Life on the Road

The sun is setting as I pull into my campsite, three miles outside of nowhere. I need to make dinner. But I also need to make a kitchen.

This is, in a nutshell, life on the road. Everything is a just a little bit more difficult. Every part of your day has an extra step or two, like a website with some clunky UI. But the trade off is, once you unpack your utensils, move your bed off of your cooler, get your ingredients, set up your grill, start your grill, cook your food, and crack your lukewarm beer – once you do that, you can sit down to eat in the most beautiful dining room in the world.

I spent 2020 in a basement studio apartment in Brooklyn, New York. And like, a lot of us, going through that experience left a few scars. Being stuck in a small space, hearing and feeling the silence of the city that never slept, the sirens. The near constant sirens. I had to get out. Not just out of the city, but out out. Into open space. Into the world.

The trip planning began in earnest at the start of January, 2021, but a lingering work project kept me in my job for longer than I wanted. But then, in late spring, It finally finished. Two days later, I had quit my job. I Packed my Rav 4. Blew the transmission out of the Rav 4. Bought a new Subaru Outback, packed that up, and hit the road. I had a loose plan – places I wanted to see and stops I had to hit. But for the most part, it was up to me and whatever was around that next bend.

Light reading during a light rain. Teton NP, WY

My nightstand. Cheez-its, my glasses, my phone, and bear spray

Did you know when you hit 10,000 miles on a trip it resets to zero?

The things you see on the road in North Powder, OR

On the way to Monterey. 116 miles away from Monterey, CA

My alarm goes off somewhere beside my mattress pad, which has been laid out flat behind on the passenger side. All the seats are down, and my cooler is wedged between the front and rear seats, allowing my pad and pillow to lay flat.

I grumble and moan, and look for my glasses, which are usually right near my phone. But not always. Then the urge to pee hits me. I’d wedged my shoes between my mattress pad and the door. When I open the door, they fall to the ground. Every time. I slip them on, and find the nearest bush or camp toilet. Then I light a fire, and fix the best cup of coffee you could ever hope to have – coffee made over a fire.

I pack up and roll out. I tried to pack as much as possible the night before, but that’s a lot harder than it sounds. It was usually dark. I was usually tired. And quite usually lazy. But eventually the window shades get wrapped up, the campfire chairs stowed, and the fire extinguished.

On to the next wherever.

My bedroom. A mattress laid out over my snack bag resting on my cooler.

My pantry and bedroom. I kept my clothes in the suitcase, snacks in the container, and everything else wherever it could fit.

Getting ready for bed. Got pretty damn good at taking my contacts out by campfire light

At night, I’d have to make the bedroom. I’d unfold my mattress, a trifold pad that was surprisingly comfortable. Next, I’d get out my window shades and mosquito netting. I’d put the window shades on the front seat, then I’d slide mosquito mesh over the rear windows. If you don’t remember, there was a heat wave across basically the entire United States, basically the entire summer. So I needed to have the windows down. But having a bug in the car at night, buzzing around, was a miserable experience. Thankfully, the mosquito nets did the trick.

I’d change clothes, “bathe” with wet wipes, make dinner, and then I’d just sit by the fire, relaxing, appreciating how lucky I was to be able to do something like this. And inevitably, my gaze would drift skywards. Which, on most nights, was quite a sight to behold.

I traveled for just short of a year. 15,592 miles. I visited 19 states. Fourteen national parks. I saw the country as it was meant to be seen. Not just in charts or photos but in cities and towns. Hiking trails and coastlines. I spent lonely nights in a hotel, or shifting uncomfortably on a thin foam mattress. I found moments, on top of a mountain or taking a dip in a forest stream, or driving down the road just outside of who knows where, that I felt so unbelievably present. Like this was exactly and unquestionably where I was meant to be.

I made it back safe. I’ve got an apartment that I love in the greatest city in the world. My Subaru is parked on the street right outside. She gets less use now, which is probably for the best. Two years old and we’re already racing past the warranty.

It’s a good space to be. I’m generally more optimistic about things than when I left on this great adventure. But not a day goes by that I don’t glance over at my keys and wonder where the next mile could lead.