A TALE OF TWO CARS
I shoved the accelerator to the floor, urging my 2002 Toyota Sienna minivan up an increasingly steep grade somewhere along I-70 in the Colorado Rockies, rooftop box and mountain bike in tow. Gaining momentum as I approached a curve in the road, I changed to the left lane to pass a sluggish semi-truck. Giving it a little extra juice, I heard a sudden sputtering and saw steam streaming from under the hood. Cursing as I quickly lost speed, I merged back behind the semi-truck, frantically looking for a spot to pull over, but none were to be found.
As the van slowed to a stop, I flicked on my flashers, and pulled against the guardrail in the far right lane. There was no shoulder; I simply sat in the right lane of the interstate on an uphill grade after a blind curve—trees blocked the view of oncoming traffic. I turned the key, but the car remained silent. I smelled coolant. I popped the hood.
Eyeing the steady stream of vehicles, I exited my car and quickly made my way to the other side of the guardrail. When the traffic cleared momentarily, I dug frantically in my cargo for the reflective triangle and neon vest that I normally carry for this exact scenario. But I couldn’t find either. I hopped up on the guardrail and desperately waved vehicles over as my shaking hands worked my phone to contact AAA Roadside Assistance.
Thankfully, my uncle’s family owns a condo in the adjacent town of Silverthorne, so I was able to get towed to a nearby shop and crash at their place for a few days while things got figured out. Long story short, coolant leaked into the oil. The engine had seized. $10,000 to fix a $2,000 van. Not worth it. I sold the bucket of bolts to the shop for scrap.
I emptied the contents—essentially my entire life—into a series of friends’ cars to get me and my stuff back to the L1 Media office in Denver. There, at the Battery 621 building, the property owners had offered me one of the Airstream trailers (which they keep onsite for events and shoots) as temporary housing while I got my wheels back under me. I gratefully accepted the offer, and made myself at home in a cozy Airstream Basecamp X trailer parked in the back lot.
Although living on the road when you don’t have a car can be tricky, I’m grateful to have somewhere to lay my head. I’m also immensely grateful for my friends, from Diego and Kari who stored my vehicle for several months, to Ani and Hanson who ran relay to get me back to Denver, to my sister Erin for offering help in any way she could, to Mike and Tom at The Public Works for giving me a home in the Airstream.
As I write this, I’ve been living in the trailer in the alley for a little over a month, punctuated by a work trip to New York City, a weekend adventure out and back to Joe’s Valley, and an increased load of commercial work. Without a vehicle, electric scooters are my new friend. The first snow came and went, and I survived. I can’t complain.
I look forward to the next few months: to the coming of ski season, and ultimately to getting back on the road. But first, I look back, on my vehicles in their glory days.
Those of you who know me personally are probably also familiar with my 2001 Toyota 4Runner, known as Molly Brown (named after the Titanic survivor).
The ideas behind L1 Media were born behind the wheel of Molly Brown. By the time I bought the minivan, I had owned Molly Brown for 5 years, and had been living in her for a little over a year. Sadly she, too, is down for the count, odometer frozen at 380,000 miles. Although not as doomed as the minivan, it’ll take a hefty price tag and a mountain of labor to get her back on the road. We’ll come back to Molly Brown soon.
I purchased the minivan on a whim in the spring of 2022, as a backup vehicle for Molly Brown, who was still operational at the time, but had clocked well over 300,000 miles.
I was in San Francisco, working on a photoshoot for Hoka with Aspen Productions, when I first laid eyes on her.
It was the last day of a four-day shoot. We would be leaving the following morning to drive a gear truck back to Colorado. Still, I knew the van was for me. Molly Brown had served me well for the first year of living in my car, but I was ready for something with a little more room. The van was driven by our on-set security guard, a middle-aged heavyset African American man with a golden tooth, named Rodney. Besides running security for shoots and events, Rodney also flipped cars on the side. He had bought the van earlier that day, and when I inquired about it, we agreed on a fair price, which I paid half as a deposit, before heading out of town on our return trip home to Colorado.
After we unloaded the truck and wrapped the job two days later, I immediately hopped on a flight back to San Francisco to pick up the van and drive it home. I landed at 1AM local time, and Rodney and “Auntie” Java (another security guard from set) picked me up at the airport, drove me to where the van was parked, and handed over the keys. We snapped a quick picture together, and then I took off into the night, determined to make it to Yosemite by the next day.
I had to be back in Denver in time for my next job, which started in about a week. I mapped out an epic itinerary. First would be Yosemite National Park before setting off across the desert for the Grand Canyon, followed by a visit to Monument Valley with unexpected stops at Goosenecks and Goblin Valley State Parks in Utah.
It was a beautiful trip and a solid adventure! The van seemed to be running smoothly.
Here are some of the amazing sights I saw on the road trip from San Francisco to Denver:
Back in Denver, I would initially use my newly-purchased minivan for extra storage, until I could get it registered under my name.
I would eventually discover that, though I had the title in hand, and a bill of sale from Rodney, the Colorado DMV couldn’t process the paperwork. Since Rodney hadn’t had the chance to register the vehicle in his name, he didn’t technically have the right to sell it to me, since he didn’t legally own it. I either needed to get Rodney to register it, pay back taxes, and then to transfer the title to me, or I needed to contact the original owner to begin the process to rebuild the title.
Ultimately, I held insurance on the vehicle, but never got it registered in my name in the year-and-a-half that I owned it. I never got pulled over while driving, and almost always parked on private property, so it never ended up being an issue, aside from the constant anxiety that came from driving a vehicle I didn’t technically own.
Still, having the backup vehicle proved useful almost immediately. Two weeks after bringing the van back to Denver, I happened to pick up a dog who had been abandoned on the side of road in the middle of the night, right in front of my eyes. Not wanting to ditch her at a shelter, and unable to find a friend who would be able to take her in, the sweet pup stayed with me. The 4Runner was a tight fit with a dog, but together, with a lot of patience, we made it work. She adopted the name Stella, after the Jelani Aryeh song Stella Brown, joining Molly in the "Brown” family name.
Over the following summer, I kept both vehicles parked at the rafting company where I worked, able to take the 4Runner offroading and on other adventures, while the minivan served as a basecamp. Throughout the summer, I made some improvements to the van. I added an awning, which provided shade for Stella on hot summer days. I bought a fridge, which ran off an auxiliary battery, which was being charged by solar power. The whole electrical setup was a significant investment, but it was a great quality-of-life improvement, and one I knew I could take with me from vehicle to vehicle in the future.
Towards the end of summer, with ski season approaching, and with the extra space my pup was taking up, I knew that we could use the spaciousness of the minivan. So, after constructing a hasty sleeping platform in my parents’ garage for extra storage, I transferred everything into the minivan, and took off on a fall color-chasing road trip. Stella and I drove across Colorado for almost two weeks, seeking golden leaves and epic views.
That winter, I again utilized the minivan as a basecamp, taking Molly Brown out for skiing day trips. I was grateful for the minivan’s interior space, and with a space heater of a dog, and insulated window coverings (compared to Molly Brown’s curtains), we stayed toasty at night. I kept my ski gear and a bedroll in Molly Brown, should I ever decide to stay overnight somewhere to catch early morning powder.
I made frequent trips up to Steamboat Springs, where some friends were living and working for the winter. Steamboat was seeing record-breaking snowfall, and I took great advantage of having a bunk to crash in. I typically took Molly Brown for the 120-mile excursion over two high mountain passes from Idaho Springs to Steamboat Springs. One time, however, I decided to take the minivan.
Trying to beat an oncoming storm, I drove quickly but smoothly through Eisenhower Tunnel, all the way up to Kremmling, at which point I decided to chain up. Squeezing under the grimy bumper while laying in snow certainly wasn’t my favorite activity. As SUVs and trucks blew by me, I cursed myself, wishing I had driven 4x4-capable Molly Brown. Eventually I got chained up and made it to Steamboat—unlike the half-dozen trucks I saw off the road and into the ditch on the stretch over Rabbit Ears Pass.
In January, for the past 5 years now, some friends and I have taken an annual trip to Joshua Tree National Park. We camp out in the park, typically at Hidden Valley Campsite, a hotspot for rock climbers. We stay as long as we can, some of us for two or three weeks, others, only a weekend. Most of us are there to climb, some to simply hang out, play hacky sack, and vibe.
Hoping to tack some skiing in Tahoe and Mammoth on to this Joshua Tree trip, I decided to take Molly Brown for the 2000-mile journey, knowing I would sacrifice comfort in favor of offroad capability; I knew I would want to explore off the beaten path as much as possible, and I would certainly run into snow along the way. To make things a little more comfortable for myself and Stella, not to mention all my stuff—personal possessions, photography gear, ski gear, backcountry gear, Stella’s food, all of my food, and a way to prepare it—I built a storage system and sleeping platforms, in about 24 hours, before hitting the road.
The hasty build ended up serving me well. I was able to fit all the gear I wanted to bring, along with all my personal effects, and a fully stocked kitchen, while still keeping a comfortable sleeping space for Stella and myself. I couldn’t fit the full solar setup that I had in the van, but temps were cool enough that I wouldn’t need a proper fridge. On the road, I picked up a small Jackery generator for auxiliary power. Everything had a spot, and the car was filled to the brim.
After the 900-mile drive out to California, I spent two weeks in Joshua Tree with the boys, before heading for the slopes of Mammoth and Palisades.
A couple days of skiing and a dislocated shoulder later, Stella and I were on our way back to Colorado. We made a stop outside of Moab, taking a road 30 miles into the little-known Canyon Rims Recreation Area, to a spot called the Anticline Overlook. I was grateful to be driving Molly Brown as we cruised over the untouched snow-covered road. Along the way, we saw only cow prints and antelope tracks. During the summer, this might be a somewhat popular spot, although now, under 6 inches of snow, it was completely deserted. Stella and I had the area to ourselves for 3 days.
Back in Colorado, I continued to use Molly Brown for quick trips while utilizing the minivan as a basecamp throughout the rest of the winter.
Until one fateful day in April. I was driving Molly Brown down a frontage road heading into the small town of Idaho Springs, when my gas pedal seemed to give out. The car stopped revving. I had had a check engine light for awhile that indicated an issue with an air flow sensor. It hadn’t posed an issue in the past. But now, Molly Brown was slowly losing speed as her engine fell silent. We coasted into the shoulder. Thankfully, we were on the side road, rather than the interstate 60 feet away.
I was able to get ahold of a buddy who was staying at the rafting shop where my van was parked, only a mile and a half away. He was able to come and pull Molly Brown back to the shop, where she lived for the next 4 months while I tried to get her running again.
After a summer of trials and tribulations, enhanced by an unsuccessful attempt to swap brake calipers, I ultimately failed to get her running, and I destroyed her brakes.
So now I’ve got a car that can’t start, and can’t stop.
I moved the majority of my possessions into my minivan, which would become my primary home and mode of transportation throughout the summer, until its untimely death on I-70 in Silverthorne. After storing Molly Brown for a couple months at some friends’ place, I got her towed to a shop in Denver where they diagnosed the issue.
Molly Brown would need a new throttle body, new spark plugs and ignition coils, a new fuel pump, and a new battery, not to mention getting her brakes figured out. Parts alone would be a couple thousand, plus labor if I couldn’t take care of it myself. As of writing this, I’ve replaced the battery and the throttle body, but she still needs a lot of love before she’s road-worthy. Today, I got her towed to a fenced-in lot adjacent to my trailer home, where she’ll remain for the time being.
Molly Brown was the inspiration for me to live in my car full-time. When I first got her, it felt like receiving a key that unlocked these sprawling trail networks that led to beautiful locations. Driving down these old mining and forest service roads in the Colorado mountains showed me the amazing places she could take me. Sleeping in her trunk for the first season working for Liquid Descent showed the feasibility of the lifestyle during the summer months, and additional experience winter camping prepared me to survive year-round in a vehicular home.
Why would I waste away indoors when I could be outside, constantly exploring and widening my horizons? The 4Runner could take me anywhere, and provided plenty of room to sleep and hold my possessions. What more does a man need?
I got my first glimpse of the car that would become Molly Brown in a text from my dad, sometime around my 20th birthday. He had picked it up for a great price, and offered to go 50/50 on it, if I wanted it. I absolutely did.
We spent the summer working on it together. We painstakingly sanded rust off the frame and painted it. We removed the running boards and installed a lift. We painted the wheels and plasti-dipped the grill. We changed the oil and swapped fuel and air filters. It was all a lot of work, and I was eager to hit the trails. After a month of solid work, we had a bad-ass looking rig, ready for the trail.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I hit the road, cramming as many friends into the back as I could, often squeezed in with dogs and tons of camping gear. It was on one of these trips we spotted a campground that gave Molly Brown her name. We explored random dirt roads, rambling through the forest or the desert until we found a comfortable-looking campsite. Typically, we avoided established campgrounds, opting for “dispersed” camping, as far from crowds as we could get. We’d set up camp, and head out for the day to explore the mountains from the bouncing backseat of the 4Runner.
We found old mines, abandoned weather stations, muddy trails, pristine meadows, alpine lakes, high passes, and beautiful views, all from the comfort of Molly Brown.
I once even drove her to the summit of a 14,000-ft peak, a move of questionable legality.
After a summer full of offroading, I was hooked. I had gotten to explore these 4-wheel-drive trails from the backseat of my dad’s 4Runner in the years since moving to Colorado, but being the driver myself was another thing entirely. I felt like Molly Brown could take me anywhere.
Over the following years, I would spend much of my free time turning down random dirt roads, which led to more dirt roads, delving deeper into the mountains, exploring random trails, and occasionally finding a route between mountain towns. A few times, I explored beyond my limit, and got stuck, whether in snow or in mud. I carried a tow strap, but didn’t have a winch, or other recovery gear. Eventually, either by finding assistance, or working myself out of it, I would get unstuck, learning a few lessons in the process.
Over time, I mapped a network of potential campsites all across Colorado that were accessible thanks to Molly Brown. I laid down the seats and started sleeping in the trunk, first in the mountains, and then eventually, in more urban locations. I had a seed of an idea, but I wanted to see what was possible first.
In the summer of 2020, I started working for Liquid Descent Whitewater Rafting in Idaho Springs. The first season I worked there, I still had an apartment in Denver, but I was spending at least 90% of my nights sleeping in Molly Brown outside the rafting shop. Working for Liquid Descent opened a door. Over the summer, I would spend most of my day out on the river, and would sleep in my car at night. Over the winter, the owner, Alan Blado, would eventually offer to let me park and stay at the shop during the off-season. It would be a win-win; I would have somewhere to stay, and he would have someone looking after the property. So, I had a solid base, and a spot for a shower, a kitchen, and wifi. Otherwise, I was frequently getting production gigs that provided a hotel room. And if I wasn’t working, I was often camping or sleeping at trailheads and ski resorts. I was essentially already living in my car.
Shortly before my second season at Liquid Descent, I pulled the trigger. In April 2021, with the help of my parents, I packed my apartment into a storage unit in Denver, and loaded the essentials into my 4Runner. After a quick road trip to see my sister, Andria’s, graduation in Arizona, I officially hit the road full-time on May 1, 2021.
I haven’t looked back. Until now. Two and a half years later. Carless and grounded.
I look forward to getting back on the road, but for now, I’m grateful for what I have:
Friends I can count on, good health, and a roof over my head.