The ugly step-sister

With Marcel riding a couple hundred pounds leaner over the rear axle—thanks to the strategic shedding of the genset—we made yet another dramatic exit from my family’s property. If no one kicks the bucket in the next 48 hours, Kerri and I just might finally break free from the gravitational pull of greater Seattle. Fingers crossed.

I was so fed up with concrete, cul-de-sacs, and the creeping doom of suburbia that I lobbied hard—like filibuster-level hard—to take the absolute nearest road pointed at the mountains. Screw the itinerary. Forget where we meant to go. Just get me into the trees. Into the rivers. Into the wild. Hwy 410 was our golden ticket, and after a couple hours of weaving through what felt like a never-ending maze of strip malls and soccer moms, we finally reached the forested flanks of Mt. Rainier. That’s where the real plan kicked in—our route for night one lay ahead, tucked somewhere in the shadows of fir trees and promise.

The gravel road clawed its way up a steep hillside northeast of the highway, twisting and climbing like it had something to prove. We passed the first would-be campsite without a second thought—too close to the blacktop, too exposed, too meh. A few more dusty miles later, we found a narrow offshoot that barely qualified as a road. More like a suggestion. It climbed another half mile into the trees, and we crossed our fingers that the camping gods were smiling on us. As we nosed Marcel into the overgrowth, the forest practically bristled with resistance—branches scraped and clawed at the sides of the van like nature itself was trying to veto our entrance. But Marcel’s a stubborn beast, and so are we.

Victory: the spot was empty. Barely a clearing, just enough room to wedge in one vehicle and pretend it was intentional. Not exactly the backcountry paradise of a REI catalog, but it would do for a night. We set up camp with modest ambitions and a plan to move on first thing in the morning.

As the day wore on, our lonely little road turned into a magnet for would-be neighbors. One by one, three other campers crawled their way up, each only to find Marcel already planted there like a smug monument to “first come, first served.” The first chatted with us for a bit—friendly enough. The second offered a sheepish apology as they reversed down in retreat. The third? Didn’t say a word. Just shot us a look that could strip paint, spun around, and vanished back down the road in a cloud of quiet fury.

After a blissfully quiet night and a slow-motion morning, we threaded Marcel back through the tree gauntlet and rejoined the main gravel road. The plan? Climb higher into the hills to check out a spot Kerri had scouted on the map—one of those maybe-it’s-awesome, maybe-it’s-a-soggy ditch kind of pins. But before we made it even halfway there, fate—or maybe just curiosity—yanked both our heads toward a barely-there side road, another dusty scar leading off into the woods. It wasn’t even on our radar. We parked and walked the couple hundred yards in, crunching gravel and scanning tree lines, and within moments we just knew: this was the place. No debate, no second-guessing. Our next little slice of nowhere. Home—for the next few days, anyway.

A broad, flat perch blanketed in wildflowers, overlooking a glassy lake with Mt. Rainier towering in the distance like a painted backdrop—how were we not supposed to stay? It was the kind of place you accidentally discover and immediately pretend you’d planned all along. Marcel rumbled down the rocky path without protest, and we positioned him to fully command the view—an alpine throne with a million-dollar panorama.

I hopped out, satisfied, until something caught my eye on the front right tire: a hefty, jagged object jutting out like a toothpick from a cocktail olive. I figured it was just a chunk of wood and gave it a casual flick. Nope. Metal. Big, angry metal. A sharp shard lodged deep into the rubber like a miniature harpoon. Instinct said leave it—just like with stab wounds, yanking it out can make things worse. But it was far too large to ignore, so out it came. No hiss. No dramatic deflation. Just… nothing. Hours passed and the pressure held steady. Still, I wasn’t about to gamble on physics at 60 mph, so I swapped in the spare. Just in case. That’s the price of admission for the off-road life: beauty with a side of mild mechanical anxiety.

That evening, the solitude didn’t last. A single truck pulled in with an apologetic couple who looked like they’d just crashed a wedding. They were sweet, concerned they’d ruined our evening by sharing the view. I waved it off—this land was for all of us. Soon, their friends rolled in—another couple, more laughs, more beer—and suddenly we were all celebrating the first guy’s birthday as golden light bathed the trees. Music spilled from their speaker with such good taste that we couldn’t help but join in.

Before they packed up, the birthday boy—Luke, a local with a generous streak—pulled us aside and let us in on a secret: an even better spot. Hidden. Epic. A place we had to see. “This is an ugly step-sister in comparison”, he kept saying. We’d been planning to edge north, closer to the Canadian border in the coming days, but the seed had been planted. Luke’s tip had a gravitational pull. We weren’t leaving just yet.

We lingered one more night at the ugly step-sister —could you blame us? That view had a way of making you forget schedules existed. As dusk rolled in, another van joined the party. A younger couple in a sleek sprinter-style rig pulled up, looking like they just stepped out of an Instagram reel. They were friendly enough, and we shared a quick chat while the sun dropped, but it didn’t turn into another  birthday bash. Their playlist, unfortunately, didn’t hold a candle to the last night’s—more background noise than vibe.

So the two vans coexisted quietly under the stars, each keeping to its own little corner of paradise. At sunrise, we packed up and rolled out, chasing a new promise: Luke’s legendary spot. Whatever lay ahead, we were ready to find out.