I’m from the Midwest, or I was until I became a nomad. I’ve been traveling solo, living out of rented places and camping in my van on weekends. They used to say I was crazy; now they say I’m “living the dream.” Neither is wrong, but it took a lifetime to get here.
When I was 17, I had a brief fantasy that I would get in my blue 1987 Camaro and head west without stopping until I felt like it. I quickly made a few calculations and decided I didn’t have the skills, knowledge, or money to even think about it. So, I stopped thinking about it. Mostly.
Years passed; nearly 30 of them. I’d lived entire lives, but never that one. Occasionally, I’d still think of it and picture myself driving down the road, arm resting across the open window, sun shining.
In 2020, I started working remotely. Months went by. I rarely left my studio apartment in downtown Chicago. I couldn’t. Between COVID-19 and the looting in my neighborhood in conjunction with the Black Lives Matter movement, everything was closed, and it wasn’t safe.
One day my apartment manager slid an envelope under the door. Lease renewal papers. As if on cue, the winter wind rattled my balcony doors.
The Hard Part About Being Nomadic
I made a few calculations, and full-time travel didn’t seem impossible. Half the answers I wanted I didn’t have, but I hoped I’d find them along the way. I sold everything I wasn’t entirely in love with and stored the rest. I bought a small cargo van, turned in my apartment keys, and started driving on a wing and prayer.
The hardest part of all was deciding. The second hardest was telling people. I debated every angle, imagined every outcome, told myself very convincingly how stupid this was. It was dangerous for a woman to travel alone; I’d have difficulty working from the road, it’d be too expensive, I’d probably be murdered, or worse.
Then I started to tell people. They felt obligated, as people often do, to tell me why I shouldn’t. “Are you crazy?” or “Oh my God, that’s crazy!” (Said in a slightly more wonderous tone) were the two most common responses.
Nobody thought it was a great idea or even a good one. At best, they thought sure, it sounded dreamy, but not very practical, wise, or anything I should attempt. Of course, they also said it wasn’t a particularly good time to travel, COVID and all. And the economy was terrible. As a woman traveling alone, they added, I’d likely be murdered, or worse.
Why Not Travel
Of course, all those things were true. But they only served to keep me sitting alone on my couch indefinitely. Had I listened, as I always had before, I could still be sitting in my tiny apartment and those people and my doubts would still be there saying the same exact things.
But I’m not sitting there. As of this writing, I’ve lived in eight states and visited several others. Right now, I’m looking out my window at some of the biggest Douglas Fir pine trees I’ve ever seen in my life. I can walk to the Pacific Ocean. For a girl from the Midwest, that’s pretty spectacular.
Discovering Other Worlds
These last six months, I’ve been living in a different world than I came from. I’ve been in worlds with hot heat and air so dry in Texas my eyeballs hurt. Where the red rocks are so bright they seem to glow and the sky at night is at the same time darker and brighter than you’ve ever seen.
I’ve been to mountains so high in Wyoming that the air gets thin and it’s hard to breathe, but the Earth is exposed on them. Strange animals roam horned and well-balanced. Below me, the plains stretch on for miles, rivers and lakes are formed only from snow, different from other places.
I’ve seen places so green in Washington even things meant to be other colors are transformed by it. Carpets of moss and dripping moisture in dark, dense places change everything. In these places, you must live differently and accept that this land does not all belong to humans.
At the ocean in Mexico, there is power so mighty it could topple us in a heartbeat, but mostly it chooses not to. In these places, I’ve learned to read the tides and watch the moon. I’ve seen creatures in the ocean bigger than some houses and more colorful than anything our land can produce.
Texas
I’ve been to Dallas, Austin and San Antonio. I slept in my van on a beach on South Padre Island. And went to my first rodeo, hiked and explored caves, ate Tex-Mex kayaked through Big Bend National Park and looked for ghosts in Terlingua. I found a fake Prada in the desert and spent an entire day looking for a desk on top of a hill until I found it.
New Mexico
In New Mexico, I went to the Carlsbad Caverns and camped in my van on public land in the desert, where I was the only person for further than I could see. At night, the stars were brighter than you’d believe. High on a hill in Roswell, I waited alone in the night for the aliens to come. They didn’t, but a rainbow seemingly made of otherworldly grandeur appeared.
The Santa Fe adobe mesmerized me, the Earthships amazed me, and the Taos art stunned me. I spent days exploring the black mountains and red hills of Georgia O’Keefe’s Abiquiu and standing outside Ghost Ranch. And ate Indian fry bread on the side of the road and climbed into ancient cavates Anasazi people lived in thousands of years ago. I went to small markets and drank beer beneath the mountains. I soaked alone in hot springs in the Rio Grande Gorge and dodged the wily longhorn sheep while walking on the trails and floating down the river.
Utah
In Utah, I hiked in places that didn’t seem real; their beauty was so surreal. The red and glowing orange of Zion looked like it was lit from within. The hoodoos in Bryce Canyon seemed too fragile to exist. The size of Canyonlands was too vast to comprehend. I drove through Arches and wondered how long they’d exist and in Capitol Reef National Park, I ate pie made from cherries harvested from orchards that have been growing in the park for hundreds of years. I saw the names of pioneers carved into the side of the canyons.
The heat soared to 115 degrees when I hiked in the Valley of Fire and Kolab Canyons while my skin started to understand the life of lizards. But those places felt like what it must feel like to be on another planet. The closest I’ll ever come anyway. Near Salt Lake City, I floated in a hot spring in a crater covered by 1,000 years of calcium deposits shaped like a beehive. I’ve met all types of people: Mormons and hippies and nomads and a Buddhist monk. I’ve pet every dog and alpaca that would let me. I did yoga on a paddleboard and found petroglyphs in more places than you’d think. I’ve stood in awe more times than I can count.
Wyoming
I drove through Idaho and Wyoming and, after months in the desert, was stunned by the greenness of it all. The trees, bushes, rivers, and lakes teemed with life. Somehow, I’d forgotten the world wasn’t all desert and red rocks.
Herds of buffalo grazed along the roadway in Teton National Park and for the first time in my life, I worried, truly worried about bears. A lone hiker has a lot to worry about, but thoughts of Grizzlies frightened me in a very real way. I’m grateful I haven’t yet had to test my ability not to run if I meet one on a trail. I saw jagged mountain vistas and waterfalls and wondered why I waited for so long to see these magical things.
In Yellowstone, my senses went into overdrive with the wonders I didn’t know this world held. Grand Prismatic hot spring captivated me for hours and it does still each time I think of it. I saw a black bear and her cub sleeping under a pine tree, wolves hunting, a little red fox, mountains goats, fast pronghorn, and plenty of bald eagles. Plenty of them. I thought they were rarer, but not in Yellowstone. The size of the place surprised me, and I realized you could wander around in that park for weeks and never see it all, longer probably. One day I might.
Montana
Montana is big sky country for good reason. I drove for miles under that endless sky with golden land that goes on and on. I caught my breath in the wide-open spaces with nothing, just nothing to break up my sightline. But there are horses and cowboys and a slower kind of pace that rolls over you easily. My steps seemed purposeful in Montana. There’s history on top of history in Helena and I absorbed it all. Old roads that have been there seemingly as long as the land, and historic places and things never forgotten.
In Butte, I visited the grave of someone I never knew — Evel Knievel — and wondered how they got at a massive statue of Mary, mother of Jesus, on top of a mountain.
But mostly, I enjoyed the driving. Montana’s the kind of place meant for driving. Long lonely roads with scenic vistas in the distance you never come to and sometimes, if you’re lucky, with wild horses running in an open field.
I saw smoke covering the peaks of Glacier National Park and worried about wildfires I’d thought too little of in the past. My feet chilled in the water of glacial rivers as clear as glass with rocks colored like rainbows at the bottom. I ate lunch in forests and dinner in small diners straight out of the 1940s.
Washington
If I thought Wyoming was green, it wasn’t nearly enough to prepare me for Washington, where even the green trees are layered in green moss. Everything is lush, moist, and mossy. Ferns replace grass and there are more kinds of moss on everything than you’d think possible.
I picked blackberries by the bushel full on the side of trails and I could be there still picking and never run out. Went parasailing in the Puget Sound and hiked the trails around Mount Rainer and its famous snowy peaks. I stood, roughly the size of an insect, in contrast to the great trees of the old-growth Ohanapecosh Forest. And learned there are trees older than anything else living today.
The Olympic Peninsula is another wonder among wonders. Trees and rivers and the oceans on and on until eternity, it seemed. It’s primordial. In the Hoh Rainforest, I saw a surreal world in its beauty and like nothing else you’ll find in America. The forest is so dense and dark that light doesn’t penetrate, but things grow and multiply.
Oregon
And man, the ocean is loud. You forget how loud it is until you’re away and return to it. And it is powerful too. Scary in a lot of ways. I’m near the coast in Oregon now, staying in a place so remote there isn’t anything within 15 miles. Then it’s a small town with one gas station, a grocery store and a few seaside crab shacks.
The only thing to see is the ocean, so I’ve made friends with it. Every day instead of hiking in the trees, I wander a new shoreline. The rocks and the lighthouses change, but the ocean stays the same. I am often the only person. I’ve learned to monitor the tides and search for sea creatures in small pools and that’s a thing I never knew about at all before.
There are raging fires far away from me to the east and they block my path to other places. They’ve taught me fear and wonder of a different sort.
Living the Dream
Six months in now, people say enthusiastically, “You’re living the dream!” I’m shocked by the number of people who say they would love to live this way.
I had to fight against every instinct and piece of advice and common sense to do this. Now, having flung myself from the cliff anyway and somehow survived, it seems like a great idea, romantic even.
The hard part is deciding, committing, and recommitting week after week. But then, if I’m honest, none of this is easy. For every spectacular moment I’ve had, I worked three times as hard to get it as you’d think. It takes a lot of grit and a fair amount of discomfort to keep on moving.
It takes detachment from material items and letting go of the comfort, places and people that are known. Even for a stoic, minimalist, single gal, that’s hard sometimes.
Nomad Logistics
No place I stay belongs to me and sleeping in my van and borrowed beds will never have the comfort of a home of your own. But homes don’t move and right now I need to, so the tradeoff is fair enough.
You don’t realize how “living a dream” requires so much logistics. As anyone who’s ever planned a vacation knows, it’s a lot of work. For me, it never ends. I spend hours each month looking for housing. It takes a long time to commit not just to a location but a place to rent. Then I need to plan what I’ll do and see in that area, which is an entirely different process. Whenever I arrive in a new place, I need to figure out where the grocery store, gas station, and best pizza places are. I’ve gained 15 pounds in six months, figuring out that last bit. I get lost often and frequently after leaving a place; I learn of all the things I didn’t see but should have.
Traveling Alone for Long Periods
When alone, as I always am, I must plan and navigate and decide and pay for and think about things for myself. There is great liberty in it, but also a great responsibility. I must guard against exhaustion because downtime isn’t a luxury I take advantage of often enough. There are always new things to see, do and explore.
I’m still working eight hours a day, give or take and my work schedule limits my time and attention for adventure. So, I must plan my outings as anyone does — weekends, evenings, and days off, which means I rarely take “days off.”
Housing when you’re a nomad
And the places I live in aren’t my own, so even if they’re really comfortable, it can take a while to feel comfortable. Then it’s time to go again.
Sometimes comfort is impossible even in otherwise great Airbnbs.
In San Antonio, I stayed in a tiny cabin in the springtime when tiny silkworms fell from the Oak trees so profusely that they coated my cabin and van in thick bunches. They found their way into my bed and my hair and everything within a mile of them. I don’t exaggerate when I say there were thousands. Because of them, I had to unexpectedly move and live out of hotels and the van for two weeks.
Sometimes, when I’m sleeping in my van alone in remote places, I’m scared. Once, In Moab, while I was alone on an isolated hill, a man with two dogs in a truck tried aggressively befriending me. Despite being exhausted, I had to find someplace else to sleep that night.
In another rental, my water only worked sporadically, another was canceled at the last minute, leaving me scrambling to find another place, and one “cute cottage” turned out to be more of a shack.
Things I Regret as a Nomad
Oddly, sometimes, instead of amazement at all the places I’m seeing, I’m fretting over those I’m missing.
I haven’t always planned the right amount of time in the right places or realized how long it takes to drive across states, so I’m missing some things I’d hoped to see. And I don’t know if or when I’ll make my way back again.
I didn’t expect to be so torn all the time about what I’m doing and what I hoped to do. There are so many places I’ve spent too little time and some I’m passing by altogether. It’s hard to make amends with it.
Relationships are hard to make or keep. New ones are mostly temporary, and the old ones suffer from distance.
Peace in Traveling Alone
But there are many moments of peace too. The joy of the open road before me never gets old. Or the feeling of wonder when I’m alone on the beach with the ocean raging toward the shore. I love seeing the sun as it sets into the trees in a moss-covered forest and the sound of buffalo running.
I’ve admired the peak of a mountain in the distance and the roar of a river filled with snowmelt and rain and stared up at great Redwoods in awe and felt smaller than I ever have before. I’ll always have turquoise bracelets bought on the side of the road in a valley of monuments and laughing with strangers at the sight of a whale. These things and more have brought peace and wonder into my heart and changed me forever for the better.
When Traveling Ends
Everyone asks me when I’ll be “done” living this way, but I think there is no answer. At least I don’t have one. Not now. Or yet, or maybe ever.
The thing about travel is the more you do it, the more you want it. Every place I’ve ever been to has made me think of three more I’d like to go. It doesn’t lessen with time, this need to travel. It only grows.
At first, I’d planned to travel until we returned to the office after Labor Day 2021. But now I’m 100% remote and have no office to return to. So, I can’t put a time limit on what I’m doing because I would look toward the end instead of living in these beautiful moments.
I’ve been traveling for six months, and it’s gone in a blink. I haven’t seen half of the places I’d like to and every day, it’s getting harder to imagine myself settling in any of them.
Where to Travel Next
I haven’t seen enough of the East Coast yet, and Canada hardly at all. There’s Mexico too, and South America beyond that. There are things I’ve missed in the places I’ve already been, so I might need to backtrack a bit. There’s a whole wide world I don’t know anything about yet, but I want to.
So, who can say when I’ll be “done?” Not me. Maybe next month I’ll decide I’m tired of it, or I’ll find a place I love so much I’ll never leave again. Maybe I’ll take breaks now and then. This lifestyle is like love. I trust that I’ll know when I know.
The Journey of nonstop travel
A journey is an act of traveling from one place to another, yes, but not all journeys have a destination. Sometimes the road just goes on. I have no place to arrive, no finish line, no end. It’s just an evolving — an unknown and ever-changing experience of being where I am and becoming or revealing myself.
This process is changing me, teaching me, and still, no matter my age, I am growing. I like that. I enjoy uncovering who I am or can be. That never happened when I was staying still.
(A year after this writing Rene is still traveling)
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