The Van | Adventures | Shawn Lenker

The timber-lined interior of an empty van, rope and a crate along one wall, rear doors open onto a sunlit wooded track. — The shell, before anything An empty van with its doors open onto a wooded track.

The shell, before anything An empty van with its doors open onto a wooded track.

I've spent a fair amount of time deciding what belongs in a van I haven't bought. Two desks, for a start. Whatever romance there is in working from the coast would wear off quickly with a laptop balanced on my knees.

There are sketches, systems I've priced, and other people's builds I've spent time reading about. Buying one would mean finding the money, several months to work on it, and somewhere it could sit in pieces. Other things have kept coming first. I'd still like to build it with her, whenever we're both ready to take it on.

She may look at my drawings and move the bed. By then I'll probably have a thoroughly reasoned explanation for why it goes exactly where I've put it, which should make that conversation entertaining. I've had plenty of time to think about how I'd use the space. We'll need to find out how she would.

A hand-drawn van floor plan on a workbench beside a brass compass, a pencil, a tray of pastels and a mug of black coffee. — The floor plan A floor plan to spread out and work through together.

The floor plan A floor plan to spread out and work through together.

Some of the practical things are already on my list. A proper place for each of us to work. Starlink, solar, and enough battery capacity that we aren't anxiously watching the charge every time the weather turns grey. Water for washing, heat for cold nights at altitude, and insulation worth spending money on before we cover it with something prettier. I'd keep the outside plain. We can enjoy what's inside without announcing it along every street where we park.

Fitting all of that into a van should keep us occupied. We'll measure something wrong or discover that a perfectly sensible drawing doesn't leave enough room to move. There'll be decisions where both answers work and we simply prefer different ones. For those, I'd like us to give more weight to whoever cares most. I can argue a point long after it deserves the attention, and I'd rather put that energy into getting the thing built.

We'll learn how we work together. I may get quiet when I'm frustrated, or keep trying to finish something we should leave until morning. She'll have her own ways of doing things. With any luck we'll get better at noticing when the other person needs a hand, a break, or to be left alone with the instructions.

A warmly lit workshop at night, sawdust on the bench and floor, tools racked on the wall, a dark blue window behind. — The winter it takes Tools put down for the evening, with more to do tomorrow.

The winter it takes Tools put down for the evening, with more to do tomorrow.

Then we can find out what we missed. A first trip should be good for that. If something leaks or the heater gives us trouble, I'd like to remember how much of this we were learning as we went. We can open the doors, get the tools out, and see what needs fixing.

Once it's working, there's a week in the desert I'd like to take. A month by the coast, with our work coming along. Friends and family we could visit wherever they've ended up, bringing our own place to sleep. I'd plan enough of the route to know what we're heading toward and leave some room for a turn we hadn't intended to take.

A camper van parked alone on a stony desert pullout at night, warm light spilling from its open rear doors, snow-capped mountains and a crescent moon beyond. — Somewhere with no cell service Room to stop for the night and see where we've arrived.

Somewhere with no cell service Room to stop for the night and see where we've arrived.

We'd photograph and film the build and the trips, then make stories from what we'd brought back. The machines I work on could help with the editing and production. That's part of what the desks are for, along with the connection that lets us keep working when we stay somewhere a little longer.

I'm looking forward to the driving too. She could put on an album I've never heard, or we could get far enough into an audiobook that stopping for fuel feels like an interruption. Six hours beside someone gives a conversation time to wander. There are things about me I'd like her to know that probably won't come out in the first hour.

Two brass mugs of coffee and a folded map on a rug inside a van, a basket of fruit and a lit lantern beside them, open doors framing a misty river valley at sunrise. — Coffee on the tailgate Coffee and a map before deciding where to go next.

Coffee on the tailgate Coffee and a map before deciding where to go next.

Some stretches we might barely talk. I'd be happy with that too, if we're comfortable beside each other and neither of us feels obliged to fill the silence.

When we're ready to settle down and start a family, I'd like to keep the van in the barn. We could take it out for a week in the fall or offer it to friends who come to stay. The children could grow up sleeping in it. Eventually one of them might ask to borrow it for a trip that sounds much too long, and I'd have to remember whose idea this all was.

Twenty years in, perhaps we'll pull the interior apart and build it for the two of us again. We'll know by then which decisions worked. I'm curious whether the bed will end up where I first drew it, though I probably shouldn't bring that up while we're taking it out.

A blue and white camper van parked inside a timber barn, split firewood stacked beside it, preserving jars on a shelf and a child's bicycle leaning nearby. — Kept in the barn A place in the barn between trips.