The Overland Expo

A MUDDY MESS OF AN ADVENTURE

Wind. Rain. Sleet. Snow. MUD! No, I’m not talking about training to be a carrier for the US Postal Service. I’m talking about the weather at this years Overland Expo West.

We saw the forecast, talked about it, and decided to go anyway. It’s THE EXPO after all, and we’d already made friends (I should say Wyatt and Carson had made friends – because they mercilessly stalk everyone they see with cross-country rigs) with dozens of folks who were going. Early Thursday we broke our camp on the sunny, warm, sandy shores of Lake Powell and headed to Mormon Lake – about thirty miles SE of Flagstaff.

In the course of the drive we’d gained about four-thousand feet and a cold wind blew steadily down through the trees and across the dry lakebed challenging us as we set up camp amidst the thousands of others. The first night was a blast. Cold and windy to be sure, but we expected it and the array of food, alcohol, and stories easily offset the weather.

The rain began. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it when we were setting up camp…maybe it was because that’s where the camping for the Expo was – period. Maybe it was because thousands of others were doing the same thing. Whatever the reason it wasn’t a good one because the rule that I ignored was born of hard experience. NEVER CAMP ON A DRY LAKE BED WHEN YOU’RE EXPECTING RAIN!

It rained most of the night. Not hard, but steadily. In the morning I reaped the reward of my oversight . Mud! Not simply Mud. MUD!! The kind that attacks your ankles and rips shoes from your feet. Mud so slippery that a single misstep plants you flat on your back and renders you much like a rolly poly bug trying to get back on your feet. The rain continued.

Wyatt and Carson carefully navigated the ten yards from their tent to the camper. The Go Fish marathon began. Around noon the rain eased and Wyatt and I challenged the mud. My first step onto the ground went up over the front of my boots and held fast. Any attempt to directly raise my foot upset the delicate balance of my left foot on terra not so firma. I quickly improvised a method for walking. One foot flat and with the other I would lift my heel, while keeping my toes flat on the ground. When my heel released…if my heel released…I would lift that foot straight up and take a small step…hopefully in my intended direction.

The quarter mile that separated our site from the main exhibition site took us no less than forty minutes to navigate. But once we were there…happiness. Adventurers and adventure gear as far as the eye could see. Food. Beer. Stories. Stories from the people who’ve been out there. Five, ten, fifteen, even forty years on the road. Multiple times around the world. Our accomplishments, which had blown the minds of those close to us, were instantly enfeebled. These were people who are as independent as any I’ve ever heard of. They didn’t try to feign height by standing on the shoulders of others. They stood on their own. I had found an island of true adventurers in an ocean of imposters. It was as if all that was good in Mos Eisley Spaceport had been concentrated in one place. These are the people I’d cast my lot with…if they’d have me.

Wyatt and I sat and soaked it all in. Then the snow began. We stayed until we were too cold to take any more and then we turned our backs on the stories and the happiness and began the long slippery slog back to our camp. It was brutally windy and COLD. The precipitation would alternate from snow that would delicately swirl around us to freezing rain that would pelt our already raw skin.

Earlier in the day I had commented that the conditions couldn’t get any worse. I figured that if there was a difficulty scale to mud then we’d already reached the max. WRONG! The days moisture had made the trek home even more difficult. It would alternate between incredibly sticky and dangerously slick so quickly that every step was a sort of dry stakes roulette.

Morale was low back at the camper. We had but one pair of truly appropriate shoes for this kind of goo (mine), and they’d been gone all afternoon. Wyatt’s shoes were trashed. He offered their services, but they were wet and muddy throughout. There were no takers. In the end, we all shared my boots and I ferried anyone to the bathroom whose feet were too small or too numerous for them.

On my last ferry duty to the bathroom I passed by the camp of some friends from Australia on their first leg of a journey to Patagonia. We’d spent a couple of days together in the much nicer climes of Glen Canyon. Chris looked at me above the steam rising from his mug of soup. “Y’know mate”, he said in classic Aussie understatement. “This is downright unpleasant.”

I returned to our camp and surveyed the scene. The step ladder leading into the camper was dangerously caked in the goo. The rear bumper was worse. Entering or exiting the camper was now probably more dangerous than walking in the mud. Mud coated the entry way. Mud was on the cabinetry. Mud was EVERYWHERE, and there was no end in sight.

When you sleep with a fiberglass roof that’s about four feet above your head you’re pretty aware of when it’s raining. That night we barely heard any rain at all. There was sun visible when we woke up. We eagerly opened the shades with high hopes of seeing drying ground. Instead we saw three inches of SNOW. Malia looked at me. “I thought the plan was to follow the sun,” she said. Feeling her building wrath I slowly backed up agreeing that it was. “Then can you please show me where the fucking sun is?!”

The snow melted and added standing water that hid the mud fun below. By now the faux-verlanders had packed up and gone to hotels or left altogether. Only the hard core had remained and now most of us were stuck. Undaunted, I grabbed Carson and Kaila and we headed for the show. Kaila had decided that she wasn’t going to be cooped up inside waiting for better weather or the appropriate footwear so she wore what she had and joined us. Her sneakers filled with mud on her first step and didn’t empty until we left. She never complained once.

I can’t quite find the way to describe how incredibly difficult it was to navigate the terrain that separated us from the expo. The roads were now torn to bits by jeeps that were playing in the mud and others who were simply trying to escape. Every step required calculation. Ten minutes and we were still only one hundred yards from our camper. “Hey!” “Do y’all need a ride?” My head spun…please be talking to us. The quick turn of our heads upset our tenuous balance and as we regained our footing a small German made six wheel drive unit easily made it’s way to us. “Y’all look like you could use a lift”, it’s driver commented.

We quickly and happily planted ourselves in the small flatbed that his rig provided. We returned to our camp and liberated the rest of our rag tag crew and made it to the expo in less than five minutes. Quick negotiations on my part guaranteed us as many rides as we needed going forward. I paid a steep price…my last six pack of Racer 5…but I was happy to pay it. Life was good again.

The expo provided more food, beer, and stories. We met Anna and Pablo from Barcelona, who’ve been on the road for fifteen years in the coolest little Mitsubishi 4X4. Gary and Monica of the original Turtle Expedition, who to me after forty years on the road, are adventure royalty. And many others. Kaila was particularly impressed by Danelle who is seeking to become the first woman to hit all fifty states on a motorcycle.

The sun returned. The mud began to dry and thicken. We had transportation to and from our camp. Morale was high. On our way back to camp it was clear that our shuttle driver had been enjoying the fruits of his enterprise. He invited us to join him at his camp for a bit and I accepted…partly hoping I might talk him out of at least one of my Racers. Sadly, none remained.

THIS RAINBOW DIDN’T DELIVER

We stood talking ankle deep in the stiffening mud. Then the weather played a cruel trick on us. The clouds closed in on us and the rain returned. In what seemed like just a few minutes the days gains were erased. The we broke the rules. We looked at each other. Looked at the bundles of wood on the ground and built a fire. For some reason – in the middle of a dry lakebed – in the rain – fires were forbidden. For some other reason people were obeying. Calculating that no one could get to us to do anything to get to us now even if they wanted to, we put together a properly warm act of civil disobedience. As we warmed by the fire Dave handed me another beer pulled a dutch oven from a buried bed of coals that I hadn’t seen and asked if I’d like to have some elk stew. And so we sat in the rain around an illegal campfire eating elk stew cooked in a dutch oven in the ground. It was the best crappy night I’ve ever had.

The next morning came clear and sunny but the damage was done. Few would make it out of the mud without assistance and the profiteers had begun to descend on the scene. Once clear of the mud we drove nearly straight to the clearest spot we could find on the weather radar. Lone Rock beach at Lake Powell. Sunshine and seventy five degree temps were there for us and we laid on the warm sand soaking it in for a long time before we turned our attention towards removing the mud from every cranny of everything we owned.

Special thanks to: Ron and Rick @ Bivouac trailer. Tom @ Four Wheel Campers. Tepui tents. Chris @ The Overland Journal. Pablo and Anna. Gary and Monica, and Danelle.