Two and a half portraits

Glimpses of the maiden voyage

Portrait One

I glanced at her nametag: Season. I smiled and mentally added her to my collection:

Season

Journey

Jericho

Azure

Clover

I know the stories behind two of the names, but the others remain mysteries to me. Were these names assigned at birth? Were they chosen later in life? How and why were the decisions made? There are so many reasons people might change their names.

I didn’t ask Season, the rural truck stop cashier, about her atypical moniker. Although we both seemed to have plenty of time with very little to do, our conversation would probably be a one-time event, so we covered only the basics.

Aside from her brightly colored polo shirt with the truck stop’s logo and name tag, everything about Season seemed to belong to the landscape outdoors. A wide-brimmed wool cowboy hat, earthy brown in color, dominated her appearance. It didn’t strike me as a frivolous fashion accessory. Beneath the shadow of the hat’s broad brim, a pair of piercing dark brown eyes shone from a sun-weathered face, which was framed by wavy brown hair, thick and coarse and bleached straw blonde along her cheekbones. Her voice was husky and deep. Season was out of place amidst the aisles of flashy snack foods underneath brash fluorescent lights.

I was a customer in the convenience store, buying a chocolate chip cookie to share with Andy. We didn’t really need the cookie, but we’d been parked on the truck stop’s property for three days. Since we were using the restroom so frequently—for the bathroom, for doing our dishes, even for washing my hair in the sink—I felt obliged to patronize the store occasionally.

Season didn’t appear to be busy, so we chatted. Women seem to do this so easily if at least one of them is outgoing—and I’m rediscovering the fact that I am. She and her family work as ranch hands on the big ranch across the road—260 horses to care for, as well as assorted other farm animals. A proud grin cut through her expanse of brown as she told me about the “bougie” chicken coop she’d built to spoil her chickens, complete with a playground to keep them amused and engaged.

I complimented her on how friendly everyone there at the truck stop had been to us over the past three days. We had felt welcomed, safe and secure, and were grateful.

Her chin rose. “We try to make it a nice place for everyone who comes through,” she explained, then pointed to the logo on her shirt. “I’m trying to convince the owner that we should call it a travel oasis instead of a travel center.”

I agreed that it did feel like an oasis, an island of essential services, served up with a smile, in the midst of endless rolling hills and stubbly brown prairie land. Between the cordial staff, the clean restrooms, and the little restaurant with its emphasis on pie, it was definitely a soft landing for a couple of weary, stranded travelers like us, with a broken down vehicle awaiting parts to be shipped in from New Jersey. This was not how we had expected to spend our week, but Season and her colleagues had helped alleviate our feelings of disappointment.

We were supposed to already be in Loveland, Colorado for a big, important event¹ we’d been looking forward to for months. Instead, we had spent three days limping slowly and stressfully through multiple thunderstorms from truck stop to mechanic to rest area, then to another mechanic and another truck stop—dash lights lit up like an unseasonably cheerful Christmas tree. We were at this oasis only after spending a wild night on the shoulder of an interstate, a few miles up the road. Over pie in the little restaurant, Andy and I had sighed as we discussed the value in letting go of expectations and embracing the unexpected detours of life. Missing Overland Expo was not the end of the world. For now, we were safe and warm and well-fed. It was enough.

“We’re like a family here,” Season continued. “We look out for each other, and we work hard to keep everything clean and safe. Most of us are LDS. I’m an LDS member . . .” She paused with a little shrug. “. . . not a perfect one, I guess. I mean, I smoke, but still . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I wrapped up our conversation and said my farewells. The mechanic could be arriving any time with our parts and his expertise. There was still a thin hope of getting back on the road. Season wished me well. I wished the same for her, then walked back out into the blustery wind, across the enormous parking lot, to Walter, our big, yellow, non-functional travel rig.

A sad smile crept to my face as I looked out across the lot, and I sighed. Despite our less-than-ideal circumstances, Walter just looked so handsome out there. Would he still be our carriage to global nomadic adventures, or were these engine gremlins indicative of something bigger, something catastrophic? The mobile mechanic was pulling up. The last several days had been spent trying hard to NOT worry about the possibilities. We would know soon enough.

Portrait Two

The grass was dark green and lush, long enough to be soft underfoot. What a luxury after a full week of only pavement, gravel, dust, and mud. Walter, in all his yellow cheerfulness, balanced out the informal gathering of assorted expedition vehicles—different sizes and colors and platforms, their owners from here and there and everywhere. By that time, we were among friends for one final night of enjoying each other’s company before going our separate ways once again.

The days at Season’s truck stop seemed half a lifetime ago already. We had originally planned to arrive at the expo in Colorado on Thursday morning. Instead, with new parts and a clean bill of health from that mechanic, we had driven through much of Friday night, parked at the World’s Windiest Rest Area in southeastern Wyoming for a few hours of not sleeping, then completed the journey Saturday morning. We arrived at Overland Expo two days late, less than an hour before the first of two roundtable panel discussions we were scheduled to speak at. Whoooosh.

Once the busy show was officially finished Sunday afternoon, we moved Walter from the dusty general camping sector to the grassy lawn of the DIY Showcase area. Although the vast majority of show attendees and vendors had to leave Sunday to get back to work Monday, we were technically allowed one more night of camping on site. Several of our full-time overlanding friends were gathered there on the grass—some we’d met at the PNW Expo two years ago, but mostly they were folks we’d just met that weekend. Travelers have an amazing ability to connect quickly. We have to. Little snippets of temporary community are so precious for location-independent folks who are always moving from place to place.

As dusk faded to dark, the conversation flowed easily from rig to rig in our casual circle-the-wagons-style cluster. You’d think we’d all known each other for years. Andy took a turn making dinner in Walter’s Snuggery and encouraged me to go outside to play.

I chatted with Amber, a young woman with a truck and camper from Corvallis, Montana, very near where we used to live. We laughed to realize I probably worked as a substitute teacher in some of her high school classes. I was Mrs. Chidwick to her then. Now I’m just her friend, Sherry.

I swapped stories with Angela and Dan, married vanlifers from Wisconsin, and tried to get their nervous border collie, Sadie, to like me. Their daughter is at the Air Force Academy nearby. Dan showed me the Instagram account of the artist who is designing stickers for them. Angela brought out the jar of lovely cumin she’d recently picked up, and we all breathed in the amazing layers of complex flavor.

I asked Rex from Texas, a man who has been crisscrossing the nation with a tiny camper pulled behind his motorcycle for the past five years, if he would like to have dinner with us. Andy had made plenty to share and I was concerned that Rex was likely not eating well with such a limited home on wheels—a trailer no bigger than a twin bed. He gratefully accepted. We pulled our camp chairs together and sat next to Walter in the dark as Rex told us about his unique crusade to raise money and awareness for Type 1 diabetes after the tragic death of his son who blacked out behind the wheel in a diabetic low.

When an unexpected rain began to fall, the three of us left our plates out on the portable table for a natural rinse cycle, then quickly scattered in different directions, each seeking out a different nearby rig with a sturdy canopy and friendly conversation.

I spent the next couple of hours with two couples we’d met the day before. Ingrid and Branko are travelers from the Netherlands with a rig similar to ours. Harriet and Olly are originally from Germany but make their home in Colorado now. They likewise have a Fuso camper, like us, and run a business creating and selling assorted custom adventure travel rigs. Both couples have traveled so extensively around the United States that they easily surpassed me with their knowledge of this country’s wild and beautiful places. I learned quite a bit from them.

By the time we all went our separate ways the next morning, everyone was exchanging heartfelt hugs.

“It was so good to meet you!”

“I’m so glad our paths have crossed.”

“Did you get one of our stickers? We have yours on our sticker wall already!”

“Maybe we’ll see you out on the road again somewhere. I hope so.”

“Safe travels.”

“Happy trails!”

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Portrait 2.5

Driving away from the expo center where we’d spent most of Saturday, all of Sunday and half of Monday, we remembered the apple trees we’d noticed at the front gates. It was more than a few trees; it was a small orchard, a couple dozen mature trees heavy-laden with fruit. The ground beneath the trees was already dotted red. It was time.

We pulled Walter to the side of the road, and I climbed into the Snuggery to retrieve a bowl from my kitchen. I wasn’t alone. Another woman was there with big cardboard crate boxes. She smiled at my approach.

“These apples need to be picked,” she shrugged.

“Isn’t anyone in charge of this orchard?”

“Not that I know of. I come every year about this time and pick as much as I want. They’ve planted all sorts of varieties, so just pick some and take a few bites to find what you like. This tree and the one next to it are good for applesauce. I make cider from those over there. And these are good for pie. You just have to know what you’re looking for.”

“So, no one will mind if I pick a few for eating as we travel?”

“Absolutely not. No one seems to care about these trees. I think they only planted them to commemorate the fact that this used to be a fruit-growing region. Maybe it’s like a gift to the community. It’s a public orchard.”

Amazing. Some fairgrounds might put a statue out front to commemorate the local history. At this one, they had planted an entire orchard and then left it for the community to harvest. At my new friend B.J.’s suggestion, I sampled a few and filled a bowl with a couple of ripe specimens each from a bunch of different trees.

As I turned to go, I saw her loading a crate into her Jeep. I waved goodbye. B.J. signaled for me to wait while she scurried around doing something I couldn’t see, then she trotted over to me with a shopping bag.

“Here,” she said, a little out of breath. “Take some of the plums I picked at another site. They might need a little more time to ripen, but they’re good.”

I glanced in the bag. Two dozen little purple-black plums met my gaze.

I looked up into B.J.’s grinning face. We had known each other for less than five minutes, but it clearly brought her joy to have a gift to give. “Oh, my goodness! Thank you so much. That was so kind of you!”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy.”

“We will. Wow. Can I give you a hug?”

She beamed. “Certainly.” We embraced like old friends, then smiled at each other as I turned to go.

“Safe travels!” she called after me.

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I do believe my definition of friend has been woefully limited over the years. There’s so much beauty in this world—and only a small portion of it is related to scenic landscapes.

This journey has started well.

Until next week,

Sherry

1. Overland Expo is a gathering for off-road capable adventure vehicles and their families to gather for education, training, gear, inspiration, and five days/four nights of festival-style camping. It happens in four locations in the United States every year. In 2022, we attended the PNW event, camping in a little tent amidst all the cool, well-equipped vehicles. Our rig, then, was still a pile of parts and pieces at home, mostly just a dream, and we soaked up all the information and inspiration we could hold. This year, we had our sights set on taking Walter to the MTN WEST expo. We are so glad we were able to make it.