Reflection on Road Life

Let's take a pause to discuss some of the realities of living on the road.

Today, I almost bought an enclosed cargo trailer to turn into a portable apartment. It might be the right decision at some future point on the trip, but that moment was clearly not now. This leads me to some straight talk about road life: it is not for the decision-averse.

The fog and gloom of impending weather in Grass Valley, California.

The absolute most difficult thing about living nomadically is that everything has more variables than living in one place. Take dinner, for example. Perhaps you have to decide what you want to eat, if you'll stay in or go out, whether you'll cook. All of that is the same on the road. Except, if you are choosing to cook, you have to consider the level of wind, access to enough water for cleaning up afterwards, and time of sunset. If you're going out, you have to consider your current state of hygiene and how far the closest town is to your campsite. For me, I also have to figure out if Piper can come with me and how to manage her during cook time.

Post-hike snack at 4700feet in Alabama Hills National Recreation and Scenic Area (BLM).

Grocery shopping becomes a game of mental Tetris in addition to staying on budget and gathering ingredients. It also takes some pretty creative thinking to cook from scratch or do meal prep for single skillet and small pot; especially when the time to reach the boiling point of everything changes with the altitude of the campsite.

Reloading the car is a multi-hour affair, I'm always incredibly relieved to be finished.

It's disorienting to wake up and not remember where you are for a moment, or to have to check your email to see the date of your checkout because you make so many decisions it is hard to remember whether you chose Tuesday or Wednesday.

Having a serious conversation about responsibilities at Half Moon Bay State Beach.

My least favorite hiccup: laundry. Laundromats have the bonus of being able to do multiple loads at the same time, but most do not allow dogs, so where will Piper be for two hours? Also, my entire 4-season wardrobe fits in two large duffel bags; not so much laundry, really. However, I can only fit two pair of cold-weather hiking pants in there. What happens if I want to hike for more than two days in a row?

Double rainbows reflecting off the water after a drizzly hike in Frank G. Bonelli Regional Park.

Weather plays a major role in my daily life now. Will the ground here flood? Will it be sunny enough for long enough to generate enough electricity for me to teach? Do I have to stake and tie down my tent? How am I going to get the tent dry and sleep somewhere tonight? I used to just worry about whether or not the dog park would be too muddy for Piper to go play. Ah, the good old days.

Piper soaks in every moment of hotel time by cocooning in the pillows.

I'm not complaining about it. I choose this life. It is extra exhausting though. My therapist calls it "decision fatigue"; apparently it is common for people who live in a non-traditional manner. It's easy to get excited about all of the beautiful places I get to share here and with my students; but this isn't a vacation.

Just another sunrise (or sunset?) courtesy of Earth's rotation and teaching three time zones from my students.

When I was walking through Las Vegas, a solicitor asked if I was a local, I said no. She asked if I was on vacation, I said no. She sneered and said some kind things behind my back as I walked away because she figured I was lying. I wasn't. 

I'm in the in-between. I'm not from here. I'm not just visiting. I honestly fumble everytime someone asks me where I'm from. My driver's license says I live 18 hours from where my mail is currently delivered. I have excellent health insurance but am never in one place long enough to have a regular doctor.

I want a steady roof over my head and I love moving around. The right place is out there and I have not found it yet. I want to commit to something and have never felt so confident in my ability to embrace my freedom. I long for more space to spread out, fewer possessions to concern myself with, and pay for my "life" to stay secured in a storage pod somewhere. I feel alive in this controlled chaos and simultaneously yearn for stability.

Wall quote from one of my favorite travelers, spotted at Hotel McCoy in Tucson, Arizona.

I don't know what's coming. I have no idea if I'll build out my car or buy a camper, keep living in a tent or find a Hobbit-hole earthen house to call home. I guess if you want to find out, too, you'll have to keep coming back.

Dispersed camping in Lovell Canyon the evening before we got snow-washed off the mountain. Enjoying every moment while I can helps me relax after a choice-heavy day.