Well, I’ve always dreamt of contributing to this site in the ways that others have and simply never took the time to, and never had a GFC to become a part of the clan. Now that I do (more on that later) I wanted to just put to screen my journey that’s brought me and my family to this point in our adventure. To know where you’re headed, you have to take stock in where you’ve come from and that’s what’s this thread is all about.
If you’re looking for a technical build thread, I’m going to spoil your fun now, this won’t ever live up to the epic builds that you’ve seen on here. If you’re looking for lots of super insightful overlanding knowledge, you probably won’t find it here either. But if you could use a good read and want some insight into a number of rigs, set ups, and what brought me into full union with the GFC family, keep reading on. I have to give credit where credit is due. @DirtTrailsWanted , @julian, @jedgar and so many more, you’re builds and stories are what have continued to inspire me and my family to not only seek out, but have the spirit and wild hearts to Find the Long Way Home.
My story begins probably a lot like everyone else’s. I grew up in the foothills of Colorado camping, fishing, and hunting with my family. From an early age, I was drawn to the woods, the silence in the trees and the crackle of a fire amid darkness you just can’t find in town. I remember vividly looking forward to the veil of night to expose the wonder of the heavens masked by day. The stars at 10,000 ft just cannot be beat. While I devoutly attended church as a kid, God was just as near when in the wild. I still feel that way today.
Our camping as a family started in a heavy canvas wall tent. The earthy smell of the canvas amid some brand of waterproofing fluid we’d apply every couple years was “home”. My mom, dad, two sisters, and family dog would all pile into a white 91 GMC extended cab that was so blistered from time that we started to call the color “winter camo” to pay hommage to the grey primer that became nearly as prevalent as the white. That old truck took us all over the western united states and only failed us once in nearly 275,000 miles. A starter went out in Holbrook, AZ on a spring break trip to the Grand Canyon. It was the epitome of what my Dad would always tell us kids. “Take care of your truck and it will take care of you.” I’ve always tried to honor that advice and make sure my rigs look good, run well, and get some mud on the tires while at it.
That old GMC never had anything special done to it in the way of suspension, performance parts, or aftermarket gear other than a fiberglass topper. The only additions it would ever see was a family full of love for the wild and some all terrain tires, but it always got us where we wanted to go, and that was always somewhere everyone else wasn’t. Usually it was after miles of washboard and dirt roads, but always ended in a place that “looks like a good spot”. After a quick survey of the land for a proper flat, not too bumpy, and secluded place to set up, we all piled out and set to work setting up camp. Me and my Dad were always on tent duty until it was standing and then my Mom would take over setting up the inside. It was a little cramped as we got older but I’ll never forget that old canvas tent. It kept us safe amid quite a few rain storms, sheltered my Dad and I during many elk camps, and with a propane duck blind stove, kept us pretty warm even in sub zero temps.
Not every camp was the same, but every night ended the same way. Us kids all tucked into our sleeping bags, my Mom wrapped up in about every piece of clothing she’d brought with her and my Dad tending to the last flicker of flames before bathing the coals in water and releasing the steam into the night. He’d come into the tent with the old propane lantern at a low burn, turn the knob just the little bit further to shut it off and all of us would watch as those mantles would fade into two red owls eyes giving way to the darkness eventually. After a round of “good nights” to everyone, it was quiet until morning.
My Mom was always the first one up. From what I came to learn was more than likely a sleepless night being cold regardless of the temperature, she’d get the kitchen bustling and I would crawl out to join her and our little Jack Russel terrier to get breakfast going. I’d start pumping away on the old white gas tank of our Coleman stove that was my Dad’s from his brother back in high school. (I still have it today and is our primary cook stove, although I traded the white gas for propane a while back). We’d cook up all sorts of stuff, but my favorite had to be corned beef hash in a can. Yeah, I agree, it looks like cat food, but maybe it’s the nostalgia, maybe it’s because it’s the memories, but it can’t be beat. Let that stuff crisp up, and man, it takes me back.
Anyway, that was my favorite memory from growing up. Camping trips with my family and hunting trips with my Dad. We found great spots, we found amazing memories along the way, and I found faith in God’s creation each time.
Eventually, we graduated to a lightweight nylon tent, but it never had the effect nor nearly hold the impressiveness of being able to carry that 60 lb canvas tent back to the truck, by yourself. I’d watched my Dad do that as a kid and thought it was kind of like Atlas holding up the world. When I got strong enough to do it myself, it felt like a right of passage. I was becoming a man.
Alright enough back story, I’ll jump into the next chapter next.
but we are going to get to a GFC, right?