Boondocking: The Real RV Life
The trees are drenched in orange and yellow, and the sun vibrantly illuminates the shades to a mind-blowing neon. I gasp at nature’s astonishing, continuously shifting magnificence as we pummel 75mph in our front row seats, witnessing this highway performance art. We cruise down Highway 80 from Pennsylvania to Wisconsin by way of Ohio and Illinois, towing our twenty-foot Northwood Nash travel trailer in a Ford F150. The camper sways even though it’s not very windy. My motion senses are heightened, the way my body goes into yellow-light-flashing alert when I stumble over a rock. Although we are both concerned about the teetering, my boyfriend decides it’s ok so we drive on in silence. It’s just one more thing to amplify our awareness, yet instead of fraying our nerves, it intensifies them, the way skin feels after an exhilarating ocean swim.
This is our second time traveling in the camper that we bought a month ago, after testing the lifestyle out with several rentals. We’ve already had our share of adventures on our previous RV trips: we hit a deer, got stuck on an impassable road and had to get towed out, and unknowingly had our hitch incorrectly installed and a stabilizing mechanism popped off during an easy turn around. But we’ve also eaten incredibly delicious home cooked meals made in a tiny camper oven out on a mountain top in the light of an epic sunset for our eyes only, and devoted more time to witnessing nature, forests, skies, and stars than we would ever have living in an apartment on Long Island during a pandemic. This is an audacious process – not only going into the wild but doing it in a 150-square foot space. Boondocking has shown its hefty yet quick learning curve, teaching us to rely on whatever we have in our tiny home to survive. That means no hooking up to electricity, water, and sewer, and it also means having enough food, water, and cell service with us for however long we choose to be away from civilization. We always seem to be a quick drive to a vegetable stand in front of a farmhouse, where you’re on the honor system to leave a few bucks for today’s fresh picked peppers and tomatoes. With our eyes and ears wide open, secret and sacred places away from cities and lights and traffic invite us in, and we plan on hunkering down in some of them for weeks at a time.
Traveling in a camper requires a close relationship with patience, like living with a toddler – everything takes twice as long. Our big baby requires extra time to make sure that everything is off, secured, locked, closed, folded up, turned off, tucked away, properly positioned, check and double check, check again, and then one more time. Don’t be in a rush with anything. At the very least, small mistakes could be messy; at the most, costly, dangerous, and deadly. But just like riding a motorcycle, the pure joy and freedom outweighs the risk, the time, and effort.
Most RVers are weekend warriors and they travel to camping resorts with full hookups, so the majority of rigs are not outfitted to accommodate the alternative lifestyle we like. Hence our journey to northern Wisconsin where a new solar system will be installed. Our roof will house three 200-watt capacity solar panels that will fuel two Lithium iron phosphate batteries, and a solar battery charge controller will monitor and regulate the amount of power coming in. Then under our tiny double sink, a water purifier with a ceramic cartridge filled with carbon will filter out 99.999% of all bacteria, pathogens, viruses, and heavy metals. And amongst all of this high-tech innovation, is old-fashioned earth science rendered in a five-gallon orange bucket layered with coconut coir and topped with a plastic seat. Our DIY compost toilet allows us to toss our waste right into the forest, and even better, help the environment. No worry about black hoses and dump stations, no rubber gloves and crinkled noses. We harvest power from the sun and return ours to the earth.
I’m at once surprised and not surprised to recognize how easily I slip into the role of camper. My proficiency in RV-speak has improved tenfold and I can hold my own in a conversation about gray, black, and freshwater tanks, hookups and hitches, chocks and chain saws. The few favorite tank tops I have with me get the sniff test so I can wear them several times before I need to wash them. Long showers, not to mention hot ones, seem overly indulgent. The makeshift bathroom that preserves our resources and feeds the earth feels necessary and natural. I’m rough and rugged, hippie and earthy, and I like it. We are closer not only inside our tiny home but because this life requires watching out for each other, respecting each other’s efforts, pitching in, standing up, helping out, and wanting to.
We spend our money on hoses and tools, folding tables and storage bins, solar systems and water filters, all the things that will enhance our simple life on the road. Rather than keeping up with the Joneses, we are keeping it real, getting rid of the excess and paring down to the must haves. Done with keeping up, we are stripping down. I’m letting go of collections of yoga pants, bags, jars, pens, and plates. Close relationships I once thought to be necessary and immediate are fading into softer shades of see-you-when-I-see-you friendships. Wanderlust is in the front seat and we are the co-pilots on this spiritual, adventurous, and minimalist journey that is more life-changing and mind-blowing than I could have ever imagined.