Adventure: Readiness

When I was young, my mom and I were sitting up in the mountains behind our house in Wyoming. The house sat at 8,000 feet, with mountains behind and rolling grasslands stretching for a hundred miles out front. She and I would walk and talk. “Some of our family were born with wheels for feet,” she said. “Your uncle Lester died in Canton, China.” She was correct. There is a subset of our lineage who were perpetually on the move. My cousin Bard sailed a canoe with a sail mount from the top of the Ohio River to the northern tip of South America. He later sailed the same rig up the Amazon, alone, for years at a time. Not all of us crave the movement. In fact, some of us are stationary beings, but that label does not apply to me.

No, I’ve got the sickness.

I’ve kept a “go bag” for as long as I can remember. This is not a survivalist “bug out bag.” Two very different things, but based on the deranged comments of our current vice president- a slimy, little two-faced worm of a man talking of end times and his failure to do “God’s work,” well, the survivalist bag might come in handy soon, but that’s not what I have. I have a bag packed to travel, to walk out that door within minutes of getting a call. In college, I kept a duffle at the foot of the bed, and I wasn’t even traveling then. It was the idea that I MIGHT get a call, and I needed to be ready, but it was actually more than that. It was about “out there.” It was about the unknown.

My roommate would always question my strategy. “What are you gonna do with that bag?” he would ask over and over. And yes, at times it was an unkempt duffle with “things” piled on top, which could also be said of the bag you see here. At times it overflows, and at other times it’s nearly empty. Oddly enough, it’s the empty times that give me the most hope of potential upcoming adventures. I find the longer the trip, the less I need. Vanlife taught me this. Being a dirtbag helps. This word has been co-opted by yuppie scum like me, but in essence it means someone content in their own filth. When you are on to something in the field, nothing else matters.

For those of you railing against the brand, let me explain. People love to hate Patagonia, and sure, some of their self-righteousness can be challenging, but overall, it’s difficult to complain about a brand that’s trying to take a stand and do things right. Not to mention their track record for conservation. (They just sued the regime over Bears Ears.) As long as we are talking Patagonia, there are a few other things I like. Their commitment to long-form storytelling is commendable, and their stuff lasts. Yesterday, during a major downsizing operation here at the ranch, I came across a Patagonia fleece jacket I received as a holiday present… in college! I’ve got a pair of Patagonia shorts from the same era. And when they get torched, I can take them to a Patagonia store to be rebuilt. Finally, I bought TWO of these duffles twenty years ago during a “going out of business sale” at a local supplier in Orange County.

These are the bags we carry in the van. That’s it for our personal belongings. One duffle each. It’s all we’ve ever needed, regardless of season. I use the yellow, and my wife uses the blue. Although the bags are incredibly durable, my yellow beauty finally sustained a flesh wound on its way back from, of all places, Patagonia. Briefly lost, only to resurface in Albuquerque before being flown to Dallas for unknown reasons, and then directly to Santa Fe. The bag was returned covered in tar and punctured like an ancient knight on the battlefield. I asked Patagonia for a remedy, and they sent a type of super-tape. I need to do more, but the bag lives on.

Let me get back to the point here. It’s not about the bag; it’s about what the bag represents. Movement. My plan for the coming year was to be at home more. That was my first mistake. No sooner had I made this decision than my phone began to ring. Albania, Croatia, Patagonia, Jamaica, Spain (hopefully), Brazil, Hong Kong (hopefully), and France are on the docket, and that’s just the overseas bits. I have domestic trips taking me to California, Florida, and Maine, maybe Ohio too, so that I can quell my thirst for birds. Time to change the oil in the van. (The only new country on this list is Croatia.)

But let me make something clear. I’m not a country counter. I’m not here to brag about travel. I prefer to return to the same place again and again because how else do you learn about something or someone? I travel in my mind daily, and through the pages of the books I read and the journals I keep. I don’t need to go far to see and experience the unknown. I live in New Mexico, for Christ’s sake. This place is wild. We just had the 102nd running of Zozobra, the original Burning Man. I’ve never seen so many police in my life. I will continue to keep this bag next to my bed. I use it every day, and it serves as a reminder to keep leaning forward. Don’t contract into a smaller world; keep expanding into the unknown.

PS: Were I purchasing this bag today, I would buy the wheeled version.