The Infamous Maiden Voyage of the (Soon-to-Be) Famous "Silver Sasquatch"
- Mike Loveridge
- Jun 10
- 18 min read
Updated: Jun 11
1 – Enough is Enough
“And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world…”– John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
“I see too many men delay their exits with a sickly, slow reluctance to leave the stage.”– Also John Steinbeck, pulling no punches
As a kid, when asked that dreaded grown-up question—“What do you want to be when you grow up?”—I’d freeze like a goat on a trampoline. The truth was: I had absolutely no idea. Nada. Zilch. And every time I tried to manufacture an answer just to look like I had my life together (astronaut, dolphin trainer, cereal-box designer), I could practically feel my soul spraining itself.
Eventually, I learned to just plead the Fifth and change the subject to something more pleasant, like spontaneous combustion.
Fast forward a few decades and, well, I’m still not totally sure I ever “grew up.” Which might explain why I never had a tidy little job title to rattle off at parties. Turns out, my dream career hadn’t even been invented yet. That’s the kind of era we live in—where toddlers earn six figures unboxing toys on YouTube and AI can write Shakespearean sonnets about cheese.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve had a good career. A great one, at times. But the past couple of years? Let’s just say the honeymoon ended, the in-laws moved in, and the plumbing started leaking metaphors. Stress went up, joy went down, and I found myself daydreaming about escape plans involving dusty roads, wilderness solitude, and questionable Wi-Fi.
Adventure travel. Writing. Photography. Not for likes or money. For me. For my sanity. Maybe even, dare I say it, for something bigger than myself.
So I did the only reasonable thing one can do in an age of existential dread and overpriced almond milk: I bought a van. Not just any van, mind you—a sleek, brooding, Airstream Interstate 19X, shimmering in metallic silver like an AI-robot Bigfoot.
I christened it “The Silver Sasquatch.”
And then… I hit the road.
This is the story of that maiden voyage. A tale of dreams, diesel, and bottomless caffeinated beverages.
2 – Gross Understatements
Let’s talk about “maiden voyages.” The term entered English vocabulary in 1901, likely after someone decided that sending massive vessels into the unforgiving sea wasn’t dramatic enough without invoking virgin metaphors and champagne rituals. Traditionally, such events are witnessed by dignitaries in large hats, and if the bottle fails to break on the hull, sailors whisper of curses so dire you might as well melt the ship down and start over.
So, what was my maiden voyage like? Did the bottle break? Did it rain frogs? Why does everyone who owns an Airstream act like they’ve just joined an aluminum cult?
Reader, buckle up. This will be bumpy.
To say I was “excited” for the maiden voyage would be a gross—GROSS—understatement. I don’t just get excited. I get golden-retriever-chasing-a-frisbee-excited. Think: Olympic torch relay combined with Christmas morning and there is a big sale at REI.
And yet, amid the euphoria, there was a whiff of “pre-maiden voyage” dread. A tiny, persistent voice in my head whispered, “This is a very expensive spaceship on wheels and you have no idea what 63% of the buttons do.”
Owning an Airstream-Mercedes hybrid is a little like adopting a baby dragon. It’s sleek and powerful, sure—but it might incinerate your house if you push the wrong thing.
It reminded me of the first time I got an iPhone. One moment you're playing Angry Birds, the next you're somehow broadcasting your grocery list to a Norwegian soccer team. The van was like that—intuitive enough to survive, but complex enough to make you question your IQ.
I knew I could manage the basics: fridge on, snacks in. Engine started, music loud. I also knew not to blast through a McDonald’s drive-thru with an 11-foot roof clearance (because I had decapitated a roof-mounted bike rack, and expensive mountain bike, that way once—may it rest in parking garage purgatory).
But the rest? Electrical panels, plumbing systems, awnings that could deploy mid-highway and create their own weather? Mother of Zeus, help me.
Fortunately, Airstream engineers are like overly cautious uncles. They’ve built in enough safety redundancies to prevent accidental sewage geysers or retractable-bed disasters. So I wasn’t exactly panicked.
Just… mildly twitchy.
3 – The First Adventure Van
The Silver Sasquatch wasn’t my first rodeo.
Back in 2019, I bought a bright blue Mercedes Sprinter van with grand visions of converting it into the ultimate adventure rig. The goal? One last epic trip with my aging dog, Caiya—a regal border collie/golden retriever mix with the heart of a lion and the shedding habits of a woolly mammoth.
I naively thought the conversion would take two weeks and twenty grand.
Cue laugh track.
It cost $100,000 and took over a year. Somewhere between cutting plywood at midnight and watching YouTube wiring tutorials in my bathrobe, I realized I was in way over my head.
But the end result? Magnificent.
I kept the massive “passenger van” windows, installed a pumping sound system, outdoor shower, and a bed setup worthy of a Scandinavian design catalog. The crowning glory was “The Throne”—a custom loveseat that folded into a plush dog bed. From there, Caiya had panoramic views of the world flying by. She could sit just behind my right shoulder, where I could reach back, scratch her ears, and hand-deliver jerky and Cheetos Puffs.
It was perfect.
The trip was life-changing. I even wrote a book about Caiya in between hikes to waterfalls. But the build process? It aged me five years and left me with PTSD triggered by extension cords.
I swore that next time, I’d let the pros handle it. No more crawling through van insulation like a deranged raccoon. No more mystery wires. No more tears shed under flickering LED strip lights.
So I sold that van, hugged the lessons tight, and promised myself: next time, I’m going factory-built. Warranty, support, professionals who don’t use duct tape as a philosophy.
And that next time… is now.
4 – The Inauguration
Leslie joined me for the inauguration of the Silver Sasquatch, which sounds far more regal than it was, though she did treat it with the solemnity of a naval ceremony crossed with a tailgate party. Leslie and I had been friends for years, and at this point were dating—though she had not yet realized that dating someone who just bought a luxury camper van is basically a fast-track to an unsolicited nomadic existence.
She was, in all seriousness, the ideal co-pilot. Calm. Practical. Capable of navigating emotional turbulence and GPS systems with equal poise. Her résumé boasted childhood escapades to Mexico in a hand-built motorhome crafted by her grandfather.
We did what all rational adults in a superstitious mood do: performed a makeshift ritual to please the gods of the open road. Instead of smashing a bottle of champagne (too messy), we cracked open a pair of Tropical Vibe-flavored Celsius energy drinks. She toasted. I prayed. A “Keep Squatchin’” air freshener was hung ceremoniously from the rearview mirror like a sacred pine-scented relic. We figured this trifecta covered spiritual, nutritional, and olfactory bases.
With the keys turned, the engine purred (more like a low, diesel growl), and we took off.
Leslie beamed like a kid on a carousel, her feet swinging several inches above the floor in the plush captain’s chair.
“Hey, you little 5-footer,” I teased, glancing sideways, “Look at your feet!”
“I feel like a Muppet,” she said, already fiddling with the seat controls, lowering her throne slightly with the impunity of a puppet who’d had enough.
Our road trip banter immediately devolved into talk of food—which is how you know you’ve found the right travel companion. We’d meticulously packed the van’s stellar kitchen with substantive fare and snacks galore. It’s an intoxicating feeling to cruise down the highway knowing that just behind your seat, in a small fridge, a bag of chilled pink frosted animal cookies with rainbow sprinkles await. Like walking around with a fridge strapped to your back, without the spinal consequences.
Every now and then I glanced in the rearview mirror to admire our packs, perfectly dangling off L-track hooks in the lounge, like the accessories section of a Patagonia catalog. It was all coming together—style, snacks, and a co-pilot with a strong sense of adventure and just enough height, or lack of, to keep things funny.
5 – Shopping for a New Van
Van shopping was like dating in your late 30s: you’ve got a checklist, zero patience for red flags, and no time to waste on bad fits. My non-negotiables were simple:
A proper flush toilet with the best black tank evacuation automation available. No cassette systems. I’m not a medieval chamber pot guy, and I live with PTSD from that scene in the movie RV where Robin Williams and his son have a disaster trying to ‘dump the dump’.
A hot indoor shower. Preferably one where I didn’t have to curl up like a terrified shrimp to use it.
Gigantic rear windows. I wanted to be able to write while watching real life IMAX sized views of mountain vistas whisper secrets to the morning fog.
A desk. Real writers have desks.
4WD. Because inspiration doesn’t always strike on pavement.
A brawny electrical system for guilt-free gadget use and remote editing sessions.
And finally, the van had to look cool. No exceptions. Life is too short to camp in ugly things.
My use case? I was quitting 20+ years in digital marketing and pivoting toward a career as a professional athlete and adventure-based faith content creator. Not a common transition, I know—but my midlife crisis had direction and branding.
I envisioned writing books from America’s wildest places. Hiking where the air thins. Biking like a feral person. Skiing until my thighs rebelled. I wasn’t just shopping for a van—I was shopping for a mobile headquarters, a roving sanctuary, an all-terrain office with a view.
After exhaustive research (and a few YouTube rabbit holes involving composting toilets and squirrel infestations), I found The One. The Silver Sasquatch.
6 – When Animals Attack
Our first night in the van began in full Technicolor glory. We parked at the Whitehouse Trailhead near Kanab, Utah—gateway to Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch. As the sun slipped into its cosmic hammock, the clouds lit up like a Vegas marquee on peyote. It felt like nature had swallowed a lava lamp and burped out glory.
We watched through the panoramic rear windows until awe became unbearable, and we had to run outside to take pictures.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to an unfamiliar sound: rip… rustle… chomp. I held my breath. So did Leslie.
“You hear that?” I whispered.
“We have company,” she replied in a voice so soft, it practically apologized.
“Please… help this not to be inside the van.”
Silence. Then more chewing. The sound of tiny jaws desecrating something delicious.
Leslie, composed as a librarian during an earthquake. Me? I was calculating the odds that the creature(s) had rabies and whether our pink cookies were still safe. Also, how much rodent poop triggers hantavirus? Asking for a friend.
I flipped on my phone flashlight and panned the cabin like a crime scene investigator. No intruder in sight. But then—I found the victim. Leslie’s legendary homemade trail mix: gnawed bag, mutilated contents, the works.
“Well,” I said, with all the gravitas of a campfire priest, “Looks like they share our taste in snacks.”
I picked up the bag like it was an infected Civil War bandage, flung it out onto the sand with a disgusted grunt, and slammed the sliding door.
In the morning, the bag was empty. Cleaned out. I admit, tossing it outside wasn’t exactly “Leave No Trace,” and possibly created a future generation of trail mix-addicted mutant mice. But hey, it wasn’t raccoons. Count your blessings.
Lessons learned:
Always shut the sliding van door at night, or close the screen.
Trail mix goes in the fridge. Period.
Praise be to whatever deity spared us from a family of skunks with an agenda.
7 – The Airstream Dream (Come True)
Who doesn’t admire Airstreams? They're the silver bullets of wanderlust—sleek, iconic, and the kind of thing you point at with a little gasp of envy when one glides past on the interstate.
So imagine my absolute delirium when I discovered that Airstream had entered the adventure van market. It was like hearing that James Taylor had joined your local open mic night. I practically yelled at my laptop screen.
Even better? They were the only manufacturer that met every single requirement on my list of non-negotiables. I read the specs and audibly whispered, “No way.” The sitting area in the back—with massive, jaw-dropping windows—is completely unique to Airstream. Other vans? No windows, or weird submarine-style portholes that make you feel like you’re living in a very cramped washing machine.
I had made this configuration work on my original DIY van, but the curved shell turned every measurement into a geometry riddle. Installing anything back there was like trying to hang drywall on a basketball. I nearly gave myself a permanent twitch trying to cut panels to fit those bends. Airstream had already solved it. Factory installed. Elegant. Symmetrical. Glorious.
Inside, the aluminum walls and ceiling bounce natural light like a Scandinavian design showroom. My previous van had grey fabric walls and a bamboo ceiling, which was very “eco spa,” but this? This was light-reflecting, mood-lifting, Instagram-filter-optional brilliance.
And when I officially bought the Interstate 19X, Airstream did not disappoint. Mercedes sent emails. Airstream Supply Company sent emails. I got guides, welcome books, owner’s manuals, a “Beginner’s Guide to Airstreaming,” an invite to tour the mothership in Ohio, access to Airstream Connected, Club Explorer, Roadtrippers Plus—you name it. It was less like buying a van and more like being inducted into a slightly glamorous cult with impeccable branding and customer service that borders on clairvoyant.
Naturally, I made a spreadsheet. I watched every tutorial, downloaded every checklist, and made strategic Amazon purchases from the dealer's recommended list. Then came the license plate. After about a million combinations, I typed in SSQATCH. It was actually available. The DMV gods had smiled.
Silver Sasquatch was officially born—name, plate, and a custom logo I designed on ChatGPT. A digital-age christening for my mythological machine.
Airstream isn’t just a trailer company. It’s a movement. A community. A mood. You don’t just own an Airstream—you become part Airstream. It’s not just travel—it’s identity.
8 – Finding a Pretty Weird Skull
“I, I did it all... I owned every second that this world could give...”—OneRepublic, I Lived (2013)
After three epic days of backpacking through Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch, Leslie and I were a little sun-crisped, moderately trail-sore, and completely loving our time on the road. Every time I looked out the massive windshield of the Squatch, I whispered thanks to the gods of engineering for such a cinematic view.
We drove from Page, AZ to Hovenweep, then on to Mesa Verde. From the rim of Chapin Mesa, we stared down at the town of Cortez and out toward the snow-capped San Juan Mountains. It’s easy to see why the Ancestral Puebloans picked this place. More than 600 cliff dwellings have been found here—including the jaw-dropping Cliff Palace. Historians say up to 24,000 people lived here. Then they vanished.
The official theories say drought, war, or migration. My theory? Teenagers.
At first, it was probably magical—living in cliffside condos with million-dollar views. But then the teens started griping: schlepping corn up and down vertical cliffs using Free Solo moves. No horses, no privacy, and the acoustics in a canyon make every tantrum a public affair.
Eventually the elders gave up, packed the pottery, and bailed. Probably regretted it.
That night, we camped near Blanding, Utah at a Hipcamp spot tucked into juniper. It was time to put the Squatch’s kitchen to the test. Leslie is a phenomenal cook and decided to make steak tacos—thawing, slicing, seasoning, grilling, assembling the works. The smells were intoxicating. The result? Sublime.
“These are WAY better than any restaurant tacos,” I mumbled through a mouthful of pineapple jalapeño salsa, guac, and tortilla. Leslie sat across from me in the lounge, a halo of twilight around her as the sky turned cotton candy pink behind the Abajo Mountains. Her hair was in a ponytail. Her face was serene. She looked like contentment personified.
After dinner, we wandered into the juniper forest with our phones to catch sunset pics. Leslie called out from a few yards away:
“Hey, come look at this skull I found!”
I walked over, scanning the dusty ground. Bones—everywhere. Sun-bleached and scattered.
Like a cow exploded and no one cleaned up.
We stared at the “skull” together.
“That’s a pretty weird skull,” I said. “The eye sockets are… huge.”
Leslie squinted. “Yeah… been thinking about that.”
Long pause.
“…Wait. That’s not a skull. That’s a pelvic bone. Of a cow.”
She was right. The rest of the puzzle came together fast. Spine. Ribs. The whole bovine aftermath. We’d unknowingly parked the Silver Sasquatch next to a cow graveyard.
Because nothing says “cozy campsite” like a full-scale cow apocalypse.
9 – How to Build an Itinerary Worthy of a Maiden Voyage
“We do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”—John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
I love a good itinerary. Give me a spreadsheet, some caffeine, and a worthy focus, and I am in heaven. Some people get high on spontaneity. I get a dopamine hit from optimizing drive time. Don’t get me wrong, spontaneity definitely exists, but it’s a line-item.
So naturally, the maiden voyage of the Silver Sasquatch had to be legendary. I’m talking National Park postcards meets Google Docs excellence. Seven days. Six nights. Three states. One memory card that overheated.
Here were the highlights:
Days 1-3: Salt Lake City to Kanab, UT. Backpacking trip into Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch.
Day 4: Page, AZ. Stroll across the Glen Canyon Dam bridge. Photograph Horseshoe Bend. Monument Valley. Drive past towering red rock cathedrals like a John Ford film extra. Sunset hike at Hovenweep National Monument.
Day 5: Mesa Verde, CO. Tours of Balcony House and Cliff Palace—plus bonus speculation about teenager rebellions.
Day 6: Natural Bridges National Monument. Hike to Sipapu Arch and feel very small. Drive one of the most stunning stretches of road on Earth from Natural Bridges to Escalante.
Day 7: Bonus hike: Upper Calf Creek Falls near Escalante. Go to church in a small town.
And because I am who I am, there were companion documents—workbooks for packing, meal planning, and even photography shot lists. (Pro tip: never let a sunset go unplanned.)
The maiden voyage of the Squatch wasn’t just a trip. It was a symphony of motion, memory, and guacamole. The road may take you, but it never hurts to give it a really well-organized nudge.
10 – Princess of the Elves
The next day, after hiking to Sipapu Arch in Natural Bridges National Monument, we drove one of the most spectacular stretches of highway on the planet: Utah State Route 95.
We pulled over constantly to gape at the landscapes—painted mesas, bright blue skies with billowy clouds, ancient petroglyphs, and oddball roadside attractions. One field held an old, broken-down camper van spray-painted with neon graffiti, flanked by the Henry Mountains. A life-sized plastic skeleton sat in the driver’s seat, its bony hands gripping the steering wheel like it was on one last wild ride.
My favorite stops were at the White Canyon Bridge and Hite Crossing Bridge—only 6.2 miles apart. We pulled over at each and walked to the center to take in the views, one side, then the other. First, we stared in awe at the depths of White Canyon. Then, the Colorado River at the confluence of Cataract Canyon, Glen Canyon, and the Dirty Devil River. There are no words to describe it. Just pure, expansive silence that steals the vocabulary right out of you.
As we walked from the van to the middle of the Hite Crossing Bridge, I noticed two things.
First, the way Leslie was walking. Regal, like a princess of the elves. She looked free, glowing, and almost floating… taller than her five-foot frame. I’d never seen her walk like this. Her long red hair blew in the wind, enhancing the effect. I thought: This is where she’s supposed to be. Not behind a desk. This is living.
Second, I kept glancing back at the Silver Sasquatch. Its bright silver paint glistened in the desert sun, dramatically contrasting with the salmon and terra cotta cliffs. This is one amazing vehicle, I thought. It was made to be here. It became like watching a tennis match—Leslie, then the van, then the views, then Leslie again. Thank goodness for bridge railings; they probably saved me from walking right off the edge.
Later that afternoon, we rolled through Torrey, Utah, and climbed UT-12 to the top of Boulder Mountain. Even in mid-May, there was still a dusting of snow. The elevation was high enough that the aspen trees hadn’t yet sprouted their leaves.
After cresting the summit, we couldn’t resist the call of the aspen. We had to find a grove and spend time there—it was non-negotiable. Somewhere near the Wildcat Trail, we turned onto a dirt road. About a quarter mile in, the road veered left and turned sharply uphill—a long ramp of dirt and rocks that looked a little dicey for a van. We paused. Then decided: Why not? The Squatch has 4WD low for a reason. No better time to try it than now.
After the mere push of a button, we crawled up the slope, doing our best not to jostle the bag of Reese’s in the fridge.
And then—there it was. A perfect grove of aspen, flanking a wide, peaceful meadow. That’s where we’d spend the night. As the sun dipped and shadows stretched across the trees, we switched the van’s lights to “cinema mode” and lit a grapefruit-scented candle in an aluminum tin—color-coordinated with the Squatch’s interior, of course. We relaxed on the leather benches, gazing at the aspen as a light snow began to fall.
“Hey,” I said, “I just remembered that 100-pack of Sasquatch temporary tattoos.”
It had been hiding in our “library” all week. The library is a big leather pouch on the back of the passenger seat—larger than a kangaroo’s—and we’d stocked it with essentials: Airstream Life Magazine, an adventure travel catalog, a laminated wildflower guide, a few other bits of random literature, and yes, a clear cellophane bag of Sasquatch tattoos.
We had time to kill. We opened the bag. I chose one of Bigfoot holding a surfboard and applied it to my right bicep. Leslie picked one of Sasquatch in the forest. They looked cheap and honestly kind of terrible.
But hey—what happens on a maiden voyage stays on a maiden voyage.
The next morning, we descended the southern slope of Boulder Mountain. Aspens stretched as far as the eye could see. (I bet this place is insane during peak fall colors.) At every turn, deer lounged casually on the roadside like spectators at a parade. I drove slowly, soaking it all in.
After hiking around Escalante and catching a church service, the trip was winding down.
Driving through Red Canyon felt like the perfect ending to a perfect adventure. Bright red spires of rock rose up like giant petrified trolls. We passed through the famous Red Canyon Tunnels—man-made rock arches carved in 1925 to improve access to Bryce Canyon, back when it had just been designated as a national park.
The "Gateway to Fairyland" was a fitting finale.
11 – Requiem (and a Beginning)
“There is a widespread desire among Americans to ‘go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from any Here.’ This longing to escape ‘is not toward something, but away from something.’”— John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
All around the world, people yearn for freedom—for a break from the familiar. That longing isn’t always about chasing a destination. Often, it’s just about leaving something behind.
Either way, it makes sense to take action. There will always be something pulling you forward… and something holding you back. That’s life.
Everyone talks about getting out there—for freedom, for reinvention, for joy. More people are doing it now than ever before. But it’s still just a small percentage.
For me, taking action felt great.
This dream didn’t start on a whim. Buying an Airstream wasn’t impulsive. It was years in the making.
I bought one because I loved the image—the iconic aluminum shell. The look of it just made sense to me. It was about esthetic satisfaction. I also trusted the brand’s reputation for dependability, thoughtful design, and top-tier customer support. I wanted peace of mind, knowing I had the best—and that I’d be supported if anything went sideways.
The Interstate 19X is simple to use at a basic level, but there’s a learning curve to fully master all its systems and quirks.
This maiden voyage was just the beginning.
The journey isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
And it feels good.
12 – Aftermath
In the aftermath of the trip, sometimes my mind faces back, and remnants of a possible memory flash through my cortex.
While standing on the Hite Crossing Bridge, we spotted a figure on a distant rock ledge. It wasn’t a hiker. Too still. Too… shaggy. It could’ve been a shadow. A bush. A weirdly shaped rock.
Or maybe it was him.
A silver sasquatch. Not running. Not hiding. Just watching.
And maybe smiling.
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