Saying goodbye to Van Life
So long, Sprinter
Howdy! A hearty welcome to Traipsing About, my newsletter about reclaiming creativity and ditching tired personal paradigms. No bot writing here—I get credit for all goofy drawings and dumm tipos.
Around here, this week I voted in my first Italian election! First time my citizenship has felt real. Voting kicked off an unexpected feeling of connection to Italy.
In other news…
Bidding adieu to our Sprinter van
“Put a sign on it too!” Chelsea said, gesturing at the Sprinter.
Me, shrugging: “People don’t buy vans from a sign.”
Three weeks later, I caved and made the sign.
The next day, I shook hands on a deal.
Just like that, it was gone.
Selling the van was bittersweet—a weird mix of relief, nostalgia, and a soft punch to the gut. Tears in my eyes the morning of the sale!
But it reminded me, yet again, that listening to my wife is usually the right move.
Fittingly, she was the one who lit the van life match in the first place.
We were in Steamboat Springs, Colorado in fall of 2012 when we saw a cute Westfalia van with a For Sale sign in the window.
“What if we just bought that and drove it home?” Chelsea asked, casually taking a different fork in the road of our life.
We didn’t buy that van, but that night, sitting by the fire, we burrowed down a van rabbit hole. By bedtime, we knew two things:
We wanted a van.
Sprinters seemed like the way to go.
We were hooked.
The Wild West
Of course, back then, in the pre-Instagram wilderness of 2012, van life wasn’t a movement. More like a fringe experiment conducted by old guys on internet forums who argued about bolt strength and over-engineered everything.
Sprinter vans were contractor vehicles, not tiny homes stuffed full of outdoor gear and Instagrammable Millennials.
Somehow, the momentum built and we took the train to Eugene in early 2013 and drove a new Sprinter van home. It was an empty cargo version, a blank slate for our dream rig.
Baptism by graffiti out of the way, we leapt into the DIY construction phase. Luckily, I have a few things going for me in that realm: a mechanical engineering degree, experience with construction, and over-confidence.
With such bonafides, we figured out our layout, electrical system, and bed height. We lived in a driveway-free house in Portland, so I did all the work parked on the street. In between calls with clients, I’d scrabble about installing the project du jour.
Six months later, I heard the neighbor’s kid yell, “Dad, why is that guy always out working on his van in front of our house?”
Buddy, I hear you. I heeeear you.
Through all this, C and I weren’t exactly sure how we were going to use the van. We just knew that we needed to get the hell out of the office and the city more often and go have some outdoor adventures.
Looking back, however, we were building a door that would give us options! This parallels with choices we’ve made since—like me pursuing Italian citizenship, for example. We may not have a specific vision, but an unlocked door to living in Europe feels good. If you don’t build doors to walk through (or a van to sleep in), you’re going to be stuck in the same room forever.
Anyway, the idea of a four-month trip down the coast of California only popped up months after buying the van, sometime in summer of 2013.
Three months later, we were on the road.
The trip launch
As all big trip departures go, ours was organized and totally unstressful. Well, except for madly dashing about sweeping the porch as our new tenants drove up…and stuffing tools and all manner of possessions into the van moments before that.
Coming clean: OMG, getting an old house ready for tenants is so.much.work. Chelsea spearheaded the operation, selling possessions and dialing in the rental while I worked and built out the van.
Fortunately, we weren’t launching directly into the four-month trip. Instead, we drove north to Idaho in November to drop off our kitty Oliver at C’s parents. They had kindly agreed to kitty sit during our travels.
The van was still not ready for our trip. Indeed, I’d saved a few projects for Idaho because C’s fabulous dad Steve has a driveway and ALL the tools in his garage. He also is generous with his time. (For those who don’t know my and C’s story, Steve was also my high school chemistry teacher.)
For three weeks in November, I wrenched on the van. I slithered around under the van installing the diesel heater as cold sleet dripped down my neck, then finalized the cabinets after I built a snowman.
Eventually, the van was ready to rip, though it still lacked indoor lights, running water, or a toilet.
No big deal—Chelsea and I were only doing a four month trip. We’d get a sense of how things worked and finish things up when we got home in the spring.
Sometimes, unsuspectedly, a few months can morph into three years…
Hey, once the door is open and you’re through it, why not? Especially if you’ve got supportive parents who like cats!
The Road Trip
Oh, the sheer freedom of taking off as adults with our little house on our backs, a turtle shell of comfort.
With no schedule, we could stop anywhere we liked and leave when we pleased. Lunches overlooking beaches, stops to visit dear friends, SO much time in nature. I was still running my business remotely, but had started to hire people to take on my work load.
Our sights also expanded beyond the van. After I surprised Chelsea with a birthday bike tour from L.A. to San Diego, she got a wild hare to do a big bike tour.
Two months later, we parked the van at her parent’s house in Idaho and spent the next 3.5 months pedaling 4,000 miles to Maine. If we hadn’t already been uprooted and flexible, there’s no way that trip would have happened.
Same with living in New York City for two different stints, volunteering at a farm sanctuary for a month, a Spanish language immersion in Tulum, multiple months bike touring around Europe, or exploring Iceland by van and on foot.
There’s something magical about just going, and the van enabled that. In those three years of traveling, we probably only spent 1.5 of them actually traveling in the Sprinter, but the mindset that it kicked off transcended a little gray van.
Letting go of the van
As fabulous as all those experiences were, after three years we were ready to downshift, landing in the fabulous mountain town of Bend, Oregon. Chelsea launched into community building and volunteering, creating groups and getting involved around town while I held down the financial house and tried every outdoor sport.
With so much nature access, we didn’t feel the pull to get outta town as much as we had in Portland. Even better, many van life friends came to visit us. In no way were we living “van life,” but I still identified with the ethos of it.
Plus I enjoyed the (very niche) fame I had from writing this blog! Getting recognized by readers at trailheads, on bikepacking trips, or in a Canadian laundromat felt good, like I had friends everywhere.
But with that identity fading and less need to travel given Bend’s nature access, the van mostly sat unused other than short trips. Still, in no way did we consider selling—it felt like an appendage, a part of our history versus Just A Vehicle.
In 2020, my energy dramatically shifted as the pandemic fucked up the world gave me a chance to reassess things. I fell in love with piano and learning languages, sold my ski stuff and took a break from rock climbing. Constantly being physically active felt less fulfilling for me.
I started perseverating, belaboring the thought “do we need the van?” It represented a big chunk of cash and maintenance energy/costs just sitting in our driveway. When I traveled, I could always stay with friends/family or just *gasp* sleep in the back of the car or in a tent.
Maybe it was time for a change.
Goodbye to my old friend
It took me forever to finally make the decision. For over a year, I went back and forth, even as we bought an Airstream trailer for more comfortable travel and barely used the van.
We made a big pros and cons list, but that still didn’t push me over the edge. Finally, Chelsea and I were out walking while I belabored the van when she cracked (lovingly).
“I think we need to sell the van to free you from the constant rumination!” Whammo, the selling process was underway.
Taking the plunge was surprisingly hard. The key was depersonalizing the van, which involved removing any pictures, stickers, or even our custom koi pond curtains that I’d sewn myself.
I’d get a pang looking at a little piece of metal trim that I’d filed down 26 times or remembering the friend who had helped me with a specific project.
In fact, while washing the outside and inside, it felt like I was bathing a dear companion before burial. WTF, it’s just a van, dude! I don’t connect to inanimate objects, do I?
And then…my energy shifted. I started picturing the next owners and how stoked they were going to be. Fresh adventures with a well-maintained, solid rig to take them there! No more deliberation for me! Putting that money in the bank! Only one RV to maintain!
In short, I released the van. The identity around it, that chapter of our lives. I’ve got memories, pictures and friends from that time—I don’t need anything else.
And guess what? The people who bought it the day after I put a sign on it?
They live right down the street, new neighbors who lived in Kathmandu and Alaska for years. They love the history of the van and how I took such great care of it.
They even wanted the old koi pond curtains!
In short, while the original van chapter of our life has concluded, I couldn’t be happier about the ending. I already feel the clarity. Things are simpler.
Who knows… There could be another van down the road. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I have no idea what the heck is going to happen in the future! I’m going to keep building and unlocking doors to future life experiences.
And listening to Chelsea’s great ideas.
You’ve reached the end of the (first) Traipsing About van life era.
To all you long-time readers, thanks for following along.
Not that this is the end—lots more adventures left for the two of us! Plenty more Traipsing About coming up.
Onward,
Dakota
P.S. Don’t worry, the old van posts are still around. Here’s the original main Adventure Mobile post with links to everything I’ve written about DIY Sprinter builds!
Thank you for reading my thoughts! I appreciate your time and attention in a world where it’s a precious commodity.
A wonderful tale of completely one stage of life and embracing the next!
I love that you are willing to continually reinvent yourself. It is not a linear or always easy process.
You were one of our first inspirations to consider building a van. We did this back in 2018 when it was still harder to find information or shops to build out vans. And like you, we recently sold our Sprinter. We've had some fantastic trips in that van, and we even brought our son home from the hospital after he was born in that van. But it was time for a new journey and adventure.
And like you, what got us excited was finding a new owner who would love the van and get their journey in it.
Here's the woo woo part, Dakota! Our family was camping and skiing at Anthony Lakes back in February in our new rig. On the last day of the trip, I went outside first thing in the morning and parked right next to us... was our old Sprinter! It was covered in mud and had been well used.
I talked to the new owner, and she's been having the best adventures! She's already put 15K miles on it and was just returning from Hell's Canyon. It made me incredibly happy that she was using the Sprinter to its full potential. And my family was just as satisfied with our new rig.