I Stayed in a Tiny House on a Ranch and It Was Everything I Ever Wanted
I split my pants picking up a goat.
I ate a burger topped with a hot dog topped with tater tots.
I forded the river on horseback and didn’t lose a single axle.
Yes. I stayed in a tiny house and it was everything I ever dreamed of.
EAT IT, OREGON TRAIL
Both the best and worst thing about Nomadic 2015 is not knowing where I’ll lay my head next. Sometimes I end up airbnb-ing in the home of a Shanghainese family who neglected to mention their THREE CHILDREN or their 7 a.m. alarm known as crying infant.
But sometimes, the Hobo God smiles down on my wandering soul and fulfills a life dream: living in a tiny house.
I harbored no hipster illusions about this experience. Though often accused of being a hippie (I make ginger-cardamom tisanes for coughs and haven’t owned a TV in a decade), I’m the last person who can live off the grid. The first thing I did was ask the owner if my cell phone could get reception in the canyons.
Luckily, this house has double-paned windows, two heaters, and electric lights all over the place. No wifi, but I took that as a sign to unplug.
Just me and God/dog. #dogisgod
WHO THE HELL INVENTED YOUTUBE
In the first night in the house, I used 75% of my brand-new-reset data plan watching Family Guy clips and videos of Robin Williams meeting Koko the gorilla.
I texted every person I knew photos of the house and videos of the turkey and duck who acted like they were at a marathon karaoke session.
Yep, I’m definitely in the Matrix.
Between the stress of driving — my least favorite thing on earth rivaled only by Excel spreadsheets — in 100 desert degrees and constantly making sure my dog didn’t develop heat stroke when the AC crapped out after the first hour, then figuring out what water was potable on the house and grounds for him to drink (turns out ALL), it took a little bit for my limbic system to calm down.
But when I sat down in my new, temporary backyard for my first mountain sunset, I was finally able to do what I’d gone off alone for.
I could face myself.
I cried.
As with many epic journeys in my life, this one was fueled by fresh heartbreak, but I was crying for more. I was crying out the exhaustion of major travel plans falling through after months I spent trying to rescue them, the daily nervousness of overstaying a welcome, the chaos of rifling through trash bags in the trunk of my car to find my underwear.
These are first world problems, and I tell you them not for sympathy but to confirm that the nomadic lifestyle is just as rootless and anxious as you fear it to be.
And when I finished crying out the first layer of stress, I cried to clean my insides out. To feel the tender parts that have been hurt over time. Scrub some of that gunk we all pick up through living.
When I’d finished, it was time to sleep. For tomorrow, was the horse ride.
I AM IN CONTROL
The horse guy, as I call him, knocked on my door the next day to give me the waiver to sign. He was a hulk of muscle with that chesty, former Marine stance and I couldn’t stop grinning at him.
“What brings you to the house?” he asked.
“It’s been my dream to travel the country in one of these.”
“Me too. Seriously. Except I’m looking at a Fifth Wheel.”
Instant friends.
After HG led me racing up mountains and crashing through streams, I washed three different kinds of animals off me and changed for dinner.
It was a double meat and potato concoction that gives my infamous Ramen Burger episode a run for its money: beef patty, pork hot dog, tater tots, and every condiment in the house, all held together by a steak knife through the whole contraption.
The rest of the week was no less indulgent. I rode with HG again, and he checked to make sure I’d learned the first lesson of horseback riding: I am in control.
We watched more Family Guy clips on his phone (at least ONE of us still had data plan.)
I went to a movie with a local waitress (small towns are a combination of awkward racial tension and extreme friendliness).
I made out with HG’s goats. Got a black eye when I got too close to his dogs roughhousing with mine. You know, ranch things.
There was more, of course, much more than I can fit into a blog post. I’ll save the details for the memoir.
I’d run off to the mountains to be alone and discovered that, in this world, I’m not often alone. I was sad to leave, although I looked forward to being able to flush my toilet more than once a day again.
The afternoon before I left, HG sat with me in the backyard.
“You know, in another life, we would be married with a couple of kids,” he said.
I held up a hand. “No kids.”
But the rest sounded nice. A big guy with tattoos who smelled of fresh soap. Animals running amok. Nowhere to be but this land in the canyon.
The fantasy of the simple life had to stop at checkout time (noon). But hopefully one day, when my wandering is done, it won’t.
Know someone who wants to live in a Tiny House? A like/share click is much appreciated!
Originally published at sophiachang.com.
