Howler Privateer Dispatch: Week 5 & 6
The road's got a funny way of rewriting the plan. Over the last couple weeks, our 2026 Privateers racked up a 40-hour drive, made a few questionable lodging decisions, paid the same New Jersey toll roughly a thousand times, and somehow still found plenty of fish, waves, and good people along the way. Turns out getting a little lost every now and then isn't such a bad thing. Be sure to follow along on Instagram or TikTok as the adventure continues!
Grand Canyon
40 hours from San Diego to the north east corner of the country. That was our daunting task for the week. Having faced the brutal drive through the New Mexico and Texas desert on the first leg of our trip, we knew what we were in for this time. So as we drove through Arizona, we were well aware that the Grand Canyon may be our last scenic/enjoyable experience on the road for the next couple of days. Entering the park, the winds were gusting over thirty knots which made you forget how brutally hot the air really was. A quick hike through the pines, and we had made it to our canyon viewpoint. It was an unreal feeling looking into it, not being able to see the bottom. To make things just a little more interesting, Joe had the bright idea of busting out the 8 wt and taking some casts into the abyss. That task didn’t account for the skinny rock path we’d be casting off of and definitely not for the brutal wind gusts that would push through periodically. We grabbed our sketchy photos, took it all in, and headed back down the trail to our mobile abode.
The rest of the day was spent driving far into the desert until we arrived at a primitive campsite in New Mexico. Every designated spot was taken, so we settled for a slanted roadside pulloff within the campground and called it a day. We slept deeply that night, but first thing the next morning we received a knock on the glass from the forest services kindly telling us to get out of there. If you ever stay in a ‘primitive campground,’ you actually have to sleep in a designated spot. Noted.
New Mexico to Arkansas
Ah yes, the dreaded stretch. New Mexico through northern Texas. We had been thinking about this one since day one back in Austin. If you happen to live in this 500 mile stretch of wasteland, we first and foremost apologize. But we gotta ask, what do you do out here? It’s hot, it’s dusty, and the wind rips vans around like we’re tornado chasers. A quick coffee recharge in Albuquerque and then we were off for the long haul.
Despite a near sandwiched experience among the truckers in Oklahoma, we survived the twelve-hour trek and entered Arkansas. The Howler community made it clear that when you're in Arkansas, you have got to fish the White River. After a call with Stevie at White River Trout Club, we diverted our route northward to get on some fish before dark. We arrived just as the sun was hitting the treeline; enough time to get our lines wet, but it would take some luck to bring in a fish. Not having made a cast since Idaho weeks earlier, our warmup turned into our only shot at bringing one in, and we had to settle with a wee little rainbow. Huge thanks to Hunter for waiting it out at the boat ramp until we showed up, and to Stevie for snagging us some rooms at the lodge. We had no idea what to expect from the White, but we’re now sure that we’ll be back. With vengeance.
Nashville to Grease Town Hotel
We woke up in Flippin, Arkansas with a full day of flippin’ driving ahead of us. The boys at White River Trout Club were kind enough to hook us up with some unsnagged breakfast sandwiches from that morning’s fleet, and we were on our way to Music City. After a mixture of some driving and some stand-still traffic, we eventually rolled into Nashville, Tennessee. Ahhhh, the Honky Tonk Highway, Nashville’s premiere “people watching” destination. We wandered around Broadway, immersed ourselves in a few sweaty bar crowds, drank the cheapest beers we could find, and then decided to call it. We jumped at an offer to sleep on our college buddies’ couch, and fell asleep to Nashville’s signature brown noise (car horns and live music). Mclain and Chapman, thanks for forever shifting our perspectives on Tuesday nights.
After waking up bright and not so early, we scooted over to Kai Welch’s music making manor. Our mission at hand was simple: make a song. After pressing, strumming, plucking, and slapping every instrument in sight, we began steps to completing our mission. Kai’s musical maestro friend Gregor, who was in town at the time, took the first step. He had a simple but unique guitar riff, and a few words, “It’s not too bad”. With the help of Kai’s producer expertise and the harmony of our angelic voices, we had the song ringin’ through the studio in no time. We left Nashville with a new song in our roadtrip rotation, and lucky for us, we hit so much traffic that we got to listen to it 648 times. Our song is incapable of being overplayed. We were tired from the drive, not it. Joe found an absolute STEAL of a hotel in the middle of Virginia. You know how they say, “the only free cheese is in the trap”? Well, this “cheese” wasn’t free, but it was cheap cheese. Turns out cheap cheese is in the trap too. After crossing paths with numerous sketchy, boozin’ individuals, we found our room. It must have previously been a cockroach farm. We settled in, became acquainted with the deadbolt lock, and reminded ourselves “It’s not too bad”.
Arkansas to Mooville, Pennsylvania
The one plus to sleeping in a greasy hotel is you awake to natural alarms. Whether you’re kept sleepless through the night by the not-so-soothing sounds of echoed snoring or confrontations in the parking lot, you are sure to rise up out of bed at six AM ready to get the hell out of there. Lucky for us, after hitting the road early that meant we’d have extra time to get some outdoor play in before dark. Still uncrossed by both of us, smallmouth bass were on our radar as we crossed into Pennsylvania. We booked a campsite and rolled through the hills of Amish-country backroads until we found a suitable river for some exploring. It was muggy and buggy, but the scenery kept us moving downstream. No signs of smallmouth though. Just a really angry cow mooing in the distance that screamed, “Take a selfie with me!” So naturally, we gave up our smallmouth dreams and focused our attention on this photoshoot with a cow. It was embarrassing honestly. We were two guys far from home with a horned-van pulled over on the side of the road, phone high in the air, taking a picture with a cow that was obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation. We got what we needed after receiving a few disapproving words from passing cars and headed to our campsite where we settled down for the night.
There were long lulls between sets, but when they finally came through we had ourselves positioned in the perfect spot. Our first couple of waves were solid even though our small boards were shaking under the power that the set waves carried. It was obvious the tide was starting to bottom out as each set became less of a curling line and more one giant wall, closing out all at once onto the reef. We were stoked to be in the water, so we pushed on and packed closeouts until our sinuses were filled with saltwater. Unscathed and surf satisfied, we packed up the van and drove on to Santa Barbara where we met with our buddy Conor Kerr, a SB wizard on the skateboard. We caught word that some of our friendsVer were playing a show in town, so we called the uber and ended the night listening to their set. Y’all give Where’s West a listen!
Nantucket Falls Through, Divert to Jersey, Then Connecticut
Things took a turn as we left Pennsylvania that next morning. It seemed like every plan we had for the northeast was crumbling before us. Our housing in Nantucket fell through, which then led us to the Jersey shore, which also fell through later that day. We reached the East Coast in Atlantic City that afternoon, but we had no idea where to go from there. Being so close to Independence Day, hotels were either booked or outrageously expensive, so we had to think on our toes. A huge advantage of traveling by van is that no destination has to be set in stone, so we played those cards. Graham made a phone call to a close buddy of his, whose parents had just moved to a beach house in Stonington, Connecticut. They graciously offered us a room for the weekend, and so we had our new heading.
The New Jersey Turnpike
If you want to genuinely challenge your mental sanity and patience, drive North through New Jersey on Fourth of July weekend. The final boss, so to speak, of this patience testing drive, is the New Jersey Turnpike. This particular turnpike was littered with tolls. When passing through these tolls we essentially had three options: get a printed piece of paper from a machine, pay somebody, or floor it through the “EZ pass” lane and get your picture taken for free. After trying all three of these options, we decided to make option 3 (the “EZ pass” lane) our default option. We stuck with this decision for a good ways, but eventually got tired of the overhead license plate paparazzi. So, we diverted from the default. Big mistake in hindsight. This diversion somehow led us through the same “pay toll” booth five times in a row. The route was as follows: pay the toll, take the wrong exit, pay the toll again (x5). By the end of this little detour, we had added almost two hours to our arrival time. We paid the same toll for the fifth time, finally took the correct exit, and Graham’s velcro wallet had been rinsed clean. We had done it, we had escaped the New Jersey Turnpike toll matrix. We trucked on, reaching Stonington, CT just before dinner time.
Fourth of July
By the morning of the Fourth, we had come to terms that we would follow the general low-key feel that Stonington had shown us when we arrived the previous day. We’d sit on the dock, enjoy the sun, maybe have a few beers, take a few casts for some schoolies, and call it a day. But that changed as we walked onto the porch that morning, seeing hoards of boats barging on the nearest sandbar. It looked like too much fun to watch from afar, so we began scheming a strategy to get out there. It was a quick, maybe fifty-yard paddle across the inlet to reach the bar. Our idea was to paddle our surfboards across, loaded down with a cooler and gear for the big day. As we pondered our plan, a couple young guys about our age invited us over next door for some yard games. Short on friends in these parts, we happily accepted and spent the next couple hours indulging in the holiday. Take that as you wish. One thing led to another, and before we knew it we were on our way to that sandbar on a boat. Success.
Sunburnt and satisfied, we left our mark on that stretch of sand and took the boat back to the mooring. Storms started to roll through just as the first signs of striper blew up on the flat outside the house. We each made only a cast or two before the rain arrived and forced us back to shelter. The fireworks ran despite the storm, so we watched over some celebratory cocktails before calling it a night.
Rhode Island
Originally, we had planned on leaving Connecticut on the 5th, but like how we hope most people felt, the festivities of the 4th slowed us down a bit. Enough to lay on the floor a few hours until there was no sense in driving south. Instead, we pushed north into Watch Hill, Rhode Island, where we rock hopped around an island in search of stripers. Despite circumnavigating the whole peninsula, those pesky guys were nowhere to be found. No bait balls, no blowups, just a few scars left on Graham’s arm and leg from a slip on the rocks five minutes into the expedition. The views sure were nice though. We followed up our misfortune with some hefty lobster rolls in town, which may have been the highlight of the whole northeastern leg.
We came to this pub for one reason; split that freakin G. Joe was already in the clear from his unbelievable first attempt success in Bend, but Graham was here for vengeance. The battle was long and hard, and it had seemed that Guinness had the upper hand on Graham. That was until pint number six hit the bar top. He was alone in this battle, but Joe and friends had his rear, supporting with cheers and audibles to drop the glass at the perfect moment. The previous five beers were rumbling in his stomach, but he pushed on for one last gulp, the perfect gulp, nonetheless the perfect G split. He was victorious! Carl, our comedian of an Irish bartender, congratulated us with a mystery shot on the house that carried our night over to a sleepy karaoke bar. We are no singers, but the high of victory and liquid courage carried our voices through multiple songs until the night reached its end. We’re not sure if any other Monday night will ever top this one.
NYC
Still weary of the North East’s road system, we plotted ways to cut off as much of the original route we took to get to Stonington, Connecticut as possible. Lucky for us, there was a car ferry line that popped us over to Long Island, New York. We rolled out of Stonington fairly early, and enjoyed a ferry ride through some snotty seas over to Long Island. We stumbled upon a bagel shop there, and it seemed more than fitting to check it out. The cashier rang up some “paapppy” seed bagels, and we set a course for New York City. Upon arrival in Brooklyn, we were greeted by Graham’s hometown friend Bryson who had made the move from Charleston to Brooklyn just two days prior. We wasted no time hopping on a train and heading deeper into the city. We roamed the city for quite some time before working up an appetite. This felt like the perfect time to cash our Michelin Star meal voucher. We found an establishment called Le Cou Cou not far by and made some last minute reservations. We were underdressed for sure, but that didn’t stop us from enjoying an all time meal. Yellowfin tuna, lobster, steak—and a drink we couldn’t pronounce if another free meal was at stake—were all thoroughly enjoyed. Full and satisfied, we decided it was a good time to make our departure from NYC and continue on South. We stayed the night in Maryland just outside of Baltimore, falling asleep to dreams of our earlier meal.
Back in the Homeland: Topsail, North Carolina to Charleston, South Carolina
Ahhh, the Carolinas. Finally, some familiar territory. You could smell the salt in the air, feel the humidity, and develop road rage for grandma going ten under the speed limit (that part we did not miss). We were home, or at least close enough. Joe had been coming to Topsail Beach, North Carolina since he was just a youngin’, so he was the tour guide for this stop. As we drove in that evening, we were catching glimpses of waves through the dunes. We parked, threw on our boardies, and stayed out well after dark catching waves that barely broke the knee-high range. We didn’t mind it though. The water was warm, which meant we could finally ditch those wetsuits that had been marinating in the van since California. Yeah, you can assume how good that smelled.
The next day was a relaxing one. Just a good ole’ beach day followed by some surprisingly fun waves in the evening, tacos in between. As usual this time of year, storm systems rolled through just as we had hit the water that night, forcing us to sit under a gazebo, watching the conditions get better and better. All it took was a nudge from a local to get our arses in the water, and man we didn’t regret it. That storm passed, and the cleanup followed. We hugged the pier, trading off on wave-pool like waves until well after dark. Dark to the point that we were blindly riding unless a distant wall of lightning lit up the wave face in front of us. We agreed that those are the sessions you always remember; the ones that aren’t expected but earned. It wasn’t firing head high barrels by any means, but it sure was a good time.
We left Topsail in no big hurry, but as soon as we felt ourselves getting close to home, we stepped on it. The cruise back into our stomping grounds was finally happening. We reminisced about leaving a month and some change ago, and pointed out a few new buildings that had sprouted up in our absence. After the usual “return home” banter, we quickly diverted our attention to some water flooding into the flat near Joe’s house. We were just in time for a flood cycle. Game on!
♫ ♪ Music, Please ♪ ♫
We've got thousands of miles to cover this summer and a whole lot of van time between adventures. If you've got a road trip anthem, hidden gem, or absolute heater we need to hear, toss it onto our collaborative Spotify playlist. We'll be listening.
