The bus screeches as it bottoms out, yet again, driving down the pothole-infested dirt road in Alabama Hills, California. The kitchen counter, which is not screwed in tight enough, bangs against the wall and the utensil drawer flies out, sending silverware clattering across the wooden floor, awakening my cat, Meatball, who had been asleep on the dashboard.
My partner, Brady, is driving; our dog, Mac, is curled up on our bed, and I sit in our makeshift passenger seat, a fold-up Tommy Bahama lawn chair, as we make our way through the desert toward Mount Whitney.
We turn into a small pull-off and flick the ignition off. Exhausted, we climb up onto the roof of the bus, with an armload of blankets, and fall asleep tucked in under the Milky Way, who is stretching her arms out wide, pulsing with life.
It was 2021, and I had just graduated college. The last two years of school I spent researching van life and stuffing half of my paychecks into a recycled pickle jar tucked under my bed. So, when I saw the Facebook Marketplace listing for a 2008 Ford E350 Shuttle Bus, I drove straight to the owner and made my offer.
Purple pinstripes encircled the rusty perimeter of the bus’s body, the cracked windshield gleamed in the sunlight, and solar panels lined the roof alongside a bent chimney. I took one step inside and knew this was the one.
Freedom and fear twisted in my stomach as the bus’s former owner disappeared in the rearview mirror. The bus, which my grandma quickly renamed Buster, was mine. I took a breath and reminded myself of the quote by Randy Komisar, “The most dangerous risk of all — the risk of spending your life not doing what you want on the bet you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later.”
The next morning, Brady and I wake to the sun illuminating the contour lines of Mount Whitney. We run barefoot with Mac through the desert, climbing across the red, orange and beige boulders scattered in the shadow of the tallest mountain in the continental U.S. We set up breakfast, trying to keep dirt out of our avocado toast, and open a map, aimlessly picking where to drive next.
We spend the next two months living in Buster while wandering through nine states. We teach Meatball to swim in Lake Mead, Arizona. We sleep with the back doors propped open letting in the Montana full moon’s light. We bathe in the icy Colorado River, feeling small, pinched between two ruby canyon walls. We nap underneath the Grand Tetons, dreaming in fields of violet wildflowers. We meet other van lifers on the backroads of Ouray, Colorado, bonding over the shared feelings of freedom and going weeks without showering.
With winter approaching, we rolled back into Bellingham, where we both grew up, broke, dirty and full of stories. Brady and I decided to settle down in Bellingham for the foreseeable future, and we moved into our first apartment together.
As Buster sat (graciously) parked on my parents’ property, with Moab’s red dirt still etched into his nooks and crannies, I couldn’t help feeling like we were neglecting him. So, we decided to get to work and rebuild Buster to create our dream bus.
We gutted Buster to his skin and bones. Seeing the naked bus was like looking at a blank canvas; we spent days drawing out designs and layouts that we felt would best suit Buster. There were many late nights and frustrated tears, hours perusing Home Depot and thrift stores, paint parties, fried electrical systems, and an abundance of helpful friends and family adding their touch to Buster.
Rebuilding the bus not only taught me carpentry, mechanical and electrical skills, but more importantly, how special it is to have people in your corner who believe in you and are willing to lend a hand when you need it.
Renovated Buster embarked on many more adventures: surf trips to the Olympic Peninsula, weekend getaways in the San Juans, climbing trips to Mazama, quick overnights at Mount Baker, snowboard trips in Idaho and Oregon, and even a summer living on the Deschutes River.
When Brady and I sat down about a year ago to make a pros and cons list debating a move to Alaska, “selling Buster” sat on the top of the cons list. Buster felt like a part of our family and van life felt like part of our identity. But as our pros outgrew the cons, we knew it was time to list Buster for sale. One of my favorite things Buster taught us was that going into the unknown always pays off.
I expected to feel sad when Buster sold, but instead, I felt thankful (and a little relieved). Looking back, I was not as ready for van life as my overconfident 21-year-old self originally thought, but it was exactly what I needed. I learned to balance curiosity and caution, to trust the process and that it is OK to ask for help. I wouldn’t be where I am today without good old Buster.
For the time being, we are putting van life on hold, but that’s not to say we aren’t always keeping our eyes open for a good deal on Facebook Marketplace. I’m not sure if Meatball would be as excited as Mac would be to get on the road again, but I know Brady and I would.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond; heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
