Dirtbag Dad and the Ski Truck Camper

I don’t want to overstate things. I’m not currently a dirtbag or a nomad of any kind. I’m the absolute picture of the suburban middle aged, middle class dad. You don’t have to follow me on Instagram to see where I’ll be this week, living my best life, influencing my followers, #vanlife-ing all over the mountain states.

raw materials for ski truck camper

When I was young I did spend some time working outdoors in Alaska and at a couple ski resorts for a while and I did it all without buying a plane ticket. Back when # was still the pound sign, living in a van for extended periods I was, at best, an eccentric free spirit and at worst a homeless degenerate. I was a dirtbag and I seized the day.

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The Blue Cooler

I can’t think of too many things that I owned in 1993 that I still have today. If I dug through my dresser drawers I might find my high school ring. My book shelf has a couple yearbooks from back then, probably a few other books I was given as a kid. I can only think of one thing that I have for sure owned since I was twenty one years old and have used continuously ever since, my blue cooler.

To say I own the cooler might not be accurate. We found each other some time in 1993. I was in college and sharing a place in the Bronx, near Van Cortlandt Park with four other guys. There were a lot of people in and out so I can’t really say who first brought the blue cooler into the apartment.

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A Bad Day Skiing

By Saturday I’d been in a foul mood for at least ten days. Job stress, a seemingly endless stream of bad news from family and friends and an energy-sucking head cold combined for a perfect storm of gloom. On top of it, I missed skiing the weekend before and a mid-week warm spell, followed by plunging temps overnight, could only mean one thing for Saturday — ice.

a bad day skiing

It was one of those cycles where a little flexibility made all the difference. Friday was a spring-like day filled with sunshine and corn snow. By Sunday, the mountain ops would have time to groom everything into fresh, carve-able corduroy. With the ice locked in, Saturday would suck. Friday or Sunday were obviously better choices.

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