After spending 1.5 years on the road north in a small self-built travel camper, I have come to the conclusion that the Pacific Coast Highway is the most transformative highway in North America. I left my small town in Wisconsin with my 10-year-old collection of cameras, countless pieces of adventure gear, and a van that most people wouldn’t last a long weekend in.
The newly purchased 2016 Ford Transit Connect (Micro Van) sat in my parent’s driveway like an adventure. I bought it from Facebook Marketplace and took a one-way flight to Florida two months ago to take it home. The vehicle was in perfect working order, painted white, no windows in the back, plastered with stickers collected by previous owners of ski hills and coffee shops around the West. It wasn’t the glamorous high-top build you see on social media, no cedar paneling, no standing room, no built-in shower, and just enough room for a mattress platform. There were a few ski poles propped up on my passenger seat among the duffels along with plastic boxes of camera gear and a cooler of PB&J stuff.
When I graduated from college in Chicago I had about $20,000 to my name, with one goal: to get out and turn some of my photography dreams into reality. Fourteen thousand disappeared as soon as I bought the van, leaving me with six thousand for fuel, food, repairs, and the uncertainties of the future. I told myself that if I ran out of money before I realized I was done, it would probably be the end of the road.
The day I left in the morning, I was very scared. I wasn’t taking a gap year, and I wasn’t necessarily on vacation. I was betting my only savings on an idea: That immersion would sharpen my art faster than any class could. I have grown up collecting photographs of far-flung coastal places and now it’s time to see them with my own eyes. Alone, I hugged my family and turned the van west.
All roads lead to the Pacific
I spent the first three months of my trip chasing winter storms in the Rocky Mountain Range, filming short-form ski edits, and regularly posting YouTube shorts/Instagram uploads to keep gas in my tank. I was just making enough to justify not turning back.
Eventually, the snow melted and reached the desert. For the first time in my life red rock swallowed the horizon, coming from “Cornlandia” (a word I’m using to describe my home in Wisconsin). The now peaceful desert softened, flattened, and eventually gave way to something that seemed mythical: the California coast.
I arrived in San Diego on a clear afternoon. The ocean seemed impossibly wide, like it was waiting for me, especially coming off some 100-degree nights in Phoenix, Arizona. I parked the van near the shore and slept my first night to the sound of waves crashing against the thin metal walls.
The next morning, I started driving north on the famous Pacific Coast Highway. Little did I know that this stretch of road would become the backbone of my entire year, and that I would have no sign of returning home (as long as tacos remained in abundance). The beach was filled with endless waves, familiar faces, and stories of people who, like me, had headed west, never to return.
Santa Barbara (Ghost of a Former Life)
When I entered Santa Barbara, I felt as if I was stepping into an old photograph of myself. I went to school here at Santa Barbara City College and studied photography (really just partying and taking pictures) for two years before finishing up in Chicago. At that time, I was always busy… classes, assignments, people from the neighborhood constantly coming to my place. Although I was surfing most of the week and exploring with my roommate Avash and his 1997 Grand Marquis (which we dubbed “The Silver Surfer”), I was living on the edge of this ocean without absorbing it.
This time was different.
I parked along the beaches I once knew… and watched the Channel Islands dissolve into the distant mist. I walked slowly, deliberately taking pictures. Fell asleep in the van listening to the sound of the tide. The city felt softer now. The Spanish-style buildings glittered in the golden hour light. The mountains behind the city seemed closer and more dramatic than ever before, or perhaps I was paying attention for the first time…
The highway narrows as it heads north from Santa Barbara. Civilization became thin. As the Pacific Coast Highway progressed, the cliffs became steeper. The landscape began its transformation.
Chuck
By the time I reached San Francisco, the Pacific Coast Highway had already rewritten me. It felt symbolic to cross the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time during this trip. Red towers rose out of the fog like sentinels guarding the unknown north.
Everything below San Francisco was amazing. Everything above it seemed unknown.
The light changed, the air became cooler and the forests became denser. Less people, less cars, longer silence. I had never driven this far north on the coast before, it felt like I was entering another country without crossing the border. I found comfort with my old college friend Chuck from Santa Barbara. Their hospitality while showing me the underground sights of Marin County was so warm that I felt as if I could stay here forever. It was indeed time to return to the Pacific Coast Highway once again.
oregon
Crossing into Oregon, the beach became legendary. Huge sea stacks rise from the waves like ancient monuments. The bluffs fell precipitously into the churning waters. Here the greenery was darker, it felt like lightning in the gray sky. Unlike those not far away in Southern California, these beaches were empty. I felt small in a way I had never experienced before. This feeling was not insignificant, just a better awareness of one’s surroundings.
One afternoon, during this spell of magic, I took the nastiest slam ever on my skateboard at a local skatepark. It was a rainy day in a completely concrete park, I was really trying to get my body moving from being stuck in the van all day and night. I was carefree in my early twenties where the outcome seems theoretical.
I fell hard, hitting my elbow. The pain was immediate and obvious. At the hospital, they confirmed that it was broken. I remember sitting in the van outside this small-town Oregon hospital, arm in sling, with an entire coastal itinerary in front of me that I had drawn up in a little notebook. Logically, I should have turned around. Anecdotally, I found myself heading to another local dive pub for more fresh fish and chips.
The beach in front of me was becoming more beautiful every mile, so I continued driving.
Not out of stubbornness or ambition, but because I knew this window in my life wouldn’t last long. It was a strange freedom balanced on a financial weakness that would never be restored. I called home crying, but it felt like it was now or never. All my money was hidden in this van, and I could not reach my goal of Canada.
Not Washington, DC
By the time I entered Washington, the coastline felt extremely different. The forest pressed firmly against the road, and driftwood covered entire beaches. The sky looked low, moody and darkly cinematic. Every return felt like a mystery, and every hike felt like a foray into a fairy tale. I felt the night rain pattering the roof of the van, and there was a tremendous sense of alignment. I had never seen a coast like this while shooting among the islands of the Olympic Peninsula on my 200mm lens. The broken elbow gradually healed and the van continued moving. I still had my sights set on moving north.
Looking back, what amazed me most wasn’t the distance to get here, it was the grand scale of the entire Pacific Coast Highway.
The smaller the van felt, the bigger the world seemed. Since I couldn’t stand inside, I was spending more of my time outside. Since I didn’t have any extra money, I looked at the value of each mile. Because I was alone, there was no buffer between me and the landscape.
There were no luxuries to distract me from the experience. It was just metal walls, a mattress and a camera. People often believe that adventure requires the right setup; High-end vans, financing, certainty of return. This Pacific Coast roadtrip proved to be the opposite. The adventure begins when you leave.
When you get scared and leave Wisconsin, drive north on the Pacific Coast Highway with no guarantees. When your elbow breaks and you keep going, or the van breaks down and you decide the story isn’t over. I thought I was documenting the beach, but really… the beach was shaping me. Somewhere between San Diego and Vancouver, in a sticker-covered white Transit Connect with no windows, I found not only epic views, but also quiet confidence that I could build a life on risk, resilience, and opportunity.