I made a quick U-turn west of Gil’s Goods in between a parade of expensive and oversized Chevy and Ford pick-ups, all gleaming tires and chrome grills, and parked in front of the bare bulbed “Bar” marquis at The Murray. Pulling ourselves out of the car, the wind gusted hard, with a sharp edge, reminding us that spring was still not a guarantee. We could faintly hear the clang of couplings and hiss of air brakes as trains were being made up, and slowly moved out of the yard. We swung open the heavy hardwood doors to the warmth of a busy bar. The subdued chatter of the afternoon patrons was accented by polite applause for the young man strumming his Martin guitar, performing a sincere and melancholy version of a Townes Van Zandt song. We sank into our stools as one would a good book, and ordered a round.
A dense belt of fog hung halfway up the wooded hillside, still and sharp, as if someone had quickly and roughly run a pallet knife full of grey acrylic across the trees. I was looking at a small outcropping of the Pacific Coast Range, the sprawling collection of mountains that run from central Mexico all the way up through Canada, and on to Alaska. I was stoned and a bit self-conscious as I stood on the cracked sidewalk, staring. I heard the wind coming through the trees before I felt it, and watched as the band of fog slightly swirled, as if someone had gently run a spoon through it. No one was watching, but the mild paranoia from the Humboldt county pot had me turning heel and heading back towards the cottage before I really wanted to. A light drizzle started dotting the sidewalks as I made my way back the two blocks, and I felt a little claustrophobic as the dull sky darkened even more.
Travel Essays
Escape To Charleston
By Ted Clyde
The “Holy City” never held any religious significance for me. My introduction to Charleston SC was kicking back a couple shots of Grand Marnier at a dingy upstairs bar on King St on a sweltering August afternoon. The humidity was unbearable, the air literally heavy, and the town smelled as if it was in a constant state of mild decay. It was the summer of 2004, I was relatively young, rootless, and feeling restless. Chicago was the only town I’d known as an adult and I was uninspired, faltering in a deep rut of my own making. Things needed to change. So, when an opportunity to live in the low country came up, I jumped at it. It was almost too easy to say goodbye, quit my job, and pack up the car and go. On first impression, I thought Charleston a quirky place with its airline bottles of booze, odd obsession with orange liqueur, and strange swarms of young men in pastel colored, collar-popped polo shirts. “A drinking town with a history problem”, as friends from that time were fond of calling it. The cobbled, cracked sidewalks of King and St. Phillip, Meeting and Market streets, the palm fronds and palmetto bugs were what I became familiar with as I walked for miles around its tiny, damp, and claustrophobic downtown streets.
I knew next to nothing about Charleston when I left to begin what would end up being a three-month sabbatical, just a basic high-school history class grasp of its long, important, and sometimes controversial past. I wasn’t aware then of its race and class divides, its military traditions, or its fertile and influential arts and music scene. How glorious (and ridiculous!) it is to be absolutely ignorant of the world around you! In my naiveté I was able to experience a unique and newfound freedom. I slept on a couch in the living room lease free, for the paltry, all-inclusive sum of two hundred dollars a month. At night I’d lie awake, sweating, and watch palmetto bugs run from one crack in the base board, across the scuffed wooden floor to another crack on the other side of the room. My closest friend and ally, who had invited me to come sleep on the couch, was nice enough to host my pile of clothes and guitar in his room. I had a couple hundred dollars in my bank account, extremely loose leads on work, and time. TIME!. Idle time was something new to me, and it was immediately intoxicating. I was so enamored with this gift that I felt little pangs of guilt about it.
In my defense, it’s a great town for idling, and escape. The south does move slower. It requires, especially in the hottest months, that you slow down. Languid is an often cited adjective, but also an apt one. There’s nothing like drowning in the humid daytime air to make you move a little easier, to use each step, or turn of the head, in the most efficient, and concise way possible. I took advantage of the weather’s imperative, got my mind right, and tried my best to experience the town on its terms. If there was no work, I would walk. If money was low, I would eat and drink less. I would be open to whatever the moment offered. Midnight drives to Savannah or Myrtle Beach, count me in!
I found myself drifting around the margins, quietly strolling through the beautiful campus of College of Charleston, or moving unseen through the throngs of tourists sweating their way through the market, ducking into air conditioned bars to take advantage of the happy hour specials that seemed to be everywhere. When one of my friends had a day off work we would escape out to Folly beach, passing the giant marshlands and brackish waterways, marveling at boats casually tossed far inland from Hugo, Andrew or some other hurricane, their hulls left to blanch in the hot sun. We’d hit the beach with a 12 pack, and then belly up at an ocean front bar till the sun went down, listening to people who lived out there. If I was living my own mini fantasy, they were on another planet, seemingly enjoying a level of irresponsibility I could only dream of. When oysters were in season, we’d drive out to Shem Creek and watch the boats unload the bi-valves by the shovel full, toss them on the grill or flat top, throw a wet burlap sack on top and let them steam. They’d arrive in piles with paper plates, tabasco, saltines, and a never-ending procession of cheap lagers. Through my friend I was introduced to a large circle of acquaintances, none of them from Charleston. All of us were in similar states of in-between, and more than willing to open up and share a little bit more of ourselves. It was like a three-month therapy session with strangers who felt like family, and some would become lifelong confidants.
Downtown was my main haunt, from Spring street to the Battery and East Bay over to Rutledge, I covered the town on foot. It was easy to walk around and there were always interesting undiscovered spaces. I’d stroll into a cemetery with graves dating back to the 1600s, or find myself stumbling into someone’s dense and quiet back garden maze of low-slung stone walls, fountains, and greenery. If I wanted some air I’d head to the battery, then race past Rainbow Row, paying zero attention to the picture taking tourists. For cheap beer I’d stay closer to home, upper King Street and high life’s at AC’s, or a 32-ounce Budweiser and a pack of peanuts from the King Street Market. Eventually I got a job cooking breakfast at a little deli on Market St. I had no cooking experience, but the manager of the place was interested in a drinking buddy more than an employee, and she knew quickly that I would keep quiet about the multiple pints of rum she was consuming daily. I learned to cook eggs well enough to get by, and I kept her confidence, and together we drank the company’s beer after hours in the dark restaurant, or drove out to Isle of Palms in her little red Yugo, and sipped rum from a flask on the beach. She used to wear a scarf when the temperature dropped below 70. For an aspiring drunk, and wannabe artist, it was idyllic.
And, like that, it was over. In mid November I packed up my car and headed back north, lured towards home by creative opportunities, and steady employment. Never had a couple months stretched so long, seemed so short, or left such a lasting impression.
This past February, when I found myself once again yearning to feel those broken stone sidewalks under my feet, I had to give in to the pull. It wasn’t the teeth rattling cold and ice in Chicago, or the slow season for my business, and a need for some time off that had me thinking about Charleston. It was feeling. I was chasing ghosts, retracing my steps back to a past that I’d revisited numerous times in the 15 years since I first pulled into the driveway of the sprawling blue house on Cannon street.
Chicago was frigid when I left to head south, covered in a layer of ice, but I kept telling myself I wasn’t running from the cold. I drove to Nashville, drank beers and listened to music, then headed towards Charleston under a constant drizzle, and steely February skies. I watched the temperature creep up degree by degree and by Summerville I cranked the windows down and let the cool but humid night air flood the interior of the little blue rental car. I was back again, wondering why, and hoping that my visit was motivated by something more concrete than nostalgia.
King Street that rainy Monday morning was strewn with tall plastic garbage and recycling bins. Even in the cool, freshening drizzle I could catch the faint aroma of stale beer and grease traps. I wouldn’t call the new bars, restaurants, and hip niche shops garish, because they occupied the same old buildings and empty store fronts that used to line upper King, keeping a recognizable continuity. The town itself has swelled in the past few years, the food and beverage scene on par with any big city. There’s a brewery “district” now, and the old industrial land adjacent to the closed naval base is a first-rate river front park. As I walked through downtown I tried not to think about the merits of change, the disparities of gentrification, or the dopamine flooding effects of fond memories. Instead I tried to focus on what keeps drawing me back to Charleston. There’s no doubt it’s a charming city, with an ideal climate, great food, and beaches, but I was hoping to reconnect with something more ephemeral. I wouldn’t call Charleston my muse. I don’t expect anything in return when I visit. It’s more of a beacon, drawing me towards it in both good and bad times. A trusted escape destination. At one time, on those old sidewalks, I thought I felt a faint tremor from the big wheel, a psychic reminder of our short and transient existence. So, I walked for hours that day on high alert, trying to ignore nostalgia, and be present and open to whatever those rainy streets had to offer. I can’t say I found what I was looking for, but that’s probably why I’ll keep going back.
By Ted Clyde
The “Holy City” never held any religious significance for me. My introduction to Charleston SC was kicking back a couple shots of Grand Marnier at a dingy upstairs bar on King St on a sweltering August afternoon. The humidity was unbearable, the air literally heavy, and the town smelled as if it was in a constant state of mild decay. It was the summer of 2004, I was relatively young, rootless, and feeling restless. Chicago was the only town I’d known as an adult and I was uninspired, faltering in a deep rut of my own making. Things needed to change. So, when an opportunity to live in the low country came up, I jumped at it. It was almost too easy to say goodbye, quit my job, and pack up the car and go. On first impression, I thought Charleston a quirky place with its airline bottles of booze, odd obsession with orange liqueur, and strange swarms of young men in pastel colored, collar-popped polo shirts. “A drinking town with a history problem”, as friends from that time were fond of calling it. The cobbled, cracked sidewalks of King and St. Phillip, Meeting and Market streets, the palm fronds and palmetto bugs were what I became familiar with as I walked for miles around its tiny, damp, and claustrophobic downtown streets.
I knew next to nothing about Charleston when I left to begin what would end up being a three-month sabbatical, just a basic high-school history class grasp of its long, important, and sometimes controversial past. I wasn’t aware then of its race and class divides, its military traditions, or its fertile and influential arts and music scene. How glorious (and ridiculous!) it is to be absolutely ignorant of the world around you! In my naiveté I was able to experience a unique and newfound freedom. I slept on a couch in the living room lease free, for the paltry, all-inclusive sum of two hundred dollars a month. At night I’d lie awake, sweating, and watch palmetto bugs run from one crack in the base board, across the scuffed wooden floor to another crack on the other side of the room. My closest friend and ally, who had invited me to come sleep on the couch, was nice enough to host my pile of clothes and guitar in his room. I had a couple hundred dollars in my bank account, extremely loose leads on work, and time. TIME!. Idle time was something new to me, and it was immediately intoxicating. I was so enamored with this gift that I felt little pangs of guilt about it.
In my defense, it’s a great town for idling, and escape. The south does move slower. It requires, especially in the hottest months, that you slow down. Languid is an often cited adjective, but also an apt one. There’s nothing like drowning in the humid daytime air to make you move a little easier, to use each step, or turn of the head, in the most efficient, and concise way possible. I took advantage of the weather’s imperative, got my mind right, and tried my best to experience the town on its terms. If there was no work, I would walk. If money was low, I would eat and drink less. I would be open to whatever the moment offered. Midnight drives to Savannah or Myrtle Beach, count me in!
I found myself drifting around the margins, quietly strolling through the beautiful campus of College of Charleston, or moving unseen through the throngs of tourists sweating their way through the market, ducking into air conditioned bars to take advantage of the happy hour specials that seemed to be everywhere. When one of my friends had a day off work we would escape out to Folly beach, passing the giant marshlands and brackish waterways, marveling at boats casually tossed far inland from Hugo, Andrew or some other hurricane, their hulls left to blanch in the hot sun. We’d hit the beach with a 12 pack, and then belly up at an ocean front bar till the sun went down, listening to people who lived out there. If I was living my own mini fantasy, they were on another planet, seemingly enjoying a level of irresponsibility I could only dream of. When oysters were in season, we’d drive out to Shem Creek and watch the boats unload the bi-valves by the shovel full, toss them on the grill or flat top, throw a wet burlap sack on top and let them steam. They’d arrive in piles with paper plates, tabasco, saltines, and a never-ending procession of cheap lagers. Through my friend I was introduced to a large circle of acquaintances, none of them from Charleston. All of us were in similar states of in-between, and more than willing to open up and share a little bit more of ourselves. It was like a three-month therapy session with strangers who felt like family, and some would become lifelong confidants.
Downtown was my main haunt, from Spring street to the Battery and East Bay over to Rutledge, I covered the town on foot. It was easy to walk around and there were always interesting undiscovered spaces. I’d stroll into a cemetery with graves dating back to the 1600s, or find myself stumbling into someone’s dense and quiet back garden maze of low-slung stone walls, fountains, and greenery. If I wanted some air I’d head to the battery, then race past Rainbow Row, paying zero attention to the picture taking tourists. For cheap beer I’d stay closer to home, upper King Street and high life’s at AC’s, or a 32-ounce Budweiser and a pack of peanuts from the King Street Market. Eventually I got a job cooking breakfast at a little deli on Market St. I had no cooking experience, but the manager of the place was interested in a drinking buddy more than an employee, and she knew quickly that I would keep quiet about the multiple pints of rum she was consuming daily. I learned to cook eggs well enough to get by, and I kept her confidence, and together we drank the company’s beer after hours in the dark restaurant, or drove out to Isle of Palms in her little red Yugo, and sipped rum from a flask on the beach. She used to wear a scarf when the temperature dropped below 70. For an aspiring drunk, and wannabe artist, it was idyllic.
And, like that, it was over. In mid November I packed up my car and headed back north, lured towards home by creative opportunities, and steady employment. Never had a couple months stretched so long, seemed so short, or left such a lasting impression.
This past February, when I found myself once again yearning to feel those broken stone sidewalks under my feet, I had to give in to the pull. It wasn’t the teeth rattling cold and ice in Chicago, or the slow season for my business, and a need for some time off that had me thinking about Charleston. It was feeling. I was chasing ghosts, retracing my steps back to a past that I’d revisited numerous times in the 15 years since I first pulled into the driveway of the sprawling blue house on Cannon street.
Chicago was frigid when I left to head south, covered in a layer of ice, but I kept telling myself I wasn’t running from the cold. I drove to Nashville, drank beers and listened to music, then headed towards Charleston under a constant drizzle, and steely February skies. I watched the temperature creep up degree by degree and by Summerville I cranked the windows down and let the cool but humid night air flood the interior of the little blue rental car. I was back again, wondering why, and hoping that my visit was motivated by something more concrete than nostalgia.
King Street that rainy Monday morning was strewn with tall plastic garbage and recycling bins. Even in the cool, freshening drizzle I could catch the faint aroma of stale beer and grease traps. I wouldn’t call the new bars, restaurants, and hip niche shops garish, because they occupied the same old buildings and empty store fronts that used to line upper King, keeping a recognizable continuity. The town itself has swelled in the past few years, the food and beverage scene on par with any big city. There’s a brewery “district” now, and the old industrial land adjacent to the closed naval base is a first-rate river front park. As I walked through downtown I tried not to think about the merits of change, the disparities of gentrification, or the dopamine flooding effects of fond memories. Instead I tried to focus on what keeps drawing me back to Charleston. There’s no doubt it’s a charming city, with an ideal climate, great food, and beaches, but I was hoping to reconnect with something more ephemeral. I wouldn’t call Charleston my muse. I don’t expect anything in return when I visit. It’s more of a beacon, drawing me towards it in both good and bad times. A trusted escape destination. At one time, on those old sidewalks, I thought I felt a faint tremor from the big wheel, a psychic reminder of our short and transient existence. So, I walked for hours that day on high alert, trying to ignore nostalgia, and be present and open to whatever those rainy streets had to offer. I can’t say I found what I was looking for, but that’s probably why I’ll keep going back.
The French Route
By Ted Clyde
A sabbatical in Southwest France takes us out on its sublime back roads, and into the heart of its small villages, where a lively present communes with an ancient past.
Saint-Hilaire was asleep the night my wife and I arrived. There had been a long and hungover train ride from Paris to Toulouse, on which the only respite had been a quick stop in Bordeaux where I’d hunted down a half bottle of white, and a ham and butter baguette to ease my pulsating brain. Then, a confusing minute with the Toulouse public transit system before we found our bus and made it to the airport and our waiting rental car—a peppy Volkswagen diesel hatchback that was a tad nicer than the 20-year-old Toyota pickup I’d been cruising around the states in. Chicago was only three days behind us, but it felt much further as we barreled down the A61 towards Carcassonne, ticking off kilometers, taking in the not-quite-universal road signs, and hoping that our out-of-the-way village would be easy to find in the coming dark.
Down to the curlicue wrought-iron streetlamps that lined the bridge into town, Saint-Hilaire was a postcard of a village; but, as we crossed that bridge into the dark and narrow November streets, we did not yet know its charm, and so apprehensively followed the hand-drawn map we had printed out from the owner of our little country let. We parked the car in the town’s communal lot and made our way to the home of the caretakers who were to let us into our temporary residence. Expecting us at the late hour, theirs was the only light on in town, and they graciously walked us through the damp streets to our 15th century apartment: two small stories of ancient wood beam and drafty stone walls with a small courtyard, and an old wood stove for heat. The caretakers mentioned that they would schedule the chimney sweep to come by the following week.
We were on a semi-spontaneous sabbatical, and had decided on the small village in the Languedoc region because my wife’s grad school professor offered us her place at a generous discount. We wanted to be as far from home as we could for the longest possible duration. Though we had packed in as much research as possible in the two and half months between booking the trip and arriving in southwest France, we didn’t have much of a daily itinerary. Our vague intentions revolved around making art and trying to really BE somewhere without too much of an agenda. We were younger, a new couple, and it was an exciting and impromptu way to attack an experience. But when we realized that first week that we weren’t destined to be the next Baudelaire or Atget, and that we were no longer mired in the hustle of our everyday urban existence, we became a bit unsettled.
The village was small, and November was decidedly off-season, so I did my best to assimilate by showing up at the town’s only bar in the early afternoons when the farmers would come in for their aperitifs of pastis, and the tavern owners would lay out snacks of brie and baguettes or sardines and olives. We shopped daily at the boulangerie and boucherie, and at the little pantry that sold dry goods and beer, and were eventually an accepted curiosity, invite-able to the tavern to watch a big soccer match, or for pot au feu. Saint-Hilaire is known for its 9th-century abbey, where the first sparkling wine was created more than 100 years before Dom Perignon set foot in Champagne. Along with exploring its ancient halls and cemetery, we hiked up into the local co-op vineyards, and through the dairy farmer’s hills and fields, as well as visiting many of the nearby wineries, taking advantage of everything our adopted home had to offer.
Once we felt comfortable in town, we started taking daily drives; they became our meditation, and the unofficial focal point of the trip. The Languedoc region is an ancient place with myriad histories and cultures, and every short venture from our home base became an opportunity to immerse ourselves in a tangible, living past, as a vibrant present still hummed around us. I had my first cassoulet—one of many that I would obsessively go in search of during our stay—in the castle at Carcassonne, a medieval city whose fortifications date to 100 BC, and which has been continually occupied since 450 AD. We enjoyed a private wine tasting (it helps to travel off season) in the Minervois region at Chateau de Gourgazaud, among grand cuvee barrels in an ancient Roman cistern turned cellar. Visiting the market in the medieval town of Mirepoix, the foothills of the Pyrenees visible in the background, we gazed up at 13th-century oak beams, taking in the intricate carvings of faces and animals that had withstood 700-plus years of weather and wear as we sipped slightly chilled red wine and ate steak frites.
This was not supposed to be a road trip, but we found ourselves—even after long evenings sipping pastis at the bar, or huddling around the woodstove with a bottle of sparkling—eager to get out and explore. We would walk through the tight little streets, sometimes joined by neighborhood mutts that roamed the village, to our rental car, and then head out over the old stone bridge floating above the Lauquet river and into the surrounding countryside.
There were straight roads where Roman soldiers once marched, and smooth, narrow blacktop that flanked hectares of barren vineyards, where smoldering vines lay in piles in the middle of their well-defined tracts, billowing soft smoke. Ancient trade routes turned two-lane streets wilted and bent to the land they wove through, snaked alongside rivers, and deposited us in unknown towns. We often consulted a master list of daily markets in the neighboring villages while deciding on destinations. Other times we just picked a direction on the map and started driving, stopping when we got hungry, or following one of the many hand-painted wooden signs that would inevitably lead us up twisted gravel two-tracks, past crouching gnarled evergreens to a small family winery, or fromagerie.
One day, we headed down the 118 to the river town of Quillan on the edge of the Pyrenees in search of the market there. It was full of vendors selling everything from wild boar sausage, duck confit, and delicious little alpine sheep cheeses, to Bruce Springsteen records. We walked through the small downtown amazed at how the old stone houses clung to the banks of the Aude, its waters rushing a few feet under their first-story windows. Then, out by the railroad tracks, we stumbled upon a circus. Tents were being set up, animals in boxcars lounged on straw beds, and down by the tracks, in a small scrubby field, we stared in awe at grazing camels, the foothills behind them aping the outlines of their humps.
For a month we explored the Languedoc and surrounding regions. We went as far north as Nimes and Arles to wonder at the ruins of a Roman coliseum. We headed south, over the mountains and through Andorra to Barcelona, and an evening of Estrella Damms, absinthe, and tapas. But it was the roads around Saint-Hilaire, through the rolling countryside, vineyards and small villages, that were our muse. One evening, coming back from the town of Limoux through the densely forested hills, a bomb-shaped wild boar shot out of the underbrush and ran up the roadside gully, even with my driver-side window. It bared its four-inch tusks, wiry bristles brushing the door, before making a devastatingly quick left back into the forest. We stopped for a minute in the middle of the road, shocked and speechless; then, with a couple of nervous laughs, I put the car into gear, and we slowly made our way back to town.
By Ted Clyde
A sabbatical in Southwest France takes us out on its sublime back roads, and into the heart of its small villages, where a lively present communes with an ancient past.
Saint-Hilaire was asleep the night my wife and I arrived. There had been a long and hungover train ride from Paris to Toulouse, on which the only respite had been a quick stop in Bordeaux where I’d hunted down a half bottle of white, and a ham and butter baguette to ease my pulsating brain. Then, a confusing minute with the Toulouse public transit system before we found our bus and made it to the airport and our waiting rental car—a peppy Volkswagen diesel hatchback that was a tad nicer than the 20-year-old Toyota pickup I’d been cruising around the states in. Chicago was only three days behind us, but it felt much further as we barreled down the A61 towards Carcassonne, ticking off kilometers, taking in the not-quite-universal road signs, and hoping that our out-of-the-way village would be easy to find in the coming dark.
Down to the curlicue wrought-iron streetlamps that lined the bridge into town, Saint-Hilaire was a postcard of a village; but, as we crossed that bridge into the dark and narrow November streets, we did not yet know its charm, and so apprehensively followed the hand-drawn map we had printed out from the owner of our little country let. We parked the car in the town’s communal lot and made our way to the home of the caretakers who were to let us into our temporary residence. Expecting us at the late hour, theirs was the only light on in town, and they graciously walked us through the damp streets to our 15th century apartment: two small stories of ancient wood beam and drafty stone walls with a small courtyard, and an old wood stove for heat. The caretakers mentioned that they would schedule the chimney sweep to come by the following week.
We were on a semi-spontaneous sabbatical, and had decided on the small village in the Languedoc region because my wife’s grad school professor offered us her place at a generous discount. We wanted to be as far from home as we could for the longest possible duration. Though we had packed in as much research as possible in the two and half months between booking the trip and arriving in southwest France, we didn’t have much of a daily itinerary. Our vague intentions revolved around making art and trying to really BE somewhere without too much of an agenda. We were younger, a new couple, and it was an exciting and impromptu way to attack an experience. But when we realized that first week that we weren’t destined to be the next Baudelaire or Atget, and that we were no longer mired in the hustle of our everyday urban existence, we became a bit unsettled.
The village was small, and November was decidedly off-season, so I did my best to assimilate by showing up at the town’s only bar in the early afternoons when the farmers would come in for their aperitifs of pastis, and the tavern owners would lay out snacks of brie and baguettes or sardines and olives. We shopped daily at the boulangerie and boucherie, and at the little pantry that sold dry goods and beer, and were eventually an accepted curiosity, invite-able to the tavern to watch a big soccer match, or for pot au feu. Saint-Hilaire is known for its 9th-century abbey, where the first sparkling wine was created more than 100 years before Dom Perignon set foot in Champagne. Along with exploring its ancient halls and cemetery, we hiked up into the local co-op vineyards, and through the dairy farmer’s hills and fields, as well as visiting many of the nearby wineries, taking advantage of everything our adopted home had to offer.
Once we felt comfortable in town, we started taking daily drives; they became our meditation, and the unofficial focal point of the trip. The Languedoc region is an ancient place with myriad histories and cultures, and every short venture from our home base became an opportunity to immerse ourselves in a tangible, living past, as a vibrant present still hummed around us. I had my first cassoulet—one of many that I would obsessively go in search of during our stay—in the castle at Carcassonne, a medieval city whose fortifications date to 100 BC, and which has been continually occupied since 450 AD. We enjoyed a private wine tasting (it helps to travel off season) in the Minervois region at Chateau de Gourgazaud, among grand cuvee barrels in an ancient Roman cistern turned cellar. Visiting the market in the medieval town of Mirepoix, the foothills of the Pyrenees visible in the background, we gazed up at 13th-century oak beams, taking in the intricate carvings of faces and animals that had withstood 700-plus years of weather and wear as we sipped slightly chilled red wine and ate steak frites.
This was not supposed to be a road trip, but we found ourselves—even after long evenings sipping pastis at the bar, or huddling around the woodstove with a bottle of sparkling—eager to get out and explore. We would walk through the tight little streets, sometimes joined by neighborhood mutts that roamed the village, to our rental car, and then head out over the old stone bridge floating above the Lauquet river and into the surrounding countryside.
There were straight roads where Roman soldiers once marched, and smooth, narrow blacktop that flanked hectares of barren vineyards, where smoldering vines lay in piles in the middle of their well-defined tracts, billowing soft smoke. Ancient trade routes turned two-lane streets wilted and bent to the land they wove through, snaked alongside rivers, and deposited us in unknown towns. We often consulted a master list of daily markets in the neighboring villages while deciding on destinations. Other times we just picked a direction on the map and started driving, stopping when we got hungry, or following one of the many hand-painted wooden signs that would inevitably lead us up twisted gravel two-tracks, past crouching gnarled evergreens to a small family winery, or fromagerie.
One day, we headed down the 118 to the river town of Quillan on the edge of the Pyrenees in search of the market there. It was full of vendors selling everything from wild boar sausage, duck confit, and delicious little alpine sheep cheeses, to Bruce Springsteen records. We walked through the small downtown amazed at how the old stone houses clung to the banks of the Aude, its waters rushing a few feet under their first-story windows. Then, out by the railroad tracks, we stumbled upon a circus. Tents were being set up, animals in boxcars lounged on straw beds, and down by the tracks, in a small scrubby field, we stared in awe at grazing camels, the foothills behind them aping the outlines of their humps.
For a month we explored the Languedoc and surrounding regions. We went as far north as Nimes and Arles to wonder at the ruins of a Roman coliseum. We headed south, over the mountains and through Andorra to Barcelona, and an evening of Estrella Damms, absinthe, and tapas. But it was the roads around Saint-Hilaire, through the rolling countryside, vineyards and small villages, that were our muse. One evening, coming back from the town of Limoux through the densely forested hills, a bomb-shaped wild boar shot out of the underbrush and ran up the roadside gully, even with my driver-side window. It bared its four-inch tusks, wiry bristles brushing the door, before making a devastatingly quick left back into the forest. We stopped for a minute in the middle of the road, shocked and speechless; then, with a couple of nervous laughs, I put the car into gear, and we slowly made our way back to town.
History of the American Nomad
By Ted Clyde
Yes, there was an America before hashtags, Instagram, Facebook and Twitter, and the instant gratification of a “like, or a “view”. Still people were out there anyway, traveling the backroads, interstates and rails of our big chunk of North America-and not posting about it every 30 minutes. In a time before technology enabled us to work from spectacularly remote and beautiful places, and look good doing it, many people still chose a less sedentary lifestyle. Today we’re surrounded by people quietly living and working on the road; truckers, artists, oil workers, freelancers, rail workers, and musicians are just a few examples of modern folk who live a semi nomadic existence, some for money, some for the love of it. Perhaps wanderlust is in our genes. Nomadic cultures exist across the globe both historically and in the present, and most of the time there’s nothing glamorous about the lifestyle, and a lot of the time it’s not a choice. So why then, in this modern age, do some of us choose to hold on a little less tightly to the firmament?
We’re descendants of political and religious discontents yearning for their own personal brand of freedom, and in that way we haven’t changed much. Today a lot of us use the idea of personal brand literally. At the base level of our nomadic selves is a freedom of spirit that is much older and more deeply engrained than a #vanlife post can accurately portray. It is connected to the American landscape, the vision of our founders, our fondness for legend, and the indigenous culture that was here before us. Many of the native peoples were nomadic to some extent, and the greatest nomadic culture in North America grew up around the buffalo’s seasonal migration across the plains. Today, our major interstates, which Larry McMurtry, in his excellent book “Roads”, compares to the great rivers of 19th century exploration, follow the paths of mountain men, 49er’s, cowboys, and pioneers, the people who showed us the best way to cross the mountains and deserts, and opened the west to settlement. With them they brought the daring and consequential ideology of Manifest Destiny, which changed the landscape and the people upon it. In that respect ours is also a land of forced migration and displacement. A 10,000-year-old native culture as decimated in less than a century of westward expansion, and kept men forced from their native lands in chains for almost 400 years.
While it hasn’t always been an endearing story, it’s one that links us to a history of movement, a will to explore, endure, and adapt to create a little slice of personal happiness. Living on the road is becoming an accessible choice, a movement even, but not one solely based upon our tech obsessed hashtag culture. The roots of our rootlessness run deep.
Let's take a brief look at some iconic American travelers; a little peak at the inspiration and iconography that has come to define and symbolize the freedom of the road.
The Pioneers
If you were a kid in the 80’s you probably remember the Oregon Trail video game. You were responsible for getting your family, in their covered Conestoga wagon, safely across the plains from Missouri to the Pacific Northwest’s Willamette Valley without dying of dysentery, cholera, or some other 19th century scourge. If you’re too young for that, you’ve probably seen some hip kid with the crude green “John Has Dysentery” 8-bit graphics on a t-shirt. These were the first regular American citizens to try their luck out west. The first four-wheeled vehicles, pulled by oxen, meandered their way across the plains starting in the late 1830’s. Originally laid by fur traders and mountain men, the Oregon Trail took the wagon trains four to six months to complete, and they were often hampered by disease, weather, and the threat of Native attack. Today, two to three days of hard driving can get you across the same route. If you’re ever out on Interstates 80 or 84 keep your eyes peeled for the little covered wagon triangle signs that show you’re on or near the site of the original historic trail route.
Hobos and The Dust Bowl Migration
The most iconic, and maybe misunderstood, American nomad is probably the Hobo. In many minds the hobo character is a happy go lucky drunk content to while away their time with a can of beans and a bottle of wine, happily moving from place to place wherever whim takes them. That is, however, not an accurate portrait. The hobo grew up with the railroads, and unlike tramps and bums, was a worker, moving from job to job where laborers were needed. They may have been field workers following harvests, itinerant laborers, or folks that rode the rails from city to city finding work in the industrial hubs. Though hobos probably first appeared on the landscape at the end of the 19th century, they are most commonly associated with the depression era and the dustbowl migration. Men started riding the rails en masse when the over farmed and under nourished fields of Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Kansas dried up, and the economy crashed. It was a modern forced migration, and the rumors of work sent families west, streaming into California’s central valley, and scattered men out on the spider web of rails, looking for work and trying to survive. During this time the vilification of migrant workers changed the public perception of the hobo, and the name has never rebounded into good standing. Today there’s still a modern contingent of rail riders, hobbyists and lifers alike, out there leaving their monikers and symbols on the trains and near the rail yards for any curious traveler to find. If you’re looking for the true spirit of the American Hobo, head out to Britt Iowa in early August for their annual Hobo Days. Since 1900 they’ve been celebrating the traditions, romantic heyday, and current culture of our rail-riding forbears with music, poetry, and a coronation ceremony.
The Beats
For a moment let's put aside the misogyny and machismo, drug taking, existentialism, and literary value of the beat movement, and look upon it one dimensionally. People may have been driving around the country before Jack and Neal, but with the publication of On The Road in 1957, Kerouac immortalized the modern American road trip. Like many generations of teenagers, I picked up a copy and became entranced by the rhythm of the language, the names of roads and towns, the sex and drugs, and the commitment to a new ideal. I followed in Sal’s (Jack’s) footsteps heading west toward Denver out of Chicago at a young age, making a big deal of crossing the Mississippi, like a sailor crossing the equator for the first time. Driving through a deserted Council Bluffs at midnight, and then on through the day long ride of Nebraska, I stopped in the truck stops and diners along route 80, listening for dialects and drawls, trying to learn about the West. Of course the America Jack and Neal traveled in was not the same as I was seeing 50 years later, and in the martini bars and clubs of Denver’s newly gentrified LoDo, I couldn’t find a trace of the wine sodden skid row, or its inhabitants that Jack found in 1948. Still the speed and the pace of the writing seemed to mesh perfectly with our streamlined interstate system, and the overwhelming energy and spirit of the book, all of Kerouac’s highs and lows, were still stamped on the landscape. Trucks were slamming across the plains, tramps were thumbing for rides, and the sky was still wide and open. The enduring contribution from the beats is that there’s another way to live; this idea of freedom of expression and movement still permeates the road culture today.
Hippies/Counter Culture/Dead Heads
The image my mind conjures when I think about traveling in a vehicle across America is the Volkswagen Van. I wouldn’t be too keen on piloting a 50-year-old microbus across the country now, but I applaud the people who do, and I love seeing them on the road. I got into the Grateful Dead in high school. I am not ashamed of that. Their music forced me to look backwards and turned me on to the roots of American music, and to the ideas of the counterculture, and the cult of California. The hippie movement exploded out of California on the backs of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, and through the speakers and instruments of the psychedelic music scene. When Neal Cassady got behind the wheel of the Day-Glo painted bus Furthur in 1964 to travel from Oregon to New York, two generations of sub-culture came together and drove their experimental and inflammatory ideas right through the heartland of America. It was the most epic, of epic road trips. And then there were the Dead Heads. A group of super fans that chose to follow the band, living out of old school buses and VW vans, they created a whole community and even economy that revolved around the Grateful Dead’s tour schedule. Some managed to stay on the road for almost 30 years, and even after Jerry Garcia’s death the scene kept evolving and changing to accommodate people who wanted to keep traveling. For a beginner, it was the perfect way to dip a toe into a nomadic existence. All you had to do was take a few days off, travel with the tribe for a couple of shows, and you could get a little taste of what that world was like.
Family Vacation
The family vacation is an institution, and for many of us an introduction to the road. It looms large in our collective conscience and has been honored, satirized, and celebrated in every medium. I draw inspiration from the memories of those early road trips, not just the “are we there yets” from bratty backseat siblings, but the first feeling of true idleness, where my mind could roam, and the feeling of dislocation took me outside my comfort zone. One of my first road memories is of waking up in the front seat of my Grandfathers big boat of a car, probably a Lincoln or Cadillac. I was sitting in the middle of the long velvety front seat, no seatbelt on, one of my Uncles to the right and my Grandfather at the wheel, cigarette smoke streaming out the cracked window. It was pitch black out as we rolled through the north woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota, headed up to Canada to fish. I remember the soft blue-green glow of the dash lights, and AM radio from Chicago coming out of the speakers, astonished we were still receiving it so far from home. I remember the moment before anyone knew I was awake, and it was just me, alone in that time and space, completely untethered, floating along in that big, slowly rocking boat of a car. I’m still chasing that feeling.
Crust Punks/Train Riders/Tramps
The most resilient of our traveling contemporaries, this band of fringe dwellers, by choice, or not, are out on the road hopping freights, squatting in abandoned buildings, or sleeping in the dust all over the country right now. The look and style, patched up vests, beat up guitars, skinny canine companions and dirty hair may have come from the late 80’s sub-genre of punk rock that emigrated from the UK and found itself in the basements and DIY venues of Americas punk communities, but it may no longer reflect the loose socio-political ideology of the music. These travelers might be out there to practice some sort of anti-societal rebellious act, for the pure freedom of the road, or because sleeping in the dirt and dumpster diving for food is their best option. I met a few road kids while spending some time in Humboldt County a few years back. They had the classic look of the urban punks I knew, but were perfectly comfortable hanging out in the square in Arcata with the drum-circling hippies, college kids, and grey bearded, longhaired leftovers from the 60’s. We shared a joint as some Humboldt State kids with out of tune guitars tried to learn songs around us. The whole scene in the square was one of total aloofness. It was interesting to flirt with the fringe for that afternoon and feel that insulation from the influence of mainstream culture. It must not be an easy way to live, and it forced me to reconsider assumptions about what constitutes a fulfilling life.
RVer’s/Snowbirds
If you’re like me and grew up tent camping, RV’s were a completely different, and almost magical world. I remember walking back to the tent site at dusk, through the RV section, sneaking peaks in windows and through open doors, trying to get a sense of how the other half lived. As a youngster, growing up in a sprawling strip mall of a suburb, I yearned to escape to the outdoors, and sleeping outside, in a tent, or just under the stars was the apex of that experience. I would be a liar, however, if I didn’t admit that after a long day of hiking the alpine lakes of Rocky Mountain National Park, or scurrying up and down the sandstone canyons of Starved Rock State Park, that I would have enjoyed a rerun of Seinfeld or a microwave. You can trace the origin of RV’s in the form of travel trailers all the way back to the early 1900’s, but the modern home on wheels we are most familiar with sprang to life in the 50’s with the post war economic boom. At their most luxurious, a big RV can be a completely autonomous freewheeling dwelling, able to “boondock” for at least a couple days. In Richard Grant’s superb BBC documentary (and novel of the same name), “American Nomads”, he travels to Quartzite, Arizona to talk with a large subset of the RV community, the Snowbirds. Grant describes Snowbirds as mostly elderly and affluent folks who traded a sedentary retirement to follow the seasons in their often spectacularly decked out motor homes. Full timers, like the Snowbirds, are a truly nomadic tribe, and an example of a type of freedom that most of us with a wandering bent can relate to.
By Ted Clyde
Yes, there was an America before hashtags, Instagram, Facebook and Twitter, and the instant gratification of a “like, or a “view”. Still people were out there anyway, traveling the backroads, interstates and rails of our big chunk of North America-and not posting about it every 30 minutes. In a time before technology enabled us to work from spectacularly remote and beautiful places, and look good doing it, many people still chose a less sedentary lifestyle. Today we’re surrounded by people quietly living and working on the road; truckers, artists, oil workers, freelancers, rail workers, and musicians are just a few examples of modern folk who live a semi nomadic existence, some for money, some for the love of it. Perhaps wanderlust is in our genes. Nomadic cultures exist across the globe both historically and in the present, and most of the time there’s nothing glamorous about the lifestyle, and a lot of the time it’s not a choice. So why then, in this modern age, do some of us choose to hold on a little less tightly to the firmament?
We’re descendants of political and religious discontents yearning for their own personal brand of freedom, and in that way we haven’t changed much. Today a lot of us use the idea of personal brand literally. At the base level of our nomadic selves is a freedom of spirit that is much older and more deeply engrained than a #vanlife post can accurately portray. It is connected to the American landscape, the vision of our founders, our fondness for legend, and the indigenous culture that was here before us. Many of the native peoples were nomadic to some extent, and the greatest nomadic culture in North America grew up around the buffalo’s seasonal migration across the plains. Today, our major interstates, which Larry McMurtry, in his excellent book “Roads”, compares to the great rivers of 19th century exploration, follow the paths of mountain men, 49er’s, cowboys, and pioneers, the people who showed us the best way to cross the mountains and deserts, and opened the west to settlement. With them they brought the daring and consequential ideology of Manifest Destiny, which changed the landscape and the people upon it. In that respect ours is also a land of forced migration and displacement. A 10,000-year-old native culture as decimated in less than a century of westward expansion, and kept men forced from their native lands in chains for almost 400 years.
While it hasn’t always been an endearing story, it’s one that links us to a history of movement, a will to explore, endure, and adapt to create a little slice of personal happiness. Living on the road is becoming an accessible choice, a movement even, but not one solely based upon our tech obsessed hashtag culture. The roots of our rootlessness run deep.
Let's take a brief look at some iconic American travelers; a little peak at the inspiration and iconography that has come to define and symbolize the freedom of the road.
The Pioneers
If you were a kid in the 80’s you probably remember the Oregon Trail video game. You were responsible for getting your family, in their covered Conestoga wagon, safely across the plains from Missouri to the Pacific Northwest’s Willamette Valley without dying of dysentery, cholera, or some other 19th century scourge. If you’re too young for that, you’ve probably seen some hip kid with the crude green “John Has Dysentery” 8-bit graphics on a t-shirt. These were the first regular American citizens to try their luck out west. The first four-wheeled vehicles, pulled by oxen, meandered their way across the plains starting in the late 1830’s. Originally laid by fur traders and mountain men, the Oregon Trail took the wagon trains four to six months to complete, and they were often hampered by disease, weather, and the threat of Native attack. Today, two to three days of hard driving can get you across the same route. If you’re ever out on Interstates 80 or 84 keep your eyes peeled for the little covered wagon triangle signs that show you’re on or near the site of the original historic trail route.
Hobos and The Dust Bowl Migration
The most iconic, and maybe misunderstood, American nomad is probably the Hobo. In many minds the hobo character is a happy go lucky drunk content to while away their time with a can of beans and a bottle of wine, happily moving from place to place wherever whim takes them. That is, however, not an accurate portrait. The hobo grew up with the railroads, and unlike tramps and bums, was a worker, moving from job to job where laborers were needed. They may have been field workers following harvests, itinerant laborers, or folks that rode the rails from city to city finding work in the industrial hubs. Though hobos probably first appeared on the landscape at the end of the 19th century, they are most commonly associated with the depression era and the dustbowl migration. Men started riding the rails en masse when the over farmed and under nourished fields of Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Kansas dried up, and the economy crashed. It was a modern forced migration, and the rumors of work sent families west, streaming into California’s central valley, and scattered men out on the spider web of rails, looking for work and trying to survive. During this time the vilification of migrant workers changed the public perception of the hobo, and the name has never rebounded into good standing. Today there’s still a modern contingent of rail riders, hobbyists and lifers alike, out there leaving their monikers and symbols on the trains and near the rail yards for any curious traveler to find. If you’re looking for the true spirit of the American Hobo, head out to Britt Iowa in early August for their annual Hobo Days. Since 1900 they’ve been celebrating the traditions, romantic heyday, and current culture of our rail-riding forbears with music, poetry, and a coronation ceremony.
The Beats
For a moment let's put aside the misogyny and machismo, drug taking, existentialism, and literary value of the beat movement, and look upon it one dimensionally. People may have been driving around the country before Jack and Neal, but with the publication of On The Road in 1957, Kerouac immortalized the modern American road trip. Like many generations of teenagers, I picked up a copy and became entranced by the rhythm of the language, the names of roads and towns, the sex and drugs, and the commitment to a new ideal. I followed in Sal’s (Jack’s) footsteps heading west toward Denver out of Chicago at a young age, making a big deal of crossing the Mississippi, like a sailor crossing the equator for the first time. Driving through a deserted Council Bluffs at midnight, and then on through the day long ride of Nebraska, I stopped in the truck stops and diners along route 80, listening for dialects and drawls, trying to learn about the West. Of course the America Jack and Neal traveled in was not the same as I was seeing 50 years later, and in the martini bars and clubs of Denver’s newly gentrified LoDo, I couldn’t find a trace of the wine sodden skid row, or its inhabitants that Jack found in 1948. Still the speed and the pace of the writing seemed to mesh perfectly with our streamlined interstate system, and the overwhelming energy and spirit of the book, all of Kerouac’s highs and lows, were still stamped on the landscape. Trucks were slamming across the plains, tramps were thumbing for rides, and the sky was still wide and open. The enduring contribution from the beats is that there’s another way to live; this idea of freedom of expression and movement still permeates the road culture today.
Hippies/Counter Culture/Dead Heads
The image my mind conjures when I think about traveling in a vehicle across America is the Volkswagen Van. I wouldn’t be too keen on piloting a 50-year-old microbus across the country now, but I applaud the people who do, and I love seeing them on the road. I got into the Grateful Dead in high school. I am not ashamed of that. Their music forced me to look backwards and turned me on to the roots of American music, and to the ideas of the counterculture, and the cult of California. The hippie movement exploded out of California on the backs of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, and through the speakers and instruments of the psychedelic music scene. When Neal Cassady got behind the wheel of the Day-Glo painted bus Furthur in 1964 to travel from Oregon to New York, two generations of sub-culture came together and drove their experimental and inflammatory ideas right through the heartland of America. It was the most epic, of epic road trips. And then there were the Dead Heads. A group of super fans that chose to follow the band, living out of old school buses and VW vans, they created a whole community and even economy that revolved around the Grateful Dead’s tour schedule. Some managed to stay on the road for almost 30 years, and even after Jerry Garcia’s death the scene kept evolving and changing to accommodate people who wanted to keep traveling. For a beginner, it was the perfect way to dip a toe into a nomadic existence. All you had to do was take a few days off, travel with the tribe for a couple of shows, and you could get a little taste of what that world was like.
Family Vacation
The family vacation is an institution, and for many of us an introduction to the road. It looms large in our collective conscience and has been honored, satirized, and celebrated in every medium. I draw inspiration from the memories of those early road trips, not just the “are we there yets” from bratty backseat siblings, but the first feeling of true idleness, where my mind could roam, and the feeling of dislocation took me outside my comfort zone. One of my first road memories is of waking up in the front seat of my Grandfathers big boat of a car, probably a Lincoln or Cadillac. I was sitting in the middle of the long velvety front seat, no seatbelt on, one of my Uncles to the right and my Grandfather at the wheel, cigarette smoke streaming out the cracked window. It was pitch black out as we rolled through the north woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota, headed up to Canada to fish. I remember the soft blue-green glow of the dash lights, and AM radio from Chicago coming out of the speakers, astonished we were still receiving it so far from home. I remember the moment before anyone knew I was awake, and it was just me, alone in that time and space, completely untethered, floating along in that big, slowly rocking boat of a car. I’m still chasing that feeling.
Crust Punks/Train Riders/Tramps
The most resilient of our traveling contemporaries, this band of fringe dwellers, by choice, or not, are out on the road hopping freights, squatting in abandoned buildings, or sleeping in the dust all over the country right now. The look and style, patched up vests, beat up guitars, skinny canine companions and dirty hair may have come from the late 80’s sub-genre of punk rock that emigrated from the UK and found itself in the basements and DIY venues of Americas punk communities, but it may no longer reflect the loose socio-political ideology of the music. These travelers might be out there to practice some sort of anti-societal rebellious act, for the pure freedom of the road, or because sleeping in the dirt and dumpster diving for food is their best option. I met a few road kids while spending some time in Humboldt County a few years back. They had the classic look of the urban punks I knew, but were perfectly comfortable hanging out in the square in Arcata with the drum-circling hippies, college kids, and grey bearded, longhaired leftovers from the 60’s. We shared a joint as some Humboldt State kids with out of tune guitars tried to learn songs around us. The whole scene in the square was one of total aloofness. It was interesting to flirt with the fringe for that afternoon and feel that insulation from the influence of mainstream culture. It must not be an easy way to live, and it forced me to reconsider assumptions about what constitutes a fulfilling life.
RVer’s/Snowbirds
If you’re like me and grew up tent camping, RV’s were a completely different, and almost magical world. I remember walking back to the tent site at dusk, through the RV section, sneaking peaks in windows and through open doors, trying to get a sense of how the other half lived. As a youngster, growing up in a sprawling strip mall of a suburb, I yearned to escape to the outdoors, and sleeping outside, in a tent, or just under the stars was the apex of that experience. I would be a liar, however, if I didn’t admit that after a long day of hiking the alpine lakes of Rocky Mountain National Park, or scurrying up and down the sandstone canyons of Starved Rock State Park, that I would have enjoyed a rerun of Seinfeld or a microwave. You can trace the origin of RV’s in the form of travel trailers all the way back to the early 1900’s, but the modern home on wheels we are most familiar with sprang to life in the 50’s with the post war economic boom. At their most luxurious, a big RV can be a completely autonomous freewheeling dwelling, able to “boondock” for at least a couple days. In Richard Grant’s superb BBC documentary (and novel of the same name), “American Nomads”, he travels to Quartzite, Arizona to talk with a large subset of the RV community, the Snowbirds. Grant describes Snowbirds as mostly elderly and affluent folks who traded a sedentary retirement to follow the seasons in their often spectacularly decked out motor homes. Full timers, like the Snowbirds, are a truly nomadic tribe, and an example of a type of freedom that most of us with a wandering bent can relate to.
A Car Doing a Van’s Job
By Ted Clyde
Why didn’t we buy a van? Those words had come to mind often as they often did, in the light of morning, as I shifted our winter gear, art supplies, and a growing pile of trip debris around the trunk of our 12-year-old VW Jetta. This was my daily attempt at cramming our two personal bags back into the trunk, alongside the all-important “car bar” (one bottle of cheap vodka, mid-grade whiskey. Sweet vermouth. And bitters-our remedy for car fatigue after long trips.
Within reach of our seats, the snack bag was now heavy with half full bags of trail mix nd jerky, empty raisin boxes, moldering motel breakfast fruit, and a slightly bloated container or two of warm yogurt. The backseat also held the computer bag, the nice camera, a beach hat, pillows, towels, a road atlas, and easy access footwear.
As I looked at the haphazard mess we’d been carting around for over 7,000 miles, I let my mind drift. I pictured our fantasy van, a clean and organized high top with the junk from our backseat and trunk stowed neatly under the bed. I saw space for books, a fridge, and a little wooden garbage bin tucked behind the front seat. Those thoughts scattered as I swung into the driver’s seat, kicked an empty Gatorade bottle out of the way, and let my right hip settle perfectly on top of a popped seat coil.
I should have been done fantasizing about the van that far along in the trip. We’d been on the road for a month and a half, and the van idea was one of the first things to go when planning began. My wife, Rebecca, and I were conscious of our budget and how far it would take us, and the van would have left us house poor, severely diminishing the range of our trip. We had a couple months before Rebecca had to return from her teaching sabbatical and we wanted to really use them. My dream of a shining Rocinante parked between stately redwoods, or deep in the canyons of Utah would stay just that. So we put a couple hundred dollars into the Jetta, adjusted our expectations, and silently hoped the car would die around people.
The Jetta didn’t die. With a minor case of the shakes at high speeds, the only maintenance it required was a quick wheel balancing on a stopover in Missoula MT. That’s it. Through thirteen states, 2 provinces, and over 8,000 miles of road, our little car ran like a champ, and along with an assortment of cheap motels and guest bedrooms, became our home.
From our home in Chicago, we headed west and then north, leaving spring in our rearview, and embraced the roadside motel as we would have any campground. Near Casper Wyoming we caught up with winter. The blowing snow, and slow grade of the continental divide put the Jetta through its paces. We arrived in a snowy Yellowstone after a brief stop in Livingston Montana, where we drank strong coffee and looked for the ghost of Jim Harrison at the Murray Hotel bar, the hulking Absaroka range ever present. Yellowstone in April is still quiet and cold, and because of an especially snowy winter only 50 miles of road were open. We weren’t able to get to Old Faithful or some of the other iconic sights, but we did stumble upon some wildlife spotters with scopes focused on a kill sight; although we saw no major predator, the thought of a hungry spring bear following its nose to its first meal of the season kept our curiosity piqued.
We headed west to Missoula where we fixed the shakes on the car and spent two nights with old friends who had recently relocated there. Rebecca and I were secretly hunting for possible spots to move to, and our time in Missoula put it high on the list. Our friends took us around town, and a day of brewery hopping turned into a night of bourbon drinking. On the walk home from the bar we ran into a family of deer on the late-night streets. Rebecca and I stared as they silently passed, single file, our friends giddily pointing them out. We weren’t in the city anymore and we liked it.
We headed north to an empty and frozen Glacier NP. Being proud owners of a National Park Pass, we were quietly miffed there was no ranger at the gate to show it to. The few miles of open road lead us to a shuttered Lake McDonald Lodge, and we spent the afternoon wandering and photographing one of America’s busiest parks at its emptiest.
At the Canadian border in Roosville, we surrendered an old canister of pepper spray to the Crown while watching big horn sheep quietly munch grass on the other side of the parking lot. The dramatic peaks of the Canadian Rockies ushered in a whole new level of winter, and the endless snow showers and grey days were starting to wear on us. I was constantly concerned with driving conditions, and access to parks and points of interest were limited, leaving us not only cold, but frustrated as well. At Lake Louise, instead of joining Rebecca for a wintery trek, I sat at the bar at the Fairmont sipping a Caesar and nursing my ego, trying hard to appreciate the winter wonderland out the window. When I was done sulking, we came down the mountains and into the verdant green of the Fraser Valley. The change in color scheme buoyed our spirits as we pushed south into the states and the temperate climate of the coast.
In Astoria, Oregon, running from rain clouds, we explored shipwrecks and watched freighters, awaiting orders, stack up on the Columbia. Like a lot of other small American cities Astoria seemed to be looking for that balance between working port town with an industrial past, and the service-based tourist economy that is the future. I appreciated the duality and was as comfortable in the local brewery and distillery as I was in the blue-collar fisherman bars.
By now the car was starting to become a trip museum. Reach into any crevice and you could pull out evidence of the road. National Park brochures, gift shop trinkets, and pieces of driftwood mingled with the empty coffee cups and granola bar wrappers. We headed south to California and a respite from the road- A little trip within the trip. A good friend had offered us the guest bedroom in her cottage in Sebastopol CA, and we planned on settling there for a couple of weeks to work on art and music. Rebecca set up a little studio in the bedroom and explored a new photo series. I was feeling uninspired and restless, and took advantage of our proximity to good wine, wasting lazy days with a bottle on the porch. Trips to the ocean around Bodega Bay, and slow meanders through the winding roads of the Russian River Valley put us in a good groove, and we headed south with a trunk full of wine, our heads in a NorCal state of mind.
Yosemite was drowning as spring runoff sent the Merced careening wildly down the valley, ready to burst its boulder-strewn banks at any moment. The park was packed, and the traffic and sheer number of people set us on edge. We made the turn east, tipped our hats toward home and headed to Utah.
At Zion National Park we met Rebecca’s mother and sister and found the canyon in full bloom. The view from the back patio of the hotel was almost as spectacular as the park, and we enjoyed drinks around the outdoor fire pits, applauding ourselves for the foresight of the car bar, as Utah’s liquor laws left options limited.
Climbing out of Zion with sheer drop off on our left, we set our sights on Bryce and its surreal hoodoos. The park was socked in with fog, and while I was complacent with watching the clouds swirl around the rock formations, Rebecca was disappointed and went slogging through the sticky red mud looking for a good shot that would ultimately prove to elude her. The rocks from roadside gem stands began to mix with their ocean counterparts in the doors and cup holders of the Jetta as we barreled along the empty roads and mountain passes of the Escalante National Monument. We headed east towards Colorado, the red rock spread out everywhere before us.
The bright morning sun was beginning to warm the newly paved parking lot of the Cortez Colorado Econo-Lodge as I wedged Rebecca’s suitcase between cases of wine and winter coats, the trunk straining against it load. We had visited the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde National Park the day before. Mesa Verde is the only National Park dedicated to the works of man, and as my wife and I stood in the eight-hundred-year old residence called Balcony House, perched precariously 600 feet above the Soda Canyon floor, we felt good. Though my fear of heights was causing sweat to pool in my palms, and my eyes felt loose in their sockets, we were finding our footing, and the trip was finally coming together. Six weeks of travel behind us, and we had found our road groove. It was almost time to go home.
By Ted Clyde
Why didn’t we buy a van? Those words had come to mind often as they often did, in the light of morning, as I shifted our winter gear, art supplies, and a growing pile of trip debris around the trunk of our 12-year-old VW Jetta. This was my daily attempt at cramming our two personal bags back into the trunk, alongside the all-important “car bar” (one bottle of cheap vodka, mid-grade whiskey. Sweet vermouth. And bitters-our remedy for car fatigue after long trips.
Within reach of our seats, the snack bag was now heavy with half full bags of trail mix nd jerky, empty raisin boxes, moldering motel breakfast fruit, and a slightly bloated container or two of warm yogurt. The backseat also held the computer bag, the nice camera, a beach hat, pillows, towels, a road atlas, and easy access footwear.
As I looked at the haphazard mess we’d been carting around for over 7,000 miles, I let my mind drift. I pictured our fantasy van, a clean and organized high top with the junk from our backseat and trunk stowed neatly under the bed. I saw space for books, a fridge, and a little wooden garbage bin tucked behind the front seat. Those thoughts scattered as I swung into the driver’s seat, kicked an empty Gatorade bottle out of the way, and let my right hip settle perfectly on top of a popped seat coil.
I should have been done fantasizing about the van that far along in the trip. We’d been on the road for a month and a half, and the van idea was one of the first things to go when planning began. My wife, Rebecca, and I were conscious of our budget and how far it would take us, and the van would have left us house poor, severely diminishing the range of our trip. We had a couple months before Rebecca had to return from her teaching sabbatical and we wanted to really use them. My dream of a shining Rocinante parked between stately redwoods, or deep in the canyons of Utah would stay just that. So we put a couple hundred dollars into the Jetta, adjusted our expectations, and silently hoped the car would die around people.
The Jetta didn’t die. With a minor case of the shakes at high speeds, the only maintenance it required was a quick wheel balancing on a stopover in Missoula MT. That’s it. Through thirteen states, 2 provinces, and over 8,000 miles of road, our little car ran like a champ, and along with an assortment of cheap motels and guest bedrooms, became our home.
From our home in Chicago, we headed west and then north, leaving spring in our rearview, and embraced the roadside motel as we would have any campground. Near Casper Wyoming we caught up with winter. The blowing snow, and slow grade of the continental divide put the Jetta through its paces. We arrived in a snowy Yellowstone after a brief stop in Livingston Montana, where we drank strong coffee and looked for the ghost of Jim Harrison at the Murray Hotel bar, the hulking Absaroka range ever present. Yellowstone in April is still quiet and cold, and because of an especially snowy winter only 50 miles of road were open. We weren’t able to get to Old Faithful or some of the other iconic sights, but we did stumble upon some wildlife spotters with scopes focused on a kill sight; although we saw no major predator, the thought of a hungry spring bear following its nose to its first meal of the season kept our curiosity piqued.
We headed west to Missoula where we fixed the shakes on the car and spent two nights with old friends who had recently relocated there. Rebecca and I were secretly hunting for possible spots to move to, and our time in Missoula put it high on the list. Our friends took us around town, and a day of brewery hopping turned into a night of bourbon drinking. On the walk home from the bar we ran into a family of deer on the late-night streets. Rebecca and I stared as they silently passed, single file, our friends giddily pointing them out. We weren’t in the city anymore and we liked it.
We headed north to an empty and frozen Glacier NP. Being proud owners of a National Park Pass, we were quietly miffed there was no ranger at the gate to show it to. The few miles of open road lead us to a shuttered Lake McDonald Lodge, and we spent the afternoon wandering and photographing one of America’s busiest parks at its emptiest.
At the Canadian border in Roosville, we surrendered an old canister of pepper spray to the Crown while watching big horn sheep quietly munch grass on the other side of the parking lot. The dramatic peaks of the Canadian Rockies ushered in a whole new level of winter, and the endless snow showers and grey days were starting to wear on us. I was constantly concerned with driving conditions, and access to parks and points of interest were limited, leaving us not only cold, but frustrated as well. At Lake Louise, instead of joining Rebecca for a wintery trek, I sat at the bar at the Fairmont sipping a Caesar and nursing my ego, trying hard to appreciate the winter wonderland out the window. When I was done sulking, we came down the mountains and into the verdant green of the Fraser Valley. The change in color scheme buoyed our spirits as we pushed south into the states and the temperate climate of the coast.
In Astoria, Oregon, running from rain clouds, we explored shipwrecks and watched freighters, awaiting orders, stack up on the Columbia. Like a lot of other small American cities Astoria seemed to be looking for that balance between working port town with an industrial past, and the service-based tourist economy that is the future. I appreciated the duality and was as comfortable in the local brewery and distillery as I was in the blue-collar fisherman bars.
By now the car was starting to become a trip museum. Reach into any crevice and you could pull out evidence of the road. National Park brochures, gift shop trinkets, and pieces of driftwood mingled with the empty coffee cups and granola bar wrappers. We headed south to California and a respite from the road- A little trip within the trip. A good friend had offered us the guest bedroom in her cottage in Sebastopol CA, and we planned on settling there for a couple of weeks to work on art and music. Rebecca set up a little studio in the bedroom and explored a new photo series. I was feeling uninspired and restless, and took advantage of our proximity to good wine, wasting lazy days with a bottle on the porch. Trips to the ocean around Bodega Bay, and slow meanders through the winding roads of the Russian River Valley put us in a good groove, and we headed south with a trunk full of wine, our heads in a NorCal state of mind.
Yosemite was drowning as spring runoff sent the Merced careening wildly down the valley, ready to burst its boulder-strewn banks at any moment. The park was packed, and the traffic and sheer number of people set us on edge. We made the turn east, tipped our hats toward home and headed to Utah.
At Zion National Park we met Rebecca’s mother and sister and found the canyon in full bloom. The view from the back patio of the hotel was almost as spectacular as the park, and we enjoyed drinks around the outdoor fire pits, applauding ourselves for the foresight of the car bar, as Utah’s liquor laws left options limited.
Climbing out of Zion with sheer drop off on our left, we set our sights on Bryce and its surreal hoodoos. The park was socked in with fog, and while I was complacent with watching the clouds swirl around the rock formations, Rebecca was disappointed and went slogging through the sticky red mud looking for a good shot that would ultimately prove to elude her. The rocks from roadside gem stands began to mix with their ocean counterparts in the doors and cup holders of the Jetta as we barreled along the empty roads and mountain passes of the Escalante National Monument. We headed east towards Colorado, the red rock spread out everywhere before us.
The bright morning sun was beginning to warm the newly paved parking lot of the Cortez Colorado Econo-Lodge as I wedged Rebecca’s suitcase between cases of wine and winter coats, the trunk straining against it load. We had visited the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde National Park the day before. Mesa Verde is the only National Park dedicated to the works of man, and as my wife and I stood in the eight-hundred-year old residence called Balcony House, perched precariously 600 feet above the Soda Canyon floor, we felt good. Though my fear of heights was causing sweat to pool in my palms, and my eyes felt loose in their sockets, we were finding our footing, and the trip was finally coming together. Six weeks of travel behind us, and we had found our road groove. It was almost time to go home.