We Back Home to the Van

Coming back from Sedona felt funny, because the van was parked there waiting for us like a loyal little cabin on wheels, and my brain kept calling it home before I even realized I was doing it. 

After the climb, both Amanda and I were completely wiped out, the kind of tired that doesn’t show up until you finally stop moving and your body gets a chance to speak up. We were happy, proud, still buzzing from the red rock views, but the moment we sat down, the soreness showed up like it had been waiting its turn.

I used to go to the gym every couple of days back in my old life, so I thought I had a decent base. Sedona humbled me anyway. Climbing uses your body in a different way than machines and routines do, and it asks for balance, stability, and patience, not just strength. 

By the time we got back, my muscles felt tight and heavy, and Amanda’s knees were giving her trouble, the kind of discomfort that makes you move carefully even when you’re trying to act fine.

First Aid, Van Edition

One thing I’m quietly proud of is that we were prepared. Before we ever left, we packed a small first aid kit and tucked it in the trunk area, because the road is unpredictable and tiny problems can feel big when you’re far from a familiar pharmacy. That night, we pulled it out like we’d rehearsed it.

I grabbed the Salonpas patches and stuck one on where my muscles were screaming the loudest, and it felt like relief arrived in a simple, practical form. Amanda had a small wound from the climb, nothing scary, but enough to need care, so she cleaned it with antiseptic and took her time with it. 

That moment was oddly comforting, because it reminded us that we weren’t doing something reckless. We were doing something real, and we were learning how to take care of ourselves inside this new kind of life.

Two Days of Good Enough Food

To be honest, our food during the Sedona stretch was as basic as it gets. Two days of water, bread, and a couple of MREs can keep you going, but it doesn’t exactly make you feel human. It’s survival food, the kind you eat fast and forget, and once the adrenaline wears off, your body starts asking for warmth and something that tastes like comfort.

That’s when Amanda looked at me and said, very calmly, “I will cook something to get ready for the next trip.” 

The way she said it mattered, because it wasn’t only about food. It was her way of claiming this lifestyle too, turning the van from a vehicle into a place where we live, rest, recover, and prepare for what’s next.

Curry in a Tiny Kitchen

We had a small fridge, not much space, but enough to keep a few real ingredients. I opened it and pulled out beef, potatoes, and carrots, and suddenly it felt like we were doing something normal again, just in a smaller, stranger setting. 

Amanda set up at the little table, the one that barely fits our elbows if we both sit, and started slicing with the kind of focus that makes a cramped space feel organized.

Outside, the air was cold, the kind of cold that seeps in quietly and makes you want to stay close to anything warm. Amanda decided on curry because it made sense for the weather and for our bodies. Warm food after a hard climb hits differently. It doesn’t just fill you up, it settles you.

The smell of curry in a van is hard to describe until you’ve experienced it, because it changes the whole mood of the space. It turns the van into a kitchen, then into a dining room, then into a safe little shelter from the cold. 

We ate slowly, talked about Sedona, replayed the best parts, laughed about how confident we were before the climb, and started tossing around ideas for the next destination like it was a secret we were building together.

That night, with sore muscles, a patched-up knee, and a warm meal in a tiny rolling home, something clicked into place. The decision to live like this stopped feeling like a plan and started feeling like a life.