This isn’t the normal “dude in a van” story. It’s about more than that. It’s about a guy who reclaimed his life. It’s about a guy who quit his job and set himself free.
A few years ago, Matt McDonald hopped into his van and drove across the western U.S., Alaska, and Canada. He didn’t go with a partner, a friend, or even a dog. He was seeking solitude. This, when you think about it, is something most of us haven’t encountered in a long time. When was the last time you drove into the wilderness, started a campfire, and just sat in silence? Hell, when was the last time your cell phone was more than an arm’s reach away? Maybe you aren’t interested in that sort of life — but Matt was. So he subjected himself to a two-year long inner monologue. He let his psyche tug at him with questions and he tried to figure out a few answers.
Currently, Matt has landed in Hawaii (he met a girl). We spoke to him about travel, fear, loneliness, and the universal truths he learned on the road. As you’ll see, it’s hard not to be inspired by a guy who’s motto is “We are built to explore.”
What was your route and how long were you on the road before heading to Hawaii?
My route was random, and I journeyed for about two years before finding Hawaii. At the beginning, I followed a northern path from California to Alaska (spring/summer/fall of ’13), with long swaths in Oregon and Washington on the way up. I took my time coming back from Alaska through through British Columbia and Alberta. I crossed the northern U.S. (Dakotas, Minnesota) to spend Christmas with my family in the Midwest. Then I jetted back out West to spend the winter of ’14 in the mountains and towns of Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico. The spring/summer/fall of ’14 was spent back on the west coast, with long chunks in Oregon and Washington, before spending a month in Volkswagen van in Norway. I discovered a deep love for the land of the Pacific Northwest (Cascades), as well as Alaska, and Southwest Colorado.
If you could go back and give pre-van Matt some advice going into the trip, what would you tell him?
Go slower. Go deeper. Carry less. Do less.
I tried to do it all. I wrote, photographed, climbed, skied, biked, mountaineered, spearfished, backpacked, kayaked, rode horses, forested, hunted, tracked wildlife, and took part in pretty much every other outdoor activity possible. I learned so much and know the weirdest, most diverse group of people across the West now. I don’t regret any of that. But at the end of the two years, I was (somehow) carrying gear for almost all those activities in my 80 square-foot van. I was ready for anything at any time. Sound idyllic? Yeah, in a way. But I essentially created my own paradox of choice.
I’d wanted a simpler life, but I found myself overdoing it, and saying yes to everything. There were certainly benefits to that, but if I had to do it again, I would say, “I’m going to focus on these two or three things, and really do them well.” Maybe a focused photography project and skiing in the Chugach for six months. Maybe writing a book and getting really good at surfing in Baja. I kind of look at those two years as “scouting” for future trips. I can’t look back and say, “Man, I got really good at that,” which I think is what we all crave. Becoming a jack-of-all trades is no doubt cool, but it still leaves something lacking.
Was there a piece of advice you got or a conversation you had that you found yourself thinking back on frequently?
One big thing that never settled out with me and probably never will: traveling forced me to acknowledge that the world isn’t as simple as we make it. We label people (liberal, conservative, hipster, jock, type A, etc.) to make it easier on ourselves cognitively. We form camps and keep the others out. On the road, people take you in and make you family, and your labels get obliterated by their hospitality. Something about having a stranger at the dinner table brings people’s guard down. I stayed with people who had so much love in their hearts, but were also racist. We assume people like that are all hate and no good, but it doesn’t always work that way, which makes things very complicated – should I hate this person or love them?
For some individuals, there was no resolution for me.
Why did you set off alone?
I think deep down, I needed to do this alone, to prove I could… to essentially validate my own self-sufficiency. Before the trip, I had accomplished some so-called “great things” — was almost an Olympic swimmer, went to a top college, had top jobs — but there was a growing piece inside of me that felt like I did some (or all) of that for other people, to gain their approval. Of course, this approval never came, since it has to be found internally. So hitting the road was a rebellion for me to finally do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. To pursue the present. To be the only one who had to approve.
On the way, I learned a lot about writing and photography, and get to keep all those special experiences and relationships that can never be recreated. But I still wrestle with self-validation, even today. A road trip won’t fix your problems, but it will make them clearer, that’s for sure. And for that I’m thankful.
Other factors that led me to fly solo: I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time and none of my good friends had the same ability to just cut all the lines loose.
In traveling life, a person often finds a new routine and takes comfort in that routine, just like they would back home. What was your standard daily routine?
Wake up with the sun, be really cold (usually) for a few hours. Spend those few hours making coffee, eating breakfast, and writing (I journaled everyday). Take a shit in the woods. Then one of four things: drive to a new location, stay and do an activity (i.e. climb Mt. Hood), stay put and chill (didn’t do this nearly enough), do something new with the people I was staying with (build fence, ride horses, fish, chop wood, bullshit, watch The Big Lebowski, etc.). The evenings either involved trading stories (currency) with new friends over bourbon and a fire or being alone – building a fire, watching the stars swirl above me, and reading a book.
I’d say I spent 70% of my nights alone, the rest with friends (new or old).
To run with what you said about your time being a part of a big evolution, could you expand on that? How are you different today than you were before setting off alone?
I’m connected to Nature in a different way (and I was fiercely connected before I left). Now, I see Nature as an integral part of my life force, not something to go to, not a thing I escape to. It’s all around me, all the time, moving in and out of me. Different places and parts of the natural world have personalities to me, just like different humans. Frequently, the stars or coyotes or river rapids were my only “companions.” I ran with this and let the elements of Nature put me in a mystical state of connection, similar to how I imagine our first people viewed their relationship with the earth.
A negative thing I picked up is a restlessness now that I’m “off the road.” You could call that wanderlust, and social media only makes it worse. I’m working hard to build my post-road life into a blend of “wandering” and “normal.” I don’t want to end up like [Jack] Kerouac or [Christopher] McCandless — who either never found happiness, or discovered its secret too late: Happiness is best when shared. I want to have a family and to do that, I have to control my wanderlust, or I will miss out on a lot. I’m definitely getting there.
Also living the way I did hardened me up way too much. For a good time after, I found comforts like a warm shower, nice bed, and killer Netflix series to be repelling. I couldn’t enjoy them. That kind of attitude doesn’t allow you to hang out or relate to many folks. Here’s the truth: if you can enjoy a warm shower the same way you enjoy an alpine river shower, you’ve just opened up your life to more sources of joy, and that’s the essence of being human. It’s what we all deserve.
I think, personally, being alone scares the shit out of me. In theory I prefer it, but the fact of the matter is, I’m scared of where my mind might go when left to its own devices. Whether it scared you or not, you faced that head on. How was the process of being alone with your own thoughts for that amount of time?
Oh man! I was terrified at the beginning, but just at night. Every sound would keep me up or wake me. Even though I was in the most remote locations, where there probably wasn’t a human for miles, irrational fear would get the better of me. I was exposed. It took me about six months to get used to that exposed feeling. I got really good at bailing on a camp spot if I felt like the energy was off. If I got a weird feeling, there was no way I could sleep, so I’d just move on, even if it was 3 a.m.
I wouldn’t say I ever got completely comfortable, since I was always my own last line of defense. I never carried a gun because the only way they’re truly effective is if you adopt a “shoot first, ask questions later” mentality, and that never resonated with me. However, I slept with bear spray/knife ready and an exit plan every night. Some of that was survival, but a lot of it was societal… the constant reminder (from the media) of how dangerous the world is. I came to learn (at least in western North America), that is not true. I found the opposite to be true. I trust humanity more. But I’d like to think I’m damn good at reading a threat now.
How long did it take to find comfort in the solitude?
Solitude has been comfortable to me for quite some time. I don’t know why, it’s just so quiet. By its very nature, it’s meditation. Sleeping in solitude is where the irrational fear crept in for me (see answer above).
Were there moments you are glad you were alone? Were there moments you wish you could have shared?
A lot of times I enjoyed being alone, so I could explore at my own speed and method. I found myself craving deep human interaction every week and a half or so. So I would seek it out, whether that be initiating a conversation with a fellow camper, hanging out in a town ’til I met someone interesting, or calling a friend further down the road. Towards the end of the two years, I got so damn good at reading maps (yes, paper maps) and finding the most epic camp spots. Places I couldn’t believe I had found. And all I wanted to do was share that with someone – not with the 40,000 strangers on Instagram, with flesh and blood, in real life. That realization was a turning point for me, and it followed the same end-game realization of all wanderers who wander long enough (and write about it): Happiness is definitely best when shared.
How did Hawaii come about?
Love. I came to Maui to photograph a friend’s wedding and met my girlfriend. I always joked my trip would end when I got bored, ran out of money, or met a girl. Turns out it was “met a girl.” I moved to Maui after knowing her for a few months, and she made me promise that “I wasn’t moving for her.” That made sense to me… no need to put an unbelievable amount of pressure on a budding relationship. So I said something like, “I’m 60% moving because it’s Hawaii, 40% because of you.” But I was really moving to be with her, haha! Hawaii is crazy different from anything I’ve ever known… it took me a while to feel that Home feeling here. Living here is completely different from vacationing here. But I’m absolutely in love with the place now. Ultimately, I’d love to have some kind of home base out here and on the mainland – perhaps in the Pacific Northwest or Alaska. Vanlife will definitely continue…
More photos from Matt’s adventures:
