Big Sur
an honest vanlife review
As long as I can remember, I’ve felt a quiet restlessness when life gets too routine. I’m most at ease when there’s something ahead. A plan, an experience, even just knowing what’s for dinner at the end of the day. Since I could legally get behind the wheel, I’ve loved jumping in the car and logging some miles. In high school, I’d drive from Orange County to San Diego after class, racing the sun just to surf. Not because the waves were always necessarily better, but because they were different. The drive itself made it all feel more meaningful. In college, that instinct only grew stronger. My best friend lived in San Francisco, and I took every excuse to make the eight-hour drive up the coast. Music on, windows down, choosing the long way simply because it was there. At the time, I thought I loved San Francisco. I even considered moving there for a hot second.
Looking back, I realize it wasn’t the city I loved. It was the feeling of newness. A different stretch of coastline. Unfamiliar streets. Learning how to navigate the Muni. The quiet thrill of not knowing what was around the next bend, but trusting it would be something I hadn’t seen before.
That’s what’s always drawn me to van life—the idea that the opportunity for adventure is available at any moment, anywhere wheels can take you. Over the years, I’ve gone deep down the rabbit hole: builds, layouts, engines, wheelbases, budgets. The dream has taken on a hundred different forms. I’ve considered the DIY route more than once, but any struggle I’ve had assembling Ikea furniture has been a reliable reminder that my time is probably better spent elsewhere. Still, I keep looking… late-night searches, saved listings, slowing down every time I pass a well-built van on the road.
My wife, shares the same instinct for movement. As a flight attendant, spontaneity is second nature to her—arguably even more than it is for me. While we’ve made travel a priority, it’s the in-between moments that have become our favorite: quick trips up the coast that feel both effortless and transporting. Our first trip together was to Cambria. We spent a few days wandering, taking photos, drinking wine, and stopping at every turnout just to watch the ocean. Later that same year, we got engaged on a road trip that covered nearly the entire California coastline in three days. It was ambitious, a little chaotic, and completely worth every mile of it.
But there was always one stretch we felt we missed, Big Sur. After years of closures, Highway 1 finally reopened. With a clear weekend and a good forecast, we decided last minute the time was now. However we wanted to do this trip differently. On past trips, we split time between hotels and the occasional glamping setup. But this felt like the right moment to test something we’d talked about a lot: a true van-life weekend. Not just for the novelty, but to see if it could realistically fit into the way we want to travel and eventually, the way we hope to share the world with our future family.
Finding a van is easy. Finding a good one is not. We’ve experienced both ends of the spectrum before, so this time, we aimed higher. We rented from altCamp and chose their Sequoia model—essentially a boutique hotel on wheels. From the start, the difference was clear: thoughtful design, high-quality materials, and an attention to detail that went far beyond typical rentals.
Within an hour of pickup, we were packed and heading north. We reached Moonstone Beach in Cambria just before sunset, perfect timing for a cold glass of happy hour and a walk on the beach. From there, the weekend unfolded naturally. We camped in the van, cooked, showered outdoors, followed curiosity wherever it led. We watched seals and whales, found hidden beach accesses, and let the days stretch without much structure. The drive from Cambria to Carmel is just under 100 miles, but we took our time. Every turn, every overlook, every stretch of coastline felt worth lingering on.
Big Sur has long been a benchmark for raw coastal beauty, and it delivered in every way. But what surprised me most wasn’t just the landscape—it was the experience of living out of the van itself. In the past, rentals always felt like rentals. You can hear every mile logged in every bump in the road through the creaks and squeaks of every joint. This vehicle was entirely different. It was the quality you’d hope for with the build you didn’t know you needed. At 6’4”, comfort matters—especially sharing a bed with my wife and a 20-pound Cavapoo who somehow occupies the space of a Great Dane. It delivered without compromise. The dining table to bed conversion was easy and damn comfortable. The intentionality of outlets on both sides of the bed, the built in iPad cradle, the internet, the roof rack, the wood paneling, the cabinetry. The van was as beautiful and capable as it was functional. And it surprised me how spaciously the three of us co-existed.
This weekend changed my perspective on vanlife though for better and for worst. I’ve always liked the idea of a stripped-down, DIY build—something simple, functional, built purely for adventure. But this weekend reframed that completely. There’s a difference between getting by and genuinely enjoying the experience. And once you know what’s possible, it’s hard to settle for less.
It also clarified something bigger. In a world that often feels noisy and complicated, there’s real value in simplicity—in presence, in movement, in shared experience. In waking up somewhere new, with no agenda beyond what the day might offer. I think about that a lot now. About what it would look like to share that with our future kids. To show them the world not just as destinations, but as a series of moments—each one just around the bend. I can see it clearly. And I have a feeling this won’t be the last time we do a trip like this—just the beginning.
