The morning starts before sunrise, just as the golden light kisses the snow-capped mountains above the budding green Ogden Valley. Spring is in the air, and this will be the first time I’ve ever had to open a chicken coop before I embark on an adventure. It’s just an overnight trip, but with baby chicks in the garage and these birds having to luck out on predators overnight, there’s a heavy sense of dreadful undertones to the start of the day. We’ve still got tilling to do, and the compost bin needs to be filled before the spring really hits and we start dropping transplants in the soil; suffice it to say, there’s work to be done here.
But once the work gets to a place I feel comfortable holding off for a day, we pack up the truck and hit the road for the inaugural trip of the new Roam Vagabond tent that’s up top on the bedrack of the Tacoma. Rooftop tents have been something of a contentious issue for me personally over the few years they’ve been out: it seems comfortable, but the price tag being what it is along with the vast majority of reviewers online seeming to be more glampers than good ol’ backpacking trout fishermen, I had a bit of a bias against the bundle of heavy ripstop and canvas.
It’s a two-and-a-half hour drive down to the Tintic mountain range, and all said it’s a spot that I’ve never been to before. The ride passes by slowly, picking up groceries and dog leashes along the way, stopping by an oil tycoon dinosaur who was supposed to have the best damn poultry strips I’ve ever tasted, but like many words in the petrol industry, the words came back as snake oil. Just as things get to a total standstill in the misery that is Eagle Mountain, we break through the barrier of Californian tech runaways and are blazing on the butterfly hills along the western coast of Utah Lake. That body of water is in itself is a bit of an enigma. It looks beautiful from here–emerald blue water that cracks along the surface with crystalline shimmers in crowned waves–but I know if I were to walk down a few hundred yards to the sandbar, I’d be greeted by decrepit lake monsters the size of bloated carp, sitting beneath the frame of an umbrella in lawn chairs straight out of the town Megaton. In no time at all, however, we’re past the puzzle of “garbage lake”, and into a goliath field of green alfalfa, blazing past slower traffic and maintaining a steady 50/50 split of time occupied in South and Northbound lanes.
Just at the end of the pastures we rip a sharp right turn and begin down an old dirt road at 55mph 4WD, a trail of dust shooting out behind us as we make our way down. The first stop on the adventure is the primary reason we’re clear out west, and it’s a simple, primordial experience that I believe anyone who owns a vehicle should experience at one time or another in their life: I wanted to drive through a hole in the rocks. This tunnel in particular is a fun little bit of offroading to get to, with most of the other patronage we interacted with along the route being families grouped up in side by sides, wondering why the fuck I’m here and why the hell I’ve got a grin on my face.
It’s after this that we continue down a few dirt roads, turning round, and heading on down the main road until we happened upon a couple with some of the most magnificent horses Taylor and I have ever seen. We pulled over and asked if we could take a few shots of the critters and they offered us a full shoot plus horse petting, to my dearest’s chagrin, and gave us a hot tip to head out west on the highway at the end of the dirt trail, to grab burgers and see the sights in the old town of Eureka, Utah. So, with no good plan before us, no good idea of where we want to sleep for the night, and everything we could ever need in the back of my truck, we carry on to the tiny gold rush town.
In the city of Eureka, there’s an estimated population of 706 people. That’s just a little less than my new hometown of Huntsville, and a whole lot less than anywhere else I’ve lived–Salt Lake City metro, for example, coming out to a whopping 1.1 million people, these numbers seem almost unbelievable in comparison, but the further to the coasts you get the crazier these population numbers become. Regardless, this little place is a crumbling relic of what once had been, a ghost town of the gold rush that seems to be swiftly losing population numbers, locals resorting to tourism along the US Route 6: “Build your own fairy house” attractions, smoke shops, and the omnipresent State Liquor Store, all here to provide solace and respite for us weary travelers, the longing souls who might just find paradise at the end of a glass bottle if we could catch the leprechaun in time.
Once we’re done there we head back into the winding dirt trails of the Tintic, where I end up opting to follow a trail certainly too small for a mid-size truck, more appropriate for a 4x4 ATV than anything else, in some points nearing single track territory, but we continue on: pinstriping the tacoma I’ve dubbed “Diana” until she’s got dusty scratches every millimeter along her sides, and the trail we followed disappears into the juniper without a trace. It’s here I end up taking one of the most relieving constitutionals of my entire life, one which I’m still sighing in relief over since needing to hit the porcelain throne since before we left the house earlier that morning, then we turn back.
God damn, that was great. Read it and weep.
Well, anyway, we end up rolling down a few more rocky bits and I’m finally starting to get a little more confidence in tackling some offset / off-camber approaches in the taco, hitting some 20º rolls without too much danger in the off chance that I slip into oblivion, but still enough risk to have a little fun and feel the tug of gravity and seatbelt at play. We pass by a few other camp sights, one, in particular, I was quite interested in, but the presence of abandoned/burned camp chairs and tents gives Tay the heebeegeebees thinking there just might be a non-zero chance that a psych hillbilly murderer just might be out in these hills after all. We keep driving until we come to the very end of this particular trail, and it’s clearly the culmination of magnificence for a campground that I might bring some friends out to another time in the future: A prickly gully between two trails that loop together up a 25º slope. It’s enough to drive up and see nothing but sky, and coming down it feels like you might as well be driving off of a cliff with the visibility you have, but it’s fantastic training that really amps me up and gets me to feel far more comfortable on more challenging terrain. I’m still new to all these off-road shenanigans, but damn if I don’t take joy in it.
At the top of this loop is where we establish camp, just large enough to put the truck up and spread out the rooftop tent as if this spot, in particular, was fucking made for it. I couldn’t have crafted a cooler place to sleep for our first time in the rooftop tent and I’ll never forget how awesome it was to have this thing up out there. The night starts off strong with Taylor trying her hand at trad archery for the first time in her life, landing a very respectable 50% of shots without a nock, rest, or any other bow add-ons. It was all just raw wood, string, arrows, and human instinct, and that’s a badass way to get a foot in the door that I couldn’t be happier to see success with. I didn’t do badly myself considering I haven’t had archery practice for damn near two years, landing all but 2 arrows which I sent careening off deep into the adjacent canyon never to be found by mortal eyes again. I like to think one day it might be a relic to some future people, who think back on who could have been dumb enough to lose an arrow or two here.
As the wind begins to pick up and Taylor, Venus, and I finish our Chicken, Bone, and Carne Asada taco meals for the night–primo, btw–we set to packing up things as a fear of snow prompts me to prep the family for an early out. I might be building confidence on dirt, but I sure as shit ain’t trying to tackle technical trail covered in inches of snow. Once things are put away, I start nerding out a bit and take some of the best hand-held long exposures of my life. It’s a far cry from some good stacked photos or solid exposures, but I’m happy with them for this trip since I’m almost as tired as our husky, Venus, who’s been passed out in a dirt nap for the past hour and a half when I beckon her with me and prep her to be lifted up and into the tent some 10ft in the air. She couldn’t care less at this point, slinking into the cozy little shelter, finding her spot next to my pillow, and going so zombie mode she wouldn’t even stir while I’m pushing her back trying to make room for myself. Taylor’s cozied up into her own sleeping bag now, and I set myself off to sleep as well.
It’s a battle. A war is raging between the tent and the whipping wind beyond the ripstop barrier, and every 15 seconds my feet are getting whipped by the entry port that’s currently covered up. It’s enough to send a little shiver down my spine every time the wind blows up and under my top quilt, so most of the night I spent fighting back against the winter storm, closing up sections and dealing with the classic desert camp grit of sand being blown up and into the tent. I wouldn’t replace that sensation for the world, it’s one of the last few things I’m able to hold close to the heart and say, at least some part of me, is truly a desert rat out in the dusty wilderness of Utah’s public land.
When I first started writing this whole damn thing up I thought I might want to write a review about the Roam Vagabond. Maybe that’s what this all ends up being. But if I were to give one solid note about the Vagabond, it’s that the whole experience that night wasn’t about the Vagabond. It was about the journey, the early start, the adventure, the going to a fro, not ever knowing really where you’d end up, but knowing it’ll be great wherever that is. I think that’s the entire point of a nice rooftop tent: Don’t worry about whatever the hell you have happening for the day, because as long as you’re driving, you’ve got home on your back, and it’s only 15 minutes set away. Yeah, it can be noisy in the wind. But it’s also the best damn sunshade I’ve ever slept in, it never got too bright or overbearingly hot, and its mattress is easily one of the most comfortable sleeping situations I’ve ever had in a campout since I’ve been in hammocks. I still might prefer the cocoon style, but for a long time I’d say ground sleepers should live life elevated, a hammocker’s mockery of Utah’s state motto: but the Vagabond has my hanging pitch beat by a longshot, and man it feels really good to be up there. I can’t wait to take this tent out with my family for more trips, more memories, and more silly pointless blog posts.
Cheers,
PA
