Last August, after the pandemic marooned me for a summer at my childhood home in Massachusetts, I moved to Maine to teach at听a rural middle school. I loaded my car with the essentials鈥攇uitar, banjo, running shoes, backpack, tent, sleeping bag, topo maps, cold-brew coffee apparatus鈥攆eeling like I was reentering adulthood.

Then I took a long look at the car itself鈥攁 silver 2003 Mazda MPV minivan named Silverfish that I鈥檇 half-grudgingly, half-gratefully inherited鈥攁nd winced. A large (and dorky) piece of my childhood would be coming with me.

My parents bought the behemoth when I was in second grade, and my sister and I named it after what we imagined was a species of sleek, barracuda-like fish. (We had no idea a silverfish was something you spray Raid on.) By the time I left for Maine as a 25-year-old, however, Silverfish had become a source of acute embarrassment鈥攁n oversized soccer-team-hauler听with rust, dents, and dysfunctional AC (thanks to a small but hungry rodent). On the day of my departure, I asked myself: is the silhouette of my new adult life really shaped like a minivan?

At first, I thought Silverfish would serve me only as a commuter car. Then, in October, I met my friend Eli, a research biologist and experienced outdoorsperson, for some trail running in Acadia National Park. To my surprise, he eyed Silverfish with something akin to lust: 鈥淪weet van. Would you ever sell that thing?鈥�

Over the next few months, Eli鈥檚 interest in my van began to make more sense. I still couldn鈥檛 reconcile Silverfish鈥檚 homeliness with my own wannabe-ruggedness. And I still couldn鈥檛 get past its most obvious flaws鈥攁 temperamental, if surprisingly peppy,听V6 engine听and an utterly vibe-killing presence on first dates (like having the whole family along!).

But each weekend, as Silverfish helped me run, hike, camp, and cross-country ski, the adventure-related benefits of owning a minivan were becoming more apparent. Here鈥檚 what I鈥檝e learned.

Minivans are affordable.听

Especially compared with trucks, SUVs, or full-size vans with expensive buildouts, minivans are a viable option for the gear-toting outdoorsperson with a moderate budget. And used ones鈥攕ay, ten-year-old vehicles with 100,000 miles鈥攁re even cheaper. According to Kelley Blue Book, a 2011 Toyota Tacoma truck will set you back $11,700; a Toyota Sienna minivan, on the other hand: $10,200. Step down to a Dodge Grand Caravan minivan and you鈥檒l part with $6,300.听(Since most minivans don鈥檛 come with all-wheel drive, you may need to factor in a set of snow tires.)

They can haul lots of stuff.

In most minivans, removing the second-row seating and folding down the third (like I did in mine)听opens up a Mammoth Cave鈥檚 worth of storage鈥�127 cubic feet for Silverfish, 144 for a听2011 Grand Caravan, 150 for a 2011 Sienna. A truck with a 4鈥� x 6鈥� bed and a standard cap yields about 72 cubic feet of storage space, if you don鈥檛 include the rear seating area (which is walled off from the bed). Silverfish can fit three mountain bikes side by side, wheels and all鈥攁nd I never have to worry about them getting stolen. And if you鈥檙e a surfer, wouldn鈥檛 you rather stash your boards inside, not on the roof?

There鈥檚 plenty of activity space.

Keep the second row of seats, and a minivan can haul at least seven passengers. Take it out and you鈥檝e got a surprisingly luxurious changing room, kitchen (leave those windows open!), portable kennel, or, says Eli, post-winter-surf-session warming hut. (And, for a few Zoom sessions of mine, a therapist鈥檚 office.)

In November, Eli and I ran the Pemi Loop鈥攁 30-mile tour of eight New Hampshire 4,000-foot peaks. Though the run itself flew by in a Clif-Blok-and-endorphin-fueled state of White Mountain Bliss, it鈥檚 the night before that I remember most vividly: marveling at the spaciousness of the cargo area as we rolled out our sleeping bags and feeling听proud of the old Mazda.

There are plenty of cupholders.

It seems trivial, but bear with me. Mazda knew that suburban soccer teams needed to hydrate. Well, so do climbers, surfers, car campers, and grad students on a budget. In Silverfish, you鈥檙e never more than a few inches from one of ten cupholders. Certain 2011 Sienna models even come with a dozen. A 2011 Tacoma has only seven, so maybe you should think about your beverage听requirements听before buying a truck.

You鈥檙e boldly rebranding a cultural symbol.

A certain segment of the outdoor world (me included) seems transfixed by image-fueled gear clich茅s: Darn Tough socks, stickered Nalgenes, slack MTB head tube angles, and expensive flannel shirts designed to imitate cheap flannel shirts. Behind the wheel of a minivan, you subversively toss out the stereotypes鈥攖he rugged Tacoma, the decked-out Sprinter, heck, even the sporty Outback鈥攁nd recast the meek denizen of the cul-de-sac as a brash open-road adventurer.

On a sleety Saturday in February, I was heading down Interstate 295 when Silverfish started vibrating. It lurched and growled as I drove it to the nearest mechanic. The diagnosis? 鈥淐oils.鈥�

I wish I could say I cried when the mechanic told me the coils would cost more to replace than Silverfish was worth. Or a couple weeks later, when the salvage shop clerk handed me a $175 check and told me no, I couldn鈥檛 see my old van, because it had already been crushed by a car compactor.听Instead, I felt a strange calm. In that karmic way that things seem to leave our world once their life purpose has been accomplished, I knew that Silverfish had taught me what it needed to: If love means never having to say you鈥檙e sorry, then adulthood means never having to say you鈥檙e embarrassed.

Which is why I didn鈥檛 feel overly conflicted when a shiny 2007 Subaru Outback caught my eye. It was, of course, silver.

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