#dirtbagswag whips 001: The Vinson Van

Andrew, Bethany, and their big green van

I met Andrew in high school, and for a season of my life, we, for all intents and purposes, lived together. Skipping school, skateboarding, listening to punk music, and eating honey butter chicken biscuits; we were, at that moment, living the dream. 

But dreams change and I think that's a good thing. I moved away to grad school and his band started to get to get serious. So he bought a big green van. They toured a little bit. They were living the dream. 

But dreams change and Andrew fell in love and got married. They had a little house, a little cat, and they still had a giant green van. All in all, they were living the dream.

But dreams change and now they're selling their things, moving into that same giant green van, driving across the country, working at Yosemite Park, and living every dirtbag's dream.

Andrew and Beth are teaming up with ACMNP (A Christian Ministry in the National Parks) to help lead Sunday services for staff and guests, while also serving the park's rangers, hospitality staff, and the

hundreds of other people employed there. They'll be there all summer and through the fall, leaving with the last bit of committed, cold-weathered climbers. Andrew prefers surfing, but I have a feeling he'll send The Freerider in a day within months of moving there.

Dreams change and I think that's a good thing. And I think this one is totally awesome. They leave at the beginning of May and you can follow their adventures through the eyes of Gatlin, their garden gnome totem to all things fun on instagram @gatlintravels

WHIP SPECS
make and model: Ford Econoline 150 Hi-Top Conversion Van
under the hood: 5.4L Triton V8
gas mileage: "not great"
dirtbag mods: took out the passenger seats and put in a raised double bed with storage space beneath; surf board rack; privacy curtains.
Andrew's favorite: the comfy captain seats
Bethany's favorite: the handmade curtains (not pictured)

@gatlintravels

A Man and His Hat: A Eulogy

The relationship between a man and his hat is perhaps one of the most intimate relationships that can ever be had this side of eternity. Rain or shine, nothing comes between a man and his hat save for hair alone. Only marriage, or a beloved Golden Retriever, has such relationship status. It is a relationship for all to see, free and open to public judgment -- god or bad, warranted or unwarranted. And still, man and his hat go alone to be alone in the quiet of their shared life together. Shared life, as ordinary and spectacular as daily life itself.

A man with such a hat knows that the relationship between man and hat cannot and can never be built upon utilitarianism. A hat is more than a head covering or harbinger of shade. Nor can a the relationship be built upon the sandy foundation of mere fashion or attractiveness. Superficiality only goes so far. A man and his hat share a common bond, a common thread, a shared fabric of being. Lucky is the man who knows such a friend and companion as a hat. 

My hat stumbled into my life unexpectedly in the summer of 2009 as I was perusing the shelves of Goodwill when it caught my eye. She was a 90s era snapback hardly, if ever, worn. Her perfectly Crayola Crayon red bill was flat and crisp. The "M" stitched on the the front was elegant and noble. Her perfectly sewn panels popped the sharpest royal blue. And of course, the bubble print "Mickey" and the iconic Mouse himself were stitched exquisitely on her backside. She was beautiful. 

Together, my hat and I skated all over Tallahassee and the southeast. We attended innumerable punk

hardcore shows. Sweating and crowd surfing and stage diving. More than a few times, she would go missing in the bustle of the pit only to be returned after the show by a stranger who had picked her up off the beer soaked floor. It is true that on more than one occasion, I have been recognized in other states by people I had never met before who had seen pictures of the royal blue Mickey Mouse hat at shows. 

Together, my hat and I paddled Florida's scenic and wild rivers and surfed the coast in my short-lived whitewater kayaking days. 

Together, my hat and I moved to Memphis for an internship. Suffered through the mid-south's ungodly hot and humid summer working with teenagers and painting houses in Memphis' Orange Mound neighborhood where mischievous seventh graders would try to splatter or swipe paint across her majesty. We got over it. 

Together, my hat and I graduated from Florida State University and moved to Nashville, Tennessee. She was there by my side, or on top of my head rather, through two relationships.  

Together, my hat and I logged countless miles on the Appalachian Trail, traveled thrice times across the country, worked as a mountain guide in Colorado, summited over a dozen big mountains, climbed hundreds of pitches on steep southeastern sandstone, suffered through two Wild Hog Canoe Races, three broken bones, and three years of graduate school. 

My Mickey Mouse hat has accompanied me nearly every day since that fateful afternoon in 2009, minus a few unintended extended absences where she went missing (like the time she got eaten by Amanda's couch in 2010 or the alpine storm debacle on Wetterhorn Peak in 2013). 

Over the years, her age has begun to show. Her vintage snapback, now coveted by hipsters and hip-hop enthusiasts alike, has been mended by electrical tape, duct tape, crazy colored duct tape, and finally climbers tape. Her bold royal blue has darkened to a near black and her crisp red bill is bent to perfection and tarred by grease. The giant "M" stitched on her front panel is all but lost to paint and grease, and chalk. Her sweatband has all but completely disintegrated. The iconic Mickey Mouse has lost most of its stitching. To many who knew her in her earlier days, she is completely unrecognizable. 

But like cheese, I thought, she was only getting better with age. 

But well-intentioned friends and family members and malevolent naysayers and detractors would sling harmful, hateful words like "gross," "nasty," and "disgusting" at us. I always dreamt of a day when a pretty girl would wear my Mickey hat, as pretty girls wear their beau's hat at the beach or in the woods. But no girl would touch the hat on my head, let alone put it on her own. It was true that she was in a permanent state of greasy, grimy, moist dampness. But how could they? How could they if they knew of our adventure, of our history? How could they if they how much my hat and I had been through together? So together, my hat and I pressed on for a few more years. 

She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. A veritable appendage of my head. Together, my hat and I had more shared life experiences than I have with most people. And saying good-bye is hard. 

Like a cowboy who must put down his noble steed, it was time. Perhaps I had been in denial for sometime. Perhaps I couldn't let go. Perhaps I let it go for too long. Perhaps I should have put her out of her misery sooner. How does one determine such things? Ask any dog owner and they'll tell you that you cannot. In an inexplicable moment, you just know. Something triggers it and the compassion to let go overwhelms the compassion to hold on. And it is no easy thing. 

She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. And saying good-bye is hard. Together, we rode to Goodwill, the Drive-By Truckers, "Goddamn Lonely Love" on the stereo, windows down, wind in her bill one last time. It was right. And it was right that she should be there to determine and meet her successor. Though no hat "successes," replaces, or fills the void in the heart that your old hat will leave. They only carry on the story, build upon the tradition and legacy left before them. 

She was more than a hat. She was a part of me. And saying good-bye is hard. No "thank you" could capture my sincere gratitude. No obituary could narrate our biography. No eulogy could tell the intense feeling of deep affection. May she rest in peace. 

In this difficult time of mourning, friends, family, and readers are encouraged to leave comment expressing their favorite Mickey Mouse hat story. 

Winter 2014 Mixtape

winter on the Cumberland Plateau 

Seasonal playlists are a labor of love. First, I put together a list of songs that, to me, match the season at hand; I listen the crap out of them all season long. I group and order each song so that they flow well and can be listened from first to last, in one setting. Then I make them available for friends to listen to, singalong to, and share. And I really like this winter's.

It opens with the sultry harmonies of the ladies in Mountain Man and then hits the ground running with a pair of grizzled yet melodic punk anthems that beg to be sang along with. The Weakerthans transition into the rest of the mix peppered with americana, country, and just enough good ol' fashioned rock n' roll to keep you awake.

The "rough draft" of this playlist was thrown together before a long car ride, and that's what this finalized group of songs most appropriately lend themselves to: long car rides with friends. Because, for better or worse, "we're only as good as the company we keep," sings Florida's americana veterans on the last track. So whether you're wrestling southeastern pebbles, chasing the Gulf Coast's cold-front swells, or just going to grandmother's house, this mixtape will help you get over the river and through the woods.

download here | download here | download here

1. Mountain Man - Buffalo (Made the Harbor)
2. Iron Chic - Bogus Journey (The Constant One)
3. Diarrhea Planet - Separations (I'm Rich Beyond Your Wildest Dreams)
4. The Weakerthans - Psalm For the Elks Lodge Last Call (Reconstruction Site)
5. Peggy Honeywell - Sing Sung Sang (Faint Humms)
6. Rising Appalachia - Across the Blue Ridge Mountains (The Sails of Self)
7. Gregory Alan Isakov - The Stable Song (That Sea, The Gambler)
8. Grand Falconer - Midwest (Midwest)
9. The Branches - O Come O Come Emmanuel (Songs for Christmas)
10. Teenage Bottlerocket - Go With the Flow (Freak Out!)
11. Uncle Tupelo - Screen Door (No Depression)
12. Iron & Wine - Winter Prayers (Ghost on Ghost)
13. The Band - Christmas Must Be Tonight (Islands)
14. Red City Radio - We Are the Sons of Woody Guthrie  (To The Sons and Daughters of Woody Guthrie)
15. Have Gun, Will Travel - Take Me Home, Alice (Fiction, Fact, or Folktale?)

Winter 2013 was pretty good too.

Some Thoughts on Turning 25

the birthday people laughing about our failed 13b attempts

For all of our freakish similarities, my sister and I have two very different notions about birthdays. For Annie, it's not just a birthday, it's a "birthday month" full of small treats, large dinners, and pinterest worthy parties. I on the other hand take a more Ron Swanson approach. I don't like loud noises, I don't like people making a fuss, and I think birthdays were invented by Hallmark to sell birthday cards. Birthdays are just another day that just so happens to be the same day that recurs every other 364 days since the day my mother painfully pushed me out of her whosywhatsy. If anything we should celebrate our mothers on our birthdays.

That being said, your 25th is considered a "milestone." A recent google of "turning 25" brought up a plethora of buzzfeed-esque 25 for 25 lists. "The 25 scariest things about turning 25," "25 things you must know before turning 25," 25 things that get harder after 25" and so on. The related google search? "quarter life crisis." The first result page is full of people having existential crises and websites trying to help those people cope their problems.

And while I'm no stranger to existential crises -- When am I going to put this master's in Old Testament Theology to practice? Where am I going to put this master's in Old Testament Theology to practice? How am I going to pay off all this debt for a master's in Old Testament theology?  -- these moments of crisis come and go faster than it took me to come up with these examples.

Honestly, the thing that haunts me most about "growing up" is the fear of getting fat. So much so that when I recently saw the nurse practitioner about a mysterious cough I had, I anxiously asked her if my height to weight ratio was okay. She laughed at me and said that unless I was worried about being underweight, I'd be fine.

I'll be fine.

Louis C.K. drives it home,  "You'll be fine. You're 25. Feeling unsure and lost is part of your path. Don't avoid it. See what those feelings are showing you and use it. Take a breathe. You'll be okay. Even if you don't feel okay at the time."

He might as well be talking about climbing.

a dry 10b in Little Clear

Which is why I opted to do something different for my 25th birthday. Climbing 25 routes for 25 years beats the hell out of stressing about the future, comparing myself to others, or worse, pretending I like wearing nice clothes and "going out." Living another year seems to me all the more reason to do something rad, not have a quarter life crisis and try to cover it up with copious amounts of alcohol.

And what better fitting way to celebrate the start of my 25th year than with unmet expectations? I didn't climb 25 routes for my 25th birthday. Though I was well on track -- thanks to a day early start -- weather shut me down. The clouds crapped on us and left the rock soaked, even the steep and overhangy ones.

Even without meeting my goal, it was perfect. I spent the weekend with some of the people I love most, doing what I love most: having a good time and climbing. It was spectacular.

Everyone's always asking, "how does it feel to be 25?" Most days I don't feel a day older than 17 or 21, mostly because I still go to school, I still laugh at super long burps, and I still love punk music. I just traded skateboarding for rock climbing. And I'm not some hopeless romantic with an out of control Peter Pan complex.

I'm way more mature in areas that matter: making decisions, articulating decisions, developing world views, trying to be selfless or at least acknowledging when I've been selfish, etc. And yes, I pay bills every month, I have student loans to pay off, I just spent an unexpected $1,400 on car repairs, and every so often I have to spend money on nice clothes I don't want for a friend's wedding I have -- I mean get -- to attend.

Still, I wouldn't go back to being "a kid" for the life of me. Mindy Kaling has an awesomely hilarious memoir, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns) with a chapter titled "Don't Peak in High School" (and I would add college and so on) where she offers a critique of the John Cougar Mellencamp song "Jack and Diane:"

The chorus of "Jack and Diane" is: Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. Are you kidding me? The thrill of living was high school? Come on, Mr. Cougar Mellencamp. Get a life.

Rocky, the world's worst crag dog
being a good crag dog

Being an adult is rad. And it can continue to be rad if you fight for it. And maybe "fighting for it" looks like getting a job and paying some bills. But it also looks a lot like spending a weekend at the Obed with your closest friends and climbing spectacular southeastern cliffs in the cold and the rain.

Special thanks (in order of appearance) to: Brent, for coming a day early to help me get a head start on my ticklist. Jesse, for festering in the rain, bro-ing down in my "natural habitat," tolerating climber lingo, and taking rad pictures. Carol from North Carolina, for being super rad and super cute (call me) and listening to me try to explain my academic endeavors without running away or telling me to shut up. Eli, for showing up and proving to the bonfire crew that I do have friends, for being my friend and climbing partner, and everything else. Rocky the world's worst crag dog, for not being the world's worst crag dog. Jamie, for being my tastefully foul mouthed, delightfully potty brained, wonderfully gutter minded friend and kindred spirit, for the belays, and helping make this weekend happen by being born the day after me. Happy 22nd birthday. Caleb, for showing up later so Carol never saw how dang attractive you are. Eric and Adam from South Carolina, for sharing beta and stoke. See you next weekend. Robin and Vance, for driving all the way from Texas just to hang out! Sorry you got lost. Muriel, for decorating the tent while we were climbing, bringing birthday cake, and always making everyone happy. And a very special thanks to Del and Marty, for the Lilly Pad campground, the southern hospitality, and making the Obed the single greatest climbing experience in the southeast.

What a birthday indeed.

Proficiency or Perfection: The Renaissance of Adequate

They say it takes 10,000 hours of “appropriately guided practice” to perfect a skill, from climbing to chess to violin to Halo. If you want to be good at something, you have to put in the time. And if you want to perform at the highest level of that something, you have to put in an inordinate amount of it. My mind immediately conjures up romantic images of a young Michael Jordan shooting hoops in his dirt driveway, a la Space Jam or Beethoven laboring over the ivories of his beloved piano. 

I can hear the words Parks and Recreation's Ron Swanson saying, “Never half-ass two things, whole ass one thing.” 

Which is a nice sentiment and maybe good advice every now and then, but it isn't reality.

The other evening, I listened to a slightly older, imminently wiser, much better climber friend of mine lament that his life lacked balance. His career as an architect is skyrocketing, and truth be told, he’s one of the seemingly few adults who likes what he does. But his growing career has left zero time for the other thing that he loves and gives him life: climbing. 

Life requires balance. It requires protecting our time and energy. It might require protecting the things we love from the other things we love or the things that make doing the things we love even possible. Life is primary. Climbing is secondary (blasphemy!). And, thank God, so is work and school.  

I don’t want to half-ass anything. I want to whole ass everything but there’s only so much of my moneymaker that can go around. It’s been on my mind a lot lately, even before the aforementioned dinner with friends.

I think I’ve found a pretty nice balance between being a mediocre graduate student and a mediocre climber.

I’ll never be the academic prodigy that I admittedly and selfishly daydream about being. I’m not the brightest of the bright and sure, I could try to be a little brighter. My professors probably wish I would, just like my college and high school professors before them did. But I have passions and talents that don’t involve sitting at a desk all the time.

I’ll never climb 5.13. I’m not a strong climber. I’m not a technically savvy climber. And however much I wanted to be, it was just getting in the way of me having fun. Moreover, I have passions and talents that don’t involve being on the sharp end of the rope.

It might be nice, for a time, to be a dirtbag-at-all-cost romantic. Drop everything and live in a van or in a foreign country. But I have passions and talents that don’t involve being completely unfettered to society. (Why social norms and constructs are altogether considered “bad” by my generation is a mystery to me. And deserves attention that space does not permit here.) I need balance. I need roots.

If my buddy quit his architecture job and stopped training for marathons to be a better climber, would he? Absolutely. But I think what he needs -- what we all need -- is balance. I'd rather be increasingly proficient at a few things than endlessly striving toward perfection in one or two.

I want to be able to write a decent exegetical paper with a compelling theological argument. I want to be a proficient climber who can push my physical and mental limits in the mountains. I want to bake a pie that will knock a girl’s socks off. I want to make people laugh. And I want to have a job that I enjoy doing most of the time. But being well-rounded doesn't mean being an expert.

I want to live a happy, healthy life and I’m doing it. Here's to being adequate. Most of the time.