Monday, July 25, 2016

camping . virgin



I have a confession . . .

In a former lifetime, when I had an ever-expanding number of wondrous children and their friends constantly about, my idea of camping was basically a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. By myself. Or anywhere that didn't involve cooking and cleaning.

Oh, I had tent camped in the mountains a few times as a twenty-something, even in the winter, but these outings revolved mainly around copious amounts of how shall we say, "landscape enhancers." My memory of these trips, no pun intended, is somewhat hazy, as you might surmise.

In fact, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I have only hypothetically experienced a S'more. Since I'd missed this classic camping experience growing up, best besties Patti Edmon and Annie L'Esperance recently filled me in on how to make them. Graham crackers. Okay! Even I knew that. Melted marshmallow first? Or the Hershey Bar? I was clueless. They laughed their heads off.

"Camping Virgin," they snickered. And we all agreed that good dark chocolate was now de rigueur as Hershey bars were rumored to be processed with heavy metals. (Hope I haven't blown your S'more bubble.)

All the more reason now, I thought, to explore what "dispersed camping" is all about—meaning off-the-grid camping with no water, no electric, no facilities whatsoever camping. Although this was a complete 180 from anything I'd dreamt of before, it now seemed like an almost noble challenge for a 60-year-old Camping Virgin. But then, I've never been one to do things half-way.

I had just found the perfect Zen Gypsy Van, an older Toyota Sienna, chosen for its safety factor and low miles. But now, I had to gear up.

The more I researched, the more I realized how woefully ignorant I was (and still am) about outdoor survival necessities. Some of the equipment I started seeing were things I didn't even have names for . . . but before long I felt like a connoisseur of bungee cords, tie-downs, tent stakes, tarps, rain flys, solar showers, water purifiers and the like.

I was fascinated by all the 'must-have lists.' All of them called for two things: waterproof matches and rope. What kind of rope? I wondered. There were about a zillion different kinds. And tent stakes—there were huge discussions online about tent stakes. Glow-in-the-dark stakes? I guess that made sense . . . but many these things were quite over the top and expensive, at least to my mind.

I found myself laughing out loud as I thought about what to put on the Zen Gypsy Van. I mean, really, what did you really need in the outdoors? A tent and a tarp. A metal cup/bowl, a "spork" (spoon + fork for the uninitiated) and some waterproof matches. Okay, maybe a lighter and a 60-day lantern would be nice. And a propane stove. (I genuflect to the God Coleman.) Beyond that, it was all rather frou-frou.

But then I remembered. This was "glamping."

It was my maternal grandmother who once insisted that, "a little glamour never hurt anyone," so I will credit/blame her for starting me down this road. Glamping (or glamour + camping) turned out to be a huge wave. People were firing up their old AirStreams and outfitting them like a Fashion Armageddon was around the corner. Luxury yurts, high-end treehouses, AirBnB schooners—wow—where had I been? My little Zen Gypsy Van definitely needed some sprucing up.

So here, for those interested, is the stuff I ended up with putting on the Zen Gypsy Van. Whether you will think me an absolute lunatic after reading it, or a brilliant trailblazer (my preferred appellation) is completely up to you.


My Totally Cool Mountaineering Tent


Never Leave Home Without It!


Kitchen Stuff


A Sampling of On-Board Cuisine


More Kitchen Stuff


Home-made Bug Screens in the making


On-Board Tools & More Tools


Last, But Not Least:
The Glamping Commode




Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Birth of the Zen Gypsy Van




When the Zen Gypsy Van first began to take shape in my mind. I would often awake in the night to write and draw and wonder about what it would be like to travel in a vehicle that was in essence an energy self-sufficient home.

After several cross country moves, I had been naturally paring down my possessions as a practical matter. But it wasn't easy, for like most of us I love beautiful, and especially artful + meaningful, things. Letting go of objects that I loved, even though it was just "stuff," often required a significant grieving process. There is still a certain set of bookcases that I still long for and a collection of children's books that I gave up on a prior move that I would give anything to have now so that I could share them with my grandchildren. But, c'est la vie . . .

Things, after all, are often tied to our memories of people and places. Even if they no longer serve us, they are still part of our story. Letting go of them sometimes created true closure for me, sometimes terrible angst. But as I examined each object in my life and thought about what kind of energy it carried, often it became an easy decision to either give it away or, if it seemed particularly toxic, to trash it.  

As time went on, I found that the less I had, the freer I felt. Having too much around me, even books, which as a writer and publisher were my primary addiction, felt like a weight being placed upon my entire spirit. I had been following the 'Little House' movement for awhile and the idea of a dwelling that brought the elements of living down to essentials, began to really appeal to me.

What put me over the edge was . . . Pinterest. Once I started seeing visuals of what other people were doing with their Little Houses, my imagination went into freefall. I knew I had to create something that would fulfill my desire to manifest a simpler, more meaningful life, something that might inspire other people, too.

I considered living on a boat. I know people who do this and I greatly admire their lives. I love the idea that every inch of space is crafted for maximum efficiency as well as beauty. (I still think about this, but I wasn't quite ready to make that leap.) I was set to move back to California and as I contemplated shipping my household once again (no pun intended), and began the process of sorting and boxing everything, I had a satori, an instant illumination.


Why not? I thought. I knew I would be driving cross country. Why not create my own micro-version of a Little House on wheels? And then, why not camp and find beautiful waterfalls and hot springs to visit? I'd never really explored the Rockies before . . .  And so, the idea of the Zen Gypsy Van was born. 

Two months later, I was saying goodbye to dear friends in North Carolina and I was geared up and on the road!




Karen Mireau & Mary Ann Welsch




Karen Mireau & Cathy Maready



Valerie Kessinger & Karen Mireau & Pamela Partis

Photos by Mary Ann Welsch




Wednesday, July 6, 2016

home.place





We all have a soul home.

Mine happens to be Big Sur, on the cliffs of the Pacific in that mystical zone branded by fire and fog, midway between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Though I have often longed to, I have never lived in Big Sur; in fact, I have only visited on three occasions, but it is one of those places on the planet that continually calls to me. I know with complete certainty that it is a "home place," somewhere I unquestionably belong. 

In Big Sur, I am dazzled, always, by its wild, poetic beauty, the expansiveness of the sage-scented Santa Lucia Mountains, the 300,000 + acres of Los Padres National Forest and Vendana Wilderness that envelope it. I'm drawn by its remoteness and un-self-conscious-ness, its artistic outlaw history, its raw and enigmatic power.

And then, there is the sea, the ever-sensational sea, in a Van Gogh dance of light and foam and sparkling blue-green stars. Artist Francis McComas claimed it the "greatest meeting of land and water in the world." I must concur. I never fail to be affected, on a very physical level, by the intense visual shock of standing and looking out to sea at Big Sur.

Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, the first Zen monastery in the United States was founded here. And of course, Esalen Institute and Nepenthe Restaurant, beloved by all visitors to Big Sur, continue their traditions. The original beatnik and hippie shacks from the 50s and 60s have long since been replaced by multi-million-dollar homes, but the artist vibe remains strong. Good enough reason to dream of living among the grayed pines and old-growth redwoods, the live oaks and alders.

It was not necessarily a pleasant notion, to think of being completely adrift, but more and more it began to stir me, excite me, and flood me with creative ideas surrounding what might be next in the cards for me. It was then that the the concept of a Zen Gypsy adventure began to take form. 

It is not surprising that writers, artists and musicians—Jack Kerouac, Joan Baez, Hunter S. Thompson, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Orson Wells, Henry Miller, Robinson Jeffers, Richard Brautigan (remember him?) to name a few— have universally craved the solitude of Big Sur. 

To belong, perhaps, is at the heart of having a sense of place. Belonging, being beloved, being known—all of these things are critical to human well-being. "Home place" is wherever that is felt deeply and lodged in your bones. It's not necessarily where you were born or raised, but where you have come to feel your soul at rest—where it finds comfort, nourishment and spiritual safety.

I have asked myself what it means to be untethered, without a physical home, to be a gypsy. Although I have been uprooted, sometimes rather unexpectedly and dramatically, a number of times in my life, in 2016 the idea of homelessness increasingly began to occupy my thoughts. 

There were several convergences that contributed to the manifestation of the Zen Gypsy Van itself. After the death of my father in 2014, I found a wonderful therapist, who re-parented me in a way that allowed me to see my life story much more clearly. I wrote and published a book of poems, matsu.kaze: the wind in the pines, a cathartic celebration of my father and a hymn to the ethereal beauty of the North Carolina Sandhills, the land of the Longleaf Pine.

Around the same time, I turned the big 6-0, and a two-year engagement came to a necessary, and thankfully amiable close. My daughter and her family had relocated in Florida, and I found myself, suddenly, alone. As a book publisher, I had just finished putting into a print a memoir, A Southern Pines Life, by Norris Hodgkins, one of the town's early developers. He was about to turn 90, and his panoramic knowledge and contributions to Southern Pines truly inspired me. It was he who started me thinking about what "home place" really meant. He used this term frequently in relation to both the physical and spiritual sense of where he belonged and he never seemed to doubt its validity. It truly woke me to many questions about where it was I really wanted to be. 

At that moment in time, I was unlike anyone I knew entering their 6th decade. My children were grown and on their own; I had no life partner; I wasn't currently caretaking a parent or elder; I no longer owned a home or, in an attempt to minimize my carbon footprint, many possessions. Most fortunately, my company would allow me to live just about anywhere in the world. One morning, I awoke realizing that the only limitations I had were ones I might conceivably construct for myself.


Clearly, it was time to envision a totally new road.