Journey through the Eastern Sierra with a toddler in a Johnson RV's Sprinter van, where the Buttermilks meet the alpenglow of Mount Whitney and family climbing life.

When I tell people we took our toddler on a ten-day van and climbing trip through the Eastern Sierra, they look at me as if we have wandered slightly off the map of reasonable choices.

I understand the look. Seventeen hours of highway with a two-and-a-half-year-old asks for a particular kind of patience, more logistics than I knew I had, and a deeper reserve of resilience than I planned to spend.

When people ask whether it was worth it, I answer without hesitation. Yes.

My parenting ambitions live on a single line. I want to raise a feral, courageous, curious child. So when I watch Ava taste her first mochi donut in Portland, gather rocks in the Buttermilks, or stand quiet while the alpenglow walks down the face of Mount Whitney, I know the trip is doing what I hoped it would. These are the moments that build a person, and there is no shortcut to that kind of joy.

This is the story of our adventure. One Sprinter van from Outside Van by way of Johnson RV, our little family, a few of our best friends, and an unreasonable quantity of snacks.

Day One: Seattle to Klamath, with a Stop for Donuts

We left Seattle on a Tuesday morning. We had packed the van so densely that I rested my feet on a guidebook and a backup stack of diapers. The plan looked simple on paper. Drive to Portland, pick up our rig from Outside Van, and reach Klamath, Oregon by nightfall. As the old saying almost goes: the best laid plans of mice and parents of toddlers.

The Seattle to Portland stretch takes about three hours on a kind day. That works out to one stretch of easy driving with a toddler, followed by one stretch of either a long nap or very loud opinions. I never know which I will get. We stopped in Portland for coffee and mochi donuts from Mikiko, a small bright spot off the highway with plenty of street parking. Ava ate one and a half with reverence, then slid into a sugar-flat sleep in her car seat.

Outside Van is the sort of place that makes my jaw drop and my confidence rise in the same motion. We picked up an overnight Sprinter, and as they walked us through the build, I stood there thinking, what if we just keep it. The layout works. A real sleeping setup, real storage, a galley that kept us fed and comfortable for the duration. We loaded our gear and pointed south for Bend.

If you have never driven HWY 26 from Portland to Bend, I owe you a warning. When the weather and the timing arrive together, the view of Mount Hood will ask you to pull over whether you planned to or not. We caught one of those days. We stood on the shoulder, Ava on my hip, all of us quiet in the face of the mountain. Some landscapes refuse to let you drive past them. The minutes we lost there have a particular weight in my memory now, and I would lose them again.

We ate dinner in Bend at Spork, which is exactly what I want after a day on the road. Fast, genuinely good, kind to every dietary restriction in the group, and entirely unfazed by a toddler with opinions. Then we pushed the final leg to Klamath, found a beautiful dispersed spot through the iOverlander app, and fell asleep to the kind of quiet that only exists far from cities.

Day Two: Klamath to Bishop

The best travel days start slow. Coffee in the van, breakfast in golden light, no rushing. We managed about twelve minutes of this before Ava decided the day should start moving. She was not wrong. We had miles ahead.

We took the route through Weed, California and stopped at the bakery there, the kind of small-town establishment that earned its legend honestly. If you know, you know. From Weed, we pointed south through the mountains toward Tahoe, which turned out to be the ideal resupply stop. Cheaper gas, a full grocery haul, and an REI run for the last few necessities. We ate lunch outside in pine-filtered light while Ava made friends with every dog that walked past, until the road called us forward again.

The drive from Tahoe down through the Eastern Sierra is its own kind of magic. Small towns punctuate the highway, each one inviting you to stop and look around. We pulled over at the Mono Lake overlook and stood at the edge of something ancient and slightly strange, the tufa towers rising from the water like accidental sculptures. Ava considered them seriously and announced, “Mama, I like those rocks.” We laughed and agreed. That stop earned every minute we gave it.

From there we made a short push to the Bishop area, where iOverlander again delivered, this time a BLM site in the hills. The whole area is a hotspot for climbing and always a little busy, so we drove around a while before landing somewhere that felt right. The roads in were rugged in places. The Sprinter handled them without complaint. We cooked dinner under a sky so dense with stars that it bordered on parody. Something settled in all of us. We slept hard after spending too long looking up, necks tilted to the cosmos.

Day Three: The Buttermilks

The best tip I can offer about climbing in the Buttermilks is this. Get up early. We broke camp and chugged up the road to the Buttermilk parking area shortly after waking, and we slid into a spot before the crowd arrived. We brought plenty of water, plenty of snacks, plenty of stoke. We knew we would not want to leave.

Ava spent most of the day wandering between boulders, attempting the occasional move between rounds of chasing lizards and curating the perfect rock collection. I cannot tell you her criteria. She gathers and abandons rocks with such delight that I trust she is onto something. She ate goldfish crackers and charmed every kid-friendly climber within a hundred feet, offering her snacks and cheers for their send burns.

There is something genuinely joyful about a toddler meeting the Bishop climbing scene for the first time. Everything towers. Everything looks interesting. She had no concept of grades or first ascents or onsights. She focused entirely on joy and snacks, in that order, and shared both with everyone in reach.

That evening we drove into Bishop for dinner at Mountain Rambler Brewery, which holds exactly the energy I want after a day on rock. Cold beer, good food, a room full of other people who also smell like sunscreen. We wandered through the local shops afterward, Ava on Matt’s shoulders, all of us loose and happy from a day well spent.

Day Four: Another Day in the Boulders

Few things beat treating yourself after you have earned it, which is the entire operating philosophy of Looney Bean. We walked in on day four for coffee and muffins, and it felt like a small ceremony. Fair warning. The bathroom line can stretch out the door, but a public facility sits a block away, and nobody needs to know you used it. We restocked at Vons, loaded enough food for the next few days, and pointed the van back out to the boulders.

The late afternoon light in the Eastern Sierra does something extraordinary. A warm horizontal gold pours in low and turns every photo into something that looks staged. We climbed until our arms gave out, ate dinner in the desert, and went to bed with the kind of full-body tiredness that follows a really good day.

Day Five: Rest Day, New Camp, Alabama Hills

Moving camp with a toddler belongs to its own category of adventure, mostly because every item you just unpacked needs to go back in the van while someone small offers you rocks she has found in the dirt. A patented toddler distraction system helps. I recommend magnatiles and a snack you have been hiding until exactly this moment. We loaded up and drove south toward Alabama Hills, some of the most visually dramatic and easily accessible camping in the area.

The competition for spots is real. Years of overcrowding led to closures, so even though we arrived early, we drove around a while before landing somewhere that made us all stop mid-sentence. There are no amenities here beyond the occasional pit toilet. We came prepared with food, water, and a plan for packing out waste. In a place this staggeringly beautiful, the lack of amenities feels like a minor inconvenience, and the hassle pays for itself.

As the afternoon turned golden and the air cooled, we took a hike from camp and watched the desert flowers open as the light fled. It was my first time witnessing flowers close in the heat and unfurl again at dusk. Watching it happen with Ava felt like sharing a secret. We ate dinner as the sun sank, stayed up too late watching the stars arrive one by one and then all at once, and nobody complained about bedtime.

Day Six: Alpenglow and All the Sunscreen

I could watch alpenglow paint Mount Whitney and the surrounding peaks in red and pink for the rest of my life, and the show would never grow tired. I shook Matt and Ava gently awake and led them out to watch the mountain change colors in sequence. Soft blue, deep rose, copper, gold. We took it in with a quiet reverence that is rare with a toddler in the room.

Ava watched it all and said, “pretty.” It remains the most succinct review of my favorite phenomenon I have ever heard.

We spent the day climbing and hiking, carrying water and enough sunscreen to coat a small army, because the desert is generous with its heat and even more generous with its beauty. We had a picnic lunch among the rocks and made it back to camp in time for golden hour, which you do not want to miss in the Alabama Hills. These are the days I describe to people later when they ask whether the trip was worth it. They are as beautiful in reality as they become in memory.

Day Seven: One More Morning

We allowed ourselves one more slow morning in the Alabama Hills, one more round of alpenglow and camp coffee, before driving back to Bishop for a last day in the boulders. This is always the bittersweet day, the one when I am still doing the thing and already a little sad it is almost over. We climbed until the light went soft, made a good dinner, and tried to memorize what it felt like to be exactly there.

Day Eight: Turning North

Looney Bean earns a second visit on the way out. This is mandatory. You will thank me later. Muffin in hand, coffee in the cupholder, Ava asleep in her car seat before we touched the highway, we pointed the van north and started the long drive home. We stopped for lunch in the Tahoe area and reached Klamath by evening, which felt like an honest day’s work. If you have a sleeping toddler and a second wind, you can push further north to the Bend area and shave time off the next day.

We did not have a second wind. Klamath was perfect.

Day Nine: Mount Hood and One Last Big Meal

The last full day on the road deserves a little ceremony. Ours took the shape of a hike in the Mount Hood area, a picnic lunch in the trees, and dinner at Pfriem in Hood River, which earns every word of its reputation. It welcomes families in a way that does not feel like a consolation prize, and the waterfront park across the street is the ideal place to run a toddler completely down before your table is ready. Arrive a little early to put your name on the list. Order the fries. I cannot stress this enough. Do not skip the fries.

Day Ten: Home

There is a particular mix of feelings at the end of a trip like this. Gratitude. Reluctance. Something nearly like grief, the knowledge that regular life is waiting and this version of our days is over. We cleaned out the van, used the onboard compressor to blow every corner free of dust, and returned her to Outside Van with genuine sadness. Then the last drive home to Seattle, already talking about next time before we merged onto the highway.

Addendum

A few things worth passing on, especially when small people are along for the ride.

Pack lighter than you think you need to. The van has limits, and you will discover them on day one when you are looking for Ava’s water bottle behind three pairs of climbing shoes. The laundromats in Bishop are excellent. Use them without shame. Throw a load in before Looney Bean, move it to the dryer when you go to Vons, pick it up on the way back. Clean clothes out there feel like an actual luxury.

Make time for the Owens Valley Paiute Shoshone Cultural Center in Bishop. It gave us real context for the land we moved through all week, and it made everything feel more meaningful. It takes about an hour and it earns every minute.

If you forget gear, Bishop has you covered. Eastside Sports can handle almost anything. Mammoth Mountaineering is a consignment shop that has surprised us more than once with exactly what we needed at a fraction of the price.

And finally, the thing about traveling with a toddler is that she has no idea the trip is ambitious or logistically complicated or a lot. Ava simply knew that every morning she woke up somewhere beautiful, that there were rocks to collect and donuts to eat and stars to look at, and that we were all there together. There is a lesson in that. The desert does not care how old you are. Take the trip.