An open letter to a perpetual road-tripper

Well, I finally traded in the keys to my puke-green 1984 VW Westfalia for a gas-effi cient Civic. And yes, it felt like I was losing a part of my soul. That van had been my transportation, my bedroom, my kitchen, my living room, and even my bathroom at times. Her name was Sheila, and she was my best friend. You told me I’d regret the trade, of course. “Giving up on the life,” you so delicately called it. I know you disapprove of my desk job, too. I guess I did kinda sell out, but I gotta tell you, there are plenty of things I don’t miss about the road life. For one, my bacon-and-eggs breakfast is way better than that old morning regimen of cold, gloopy oatmeal and Tang that I used to eat…and you used to eat too, whenever I had extra. Another thing I don’t totally miss about the road life is your daily appearance at my camp abode in the morning just as I was making the nice coffee I paid for and you loved. Also, I wonder how you got wind of my new apartment so quickly? Not an hour after I signed the lease, you hit me up for a place to crash. You must have started borrowing someone else’s computer to learn of my new home since mine is no longer available for you to constantly borrow. By the way, that porn you were checking out came with a surprise: a virus that wiped my whole hard drive. Thanks, brah.

It’s really great that you’re always pumped to be stoked. It really makes me feel good as a contributing member of society when you constantly remind me of my weekend warrior status. That nirvana you attained through the pseudo-religion you cobbled together between bong rips and cases of cheap beer sounds pretty great. It’s impressive that you achieved enlightenment while couch surfing, dumpster diving, and climbing every day. Remember your long-winded tirades against corporate America? I’m pretty sure that corporate America was the original source of that trust fund you’ve been living off for the past six years. You know, it’s funny — I was just thinking about how that sleeping bag of yours, which was a near permanent fixture on my living room floor, was a top moneymaker for the corporation that had it manufactured in Asia.

Speaking of money, this is just a reminder that those IOU’s you left in my pantry are starting to yellow. Maybe you can write me a fresh one. I’m not saying that Clif Bar you shared with me at the crag last month wasn’t totally clutch, but it still just doesn’t feel like we’re square. Sorry if that harshes your mellow… You did mention something about my regular paycheck and how you would never put your money in the pockets of big chain grocery stores. Instead, by eating my bread and milk (from the big chain grocery store) you were able to save up and hand over your “hard-earned” ducats to big airlines. How was your trip to Fontainebleau, anyway?

This all probably sounds like griping thinly veiled in sarcasm. Don’t get me wrong; I do envy your carefree dirtbagging lifestyle. Most hard-core climbers at one point in their lives embark on an epic journey based around climbing sweet lines and living the life. It’s just that most people’s road trips end after a few months, or maybe a year. After six years, however…well, let’s just say it’s truly impressive that you’ve been able to find so many decent, hardworking people to support your endless summer. I guess it’s ‘cause you’re pretty charming and a great climbing buddy. Your Beta was unbeatable, and you always gave me that extra push to go one bolt higher. Your looks help too, but I don’t quite understand how you’re “pulling so much tail you had to get an app for that,” (especially since you don’t own a phone). I mean, I know that dirtbagging is just that: living out of your car and being dirty and smelly, but it’s funny that the one room in my house I’ve never actually seen you go in also happens to contain the shower.

Anyway I just wanted to write and tell you I’m raising a Schlitz to you (since you drank all my good beer last time you were here and didn’t replace it). You’re my anti-hero. You annoy park rangers and land managers, offend families camping with their children, and are generally embarrassing to be with in public. But I still kinda get it. The rock is your calling. All that responsibility, worry, and work is for suckers. Sometimes I even agree with you. And you know what? You’re still always welcome at my place.

Signed,
Julie

P.S. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, so to be safe, I’m sending this to Rifle, Hueco Rock Ranch, Miguel’s Pizza, and Camp 4 — I know you’ll pass through at least one of those places soon.