THE BREAKDOWNS THAT BUILT OUR BACKBONE

What Old Vans Teach You Early

People love to joke that Westfalias always break down. I used to laugh along with them. Before I fully lived the lifestyle, it was just something quirky people said, like part of the charm. But the truth hits different when your home is on wheels and you’re depending on that engine to get you to work, the ferry, or simply through the week intact.

When I first moved into my van full-time, I learned quickly that the line between “a good day” and “a breakdown day” can be pretty thin. These vans are almost 40 years old. They’re full of character and small quirks, but they also need care, attention, and a certain mindset. And I’ve had my fair share of moments where the road humbled me.

Looking back now, I can see those breakdowns for what they were. Trial by fire. Lessons in responsibility. And the foundation of what would become Base Camp’s entire safety and support routine. This isn’t a story about glorifying breakdowns. It’s about how they shaped me, and how they taught me to make sure you never have to go through the same stress.

The Week of Dead Mornings

Back when I was still commuting to Vancouver for work, I was living in the lumber yard behind the woodshop. I’d pull the Blue Kahuna out every morning to keep the driveway clear for customers and forklifts, then park on the street during the day, bouncing between job sites and our other location. I had to be reliable. My whole rhythm depended on the van starting every morning.

Right after I upgraded my auxiliary battery system, cleaned up the wiring, and sorted out the basics, I started noticing something weird. I’d park for the night, pop the top, make dinner, lock up, and go to sleep. The next morning, I’d crawl into the driver’s seat, turn the key… and nothing. Completely dead.

Jumping the van with the forklift became a full week routine. I tried everything I knew. I unplugged things. I unplugged myself. I reset. I hoped. Nothing changed. I needed that van to run. I needed to get to work on time. I couldn’t be the guy who was late because “my old van wouldn’t start.”

The worst moment was at the end of the week on the ferry back to the Island. I sat in the driver’s seat, knowing I didn’t have a backup plan. If it didn’t start, I was stuck right there in the upper car deck, the guy everyone had to wait for. So I kept the door unlocked and stayed in the seat, staring at the key. When the ferry docked and the van turned over on the first try, I felt everything settle for a moment.

I got it into the shop back home and the mechanic found it in minutes. A tiny electrical draw, just enough to drain a battery overnight whenever the doors were locked. Who knew my 87 Vanagon had power locks? One small, almost invisible thing.

It was such a lesson in humility. You can do everything “right” and still get caught off guard. That week taught me what it feels like to rely on luck, and how heavy that sits on your chest. It’s a feeling I never want a Base Camp guest to carry.

Steam in the Mirrors

About a month after buying the business, I was driving to work one morning when a red light blinked on the dash. Low coolant. The temperature gauge spiked next. Before I had time to process it, I caught steam pouring out of the rear vents in my side mirrors.

I pulled over fast, shut everything down, and opened the back hatch, hoping it wasn’t smoke. Coolant was draining straight onto the pavement. I stood there on the side of the highway, cars rushing past, thinking about all the ways I was about to be late for work, and all the ways I thought I’d prepared for this lifestyle. A single old hose had blown.

It felt manageable at first. A buddy and I replaced the hose over the next couple weeks while I caught rides to and from work. We topped up the coolant, bled the system, and tried again. Still overheating. That defeated feeling settled in pretty fast.

What followed was four months of being in and out of a shop that didn’t fully understand these vans. Three escalating “solutions.” Two more highway breakdowns. And to top it off, they somehow managed to mess up my transmission so badly that shifting into first felt like wrestling a cinder block.

I remember sitting behind the wheel the day I picked the van up for the fourth time. It idled rough. It felt worse than when I’d dropped it off. And I had that sinking thought no Westy owner wants: Maybe I should just give up and buy something more reliable.

But something in me said take it somewhere else. Trust your gut. So I drove it, barely, to a Volkswagen mechanic who’d been working on these vans since long before I was born. He’d seen everything. He fixed the Kahuna properly, quickly, and honestly. And he helped rebuild something I didn’t expect: my confidence.

That experience taught me something that sits at the core of Base Camp today. Reliability isn’t just about parts or service schedules. It’s about trust. It’s about knowing the right people, and building real relationships. On this Island, community keeps everything afloat. And since that moment, I’ve worked hard to build a network of mechanics I trust with everything.

A Sunny Roadside Fix

By the second season running the business, I’d learned a lot. I’d seen the worst and the best of van ownership. One afternoon in mid-summer, both rentals were out and I was driving home when the battery light flicked on. A moment later, the steering got heavy. The temperature gauge started to climb.

This time, I didn’t panic. I found a safe place to pull over on a quiet side road, popped the engine bay, and knew the answer right away. A snapped belt. Nothing dramatic. Just a thing that happens with older vehicles.

It was warm out. Clear skies. I had nowhere to rush off to. So I pulled out my tool bag, crawled under the van, and got to work. A buddy grabbed a replacement belt and dropped it off at the roadside. I even found the reason it failed. A tiny clamp sitting just a little wrong, wearing away at things over time.

We got the new belts on tight, turned the key, and the Kahuna purred like it always had. Fixed. Simple. Almost peaceful.

That moment reminded me of what these vans really are. They call the Westy “the people’s van” for a reason. When you’re not rushed, and you understand the rhythm of things, these small nuances become part of the journey instead of something to fear. 

I don’t expect guests to know how to fix anything. That’s my job. But I want people to feel the spirit of that sunny repair: the calm, the confidence, and the trust that everything is going to be alright.

What These Stories Built

These moments, and all the ones in between, shaped how I run Base Camp Adventure Rentals. Not in a technical way, but in a human way.

They taught me what uncertainty feels like.
They taught me how heavy it is to rely on luck.
And they taught me how grounding it feels to have real support behind you.

So we built our routines around that. Preparation, presence, and community.
Daily checks. A network of trustworthy mechanics across the Island.
And me, always on call, always ready to help.

Because older vans come with character, and your trip should come with confidence.

That’s the value of renting from Base Camp Adventure Rentals. We take on the work that keeps everything moving so you can settle into the good parts of a Westy trip. The adventure, the slow moments, and the memories that stick.

- Dylan