I lived in a van for nine months after high school. When I was sixteen I daydreamed of travelling. Instead of looking at colleges, I was looking at unconventional gap year opportunities. I found one that I knew I needed to do and required van life and travel to multiple states. Unattached to a singular place sounded like freedom to the eighteen year old me. So I signed up and became a missionary. A nine month commitment to live in a stuffy van with 11 strangers. 

I travelled to 31 of the continental US states during that time. I met thousands of people and became close with many of my teammates. As the year progressed, time in the van became weirder. Eleven people probably shouldn’t spend so much time in an enclosed space. I left with memories that still sometimes make me laugh until I cry; great travel habits and a proclivity to feel at home in spaces that aren’t mine;  and also some trauma. 

It was the trauma that made my heart race and my hands shake whenever I saw a white, twelve passenger van. My brother once said a phrase in reference to basic training that also applies to my experience: “it was the most fun I never want to have again.” And I can’t think of a better way to describe it. In the moment the experience felt like I was living a loose and free existence. I needed that at eighteen, but I wouldn’t want to put myself in that situation or experience again.

So I promised myself: I will never live in a van again. 

In April, Jacob and I became the proud owners of a white, twelve passenger van. I’m either over my previous experience or I have a sick sense of humor (maybe a little of both?). 

Just a few weeks before, we started watching camper van tours and renovation videos. We joked around about getting a van, sent Facebook Marketplace listings to each other throughout the day. Maybe we should buy this one? But it wasn’t real. Until we found a great deal on a Ford in Iowa. Should we do it? I think we should do it…

It came stripped and moldy with rusty edges and a Hertge’s Pottery logo slapped on the side. Rusty, named after one of the van’s most identifiable features, is a ‘99 and somehow still kicking. We tended to the moldy ceiling and dirt-caked floors on a dark spring night with scrub brushes and masks and a bright work light hanging from a back door. Youtube and Pinterest guided our plans and designs. 

I used a few power tools and stained the cedar shiplap now lining the walls and ceiling, but the praise for craftsmanship goes to Jacob. He spent countless May evenings with tape measure, pencil and saw in hand. He made it look easy, but he dealt with the unevenness of the van and warped wood nightly. We took many trips to Home Depot, Menards, Lowes for the supplies we forgot the last time or for more wood because we guessed wrong. 

After a lot of sweat (but no tears), the van is functional. It’s not finished yet. The sink isn’t hooked up yet. The door panels aren’t done, the bed and cabinets need painting, and we found out we need bug nets and a venting system. But it’s functional. 

My mom and step-dad have land in northern Wisconsin. The first weekend of June, we packed up Rusty for an inaugural trip. A test-run weekend.

The fire quieted down to smoky embers. In front of us, the Chippewa river quietly moved through the land, gently splashing over the rocks and small islands of grass in its way. Jacob sipped on a craft beer, me on red wine, as night fell. Pines stretched above, attempting to reach the sea of midnight blue and glittery stars above. The van, lit up by the warm yellow that imbues a duality of contentedness and wanting to run towards something beautiful and great, looked illusory. 

I don’t know where the van will take us, but I hope it’s to places great and far.

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