Dirt

One of the things they don’t tell you when they go on about how wonderful it is to be out in nature is… dirt. There is a reason it’s also called earth: because the planet is made of it.

Dirt is fucking everywhere

Notice all the dirt!

And if you decide to get a dog to keep you company on the road (and also provide some measure of security, even if the barking drives you nuts), then get used to dirt. And dog hair, unless you get a poodle, which doesn’t shed. But then you will have other problems, like stickers and yes, dirt, in the poor critter’s curly fur. Perhaps a short-haired dog that sheds is a better choice for this life.

But back to dirt.

The first thing you will notice is that you can’t get your fingernails clean, unless you wash your hair every day. Washing hair is the best way to clean fingernails, IMHO. Bending over and pouring a bottle of cold water over your head — twice, don’t forget to rinse — while trying to avoid splattering water on your shoes… well, it’s so much fun I bet you’ll want to do it TWICE a day.

You could get a shower tent, of course, and good luck putting it up by yourself. Then you get to figure out how to hang your heavy solar water bag up high enough to give you a trickle of hopefully warm water to shower and wash your hair with. You lather up and somehow muddle through rinsing the soap and shampoo off and out.

Then you notice the puddle of dirt, now mud, that you are standing in. The shower tent has no floor. You rinse off your toes as best you can and look for something to stand on.

You should have thought of that before you took your clothes off

If you are the least bit OCD about taking any chances with being seen naked, even though the nearest camper is far off, you will unzip the tent partway and reach out for your towel (I hope you remembered to put it within arm’s reach) but wait — the wind has blown it onto the ground.

Ground is another word for dirt.

Your towel, that you were planning to dry your nice, clean body with, is now DIRTY. Your choice is to shiver while you drip dry in the shower tent or pick up the dirty towel, shake it as well as you can and smear the dirt all over your nice, clean body. Tough choice.

OR… you could buy a large supply of baby wipes and clean up that way every day. You can actually stay quite presentable for months, with the occasional truck-stop shower when you can’t stand it any more.

Of course, baby wipes don’t shampoo hair, and you really hate that bending over with the water bottle part. So you resign yourself to dirty hair and fingernails. A floppy, straw hat hides the hair nicely, and the only people who might notice your nails are store clerks and your fellow campers, whose nails are also dirty.

Living with a dog presents its own problems with dirt

Let’s say she likes to roll in it whenever she gets a chance. During the day, when she is tied to the van or a tree with a long cable, she relaxes in the dirt instead of the tarp you have so thoughtfully put down for her. You chuckle and think, ‘Good thing she’s the color of dirt.’ And it’s true, she never actually LOOKS dirty, although petting her leaves your hands feeling grimy. But that’s what baby wipes are for, right?

All that dirt gets tracked into the van and onto the backseat ‘couch’ that you also use as a bed. If you are careless and leave your pillow on the couch, she will lean on it and take a nap. One day in a Walmart bathroom, you turn on the water to wash your filthy hands and look in the mirror with horror. The left side of your face is gray from sleeping on that same pillow. So is your neck and chest.

Sharing a bed and pillow with a dirty dog tends to lead to embarrassing moments like this.

In the mornings, you take your dog for a walk, letting her off-leash so she can get more exercise. She sniffs out the nearest dead animal and — NO! STOP — but it’s too late. She has rolled in it, and comes back to you, tail wagging, with a big grin on her face, covered with the most foul-smelling slime you have ever inhaled.

You put the leash back on while holding your breath, and the slime gets on your arm. The rotten meat smell is overpowering, but you get back to the van where you heat up some water on the stove and try to give your dog a bath.

She does not cooperate, of course, and you wind up chasing her around your campsite with the bowl of warm water to rinse off the lather you managed to apply before she balked.

Why didn’t you tie up her lead shorter, you ask yourself, but it’s too late now. Your sweet puppy has turned into a rebellious teenager, wrapping the lead tight around your legs as she tries to avoid you. The cable cuts painfully into the tendons behind your knees and you scream in anguish and frustration, not caring if your fellow campers can hear.

But of course, you do care

You don’t want them to think you can’t handle your own dog, yet here is the evidence that you are a complete failure. In a futile attempt to win this battle, you throw the water out of the bowl, missing her completely.

Your dog pulls harder, nearly toppling you with the lead tangled around your legs, and slips out of her collar. She runs through the campground in triumph. You go after her, knowing she will never come to you now, but a fellow camper takes pity on you and calls her cheerfully. She comes to him with no problem and you finally get her leashed again.

She still stinks, and so do you, but you give up

The smell and the dirt have defeated you. You haven’t had a real shower in over two months, trying to save money on those expensive truck-stop showers. Baby wipes can only do so much. Your skin itches and mosquito bites only add to your misery. But the thought of letting your dog into the van smelling the way she does, to jump up and nap on your bed while you drive to the truck stop to wash off the stink from your own body… well, you can’t even.

You begin to wonder if you should give up completely and go back to living in a “sticks and bricks,” as vandwellers derisively call houses. It would be so nice to have a bathroom with running water, to cook in a real kitchen, to have a closet for your clothes, to have room to spread out, to be clean again.

But it’s a fleeting thought. You wanted this, after all. You knew there would be challenges but you also knew without a doubt that this life was for you: the freedom to go where you wanted to go, to see America close up, to be alone and yet with friends, to live in nature — dirt and all.

Then, another kind camper, your good friend Linda, saves the day. She offers to take your dog while you go to the truck stop and wash it all off: the dirt, the smell, the frustration, the defeat. In gratitude, you go, and come back feeling refreshed and better.

To your surprise, Linda has taken your dog out into the lake and washed off the stench. She is your sweet puppy again. You stroke her fur and she feels truly clean for the first time since you got her nine months ago.

Back in the van for the night, she snuggles up on the couch next to you, and you start thinking about how you can fix up your little home to make it more comfortable. You decide to invest in weekly showers and car wash vacuums from now on.

A monthly dog wash seems like a good idea, too.