Before I embarked on this wonderful adventure, I spent many-an-hour looking into “vanlife”. With close to a year of my life to be spent living out of a 2.5 x 4 metre box-on-wheels, I knew I needed to make it as comfortable, practical and functional as possible… for both our sakes. So I joined Facebook groups, I watched YouTube videos and with starry-eyes I knew exactly what we should do. But then, you know, reality kicked in and the reality was our van was absolutely not built to be converted into “vanlife” and our conversion skills were more-or-less nonexistent. So with a power drill in hand, we started our attack.

Breathtaking. It’s a word reserved for truly spectacular and remarkable moments; rare moments. Though sadly, like the many extreme adjectives like “amazing” and “unbelievable”, it’s overused, and often incorrectly used. I’m guilty, I’ll admit. I’ve used the word a number of times… climbing up to the top of Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, or paragliding down through the Himalayas while an Egyptian vulture soars beside me. But none have warranted the use of the word more than this. In both the emotive sense and the literal sense, I can undoubtedly say that jumping feet first into a turquoise blue glacial pool was completely and utterly breathtaking.

Life is a strange thing. Here I am, living my life to it’s absolute fullest while I’m surrounded by death almost all the time – on the news, in the windows of butchers… not that I walk past many butchers… or, in fact, spend much time watching the news these days. But nothing was more of a stark reminder of life’s fragility than when I was staring death in the face 48 times in the back of a pickup truck.

We’re about to clock two weeks in Alaska, and while I sit in the Denali Visitor Centre in 6 degrees with my thermal top and my Havaianas, I take time to reflect.

Alaska is unlike any place I’ve been before. Not for the fact that it took 48 hours of arduous airports and flying to get here, nor the fact that they still have Blockbusters which surprisingly still seem to be thriving, but it’s like a wilderness wonderland. There are snowy peaks around every corner, cascading glaciers and wild animals like moose and bears grazing on the landscape (which is much better than them grazing on my leg). But if someone were to ask me what my absolute favourite part of Alaska is, because I can assure you it’s not the balmy summer weather… it’s undoubtedly the people.

Deciding upon a blog name is hard. Even while I write this article, I have a sheet of words scribbled down on a note pad, which I occasionally look down at with the hope that something will *pop*.

It doesn’t.

My notepad words are the complete opposite to what you’d expect. For a blog about unplanned and spontaneous adventure, you’d expect the page to be littered with adjectives and circles, with spirals connecting one word to another and luscious clouds encompassing buzz words in a sight of semi-organized creativity.

Mine looks like a concentration camp.

Last week we dug a hole.

Now I know that doesn’t sound like much of an achievement, but it’s more about what the hole represented. Okay, let me start from the start…

It was about the time a needle full of untested medication was stabbed into my upper left abdomen that I really wondered whether I was making the right decision…

Let’s take a step back.

Some people may wonder how I fund my extravagant lifestyle. Because, I can assure you, it’s not from working in the travel industry. Firstly, it’s because I have no dependents, not even Sea Monkeys – which, I’m informed, are not cute little aqua monkeys who live under the sea in the octopuses garden… no, they’re fucking brine shrimp… not part of the monkey family at all. THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE THUMBS!

Secondly, it’s because I drink at home. Not often, and not alone… often. Thirdly, it’s because I balance my love for all things truffle oil with a love for free gym trials and a 4 cents per litre discount off my petrol.

And while all…

I’m constantly searching for new conversation starters and thought-provoking ideas that make me sound intelligent when I bring them up at dinner parties, because let’s be honest, the Trump jokes and Same-Sex Marriage debates are getting old.

That’s a thing now. Dinner party conversations. And by “dinner party”, I mean drinks… at the pub.

While working at Hardhat Digital, one of my favourite perks of the job (whisky bar and office dogs aside) was attending Real Big Things. It’s a marketing event for people who hate marketing events, but actually… not even really about marketing. This one was about start-ups.

In my early twenties, the joke of “adulting” was thrown around. And it was exactly that. A joke. A phrase used to precede a story of when someone had done something completely and utterly irresponsible like waking up in a strange room after a big night where an expensive leather jacket and wallet were lost at a late-night kebab shop (hypothetically)…

Defined by UrbanDictionary:

Adulting (v): to carry out one or more of the duties and responsibilities expected of fully developed individuals (paying off that credit card debt, settling beef without blasting social media, etc). Exclusively used by those who adult less than 50% of the time.

 “I was REALLY bad at adulting this weekend… *blah blah* …but the kebab was delicious and the policeman was very understanding”.

But now I’m… kind of an adult? Right?

So, when should I actually start to adult? And why do I suddenly care?