Making human connections in the wild

And challenges of living on the road

A woman with clear hazel eyes, no-nonsense gray hair in a bob, and an official-looking hat with an National Park Service Volunteer badge on the front came our way as I worked outside the rig the next day. She carried a clipboard, and told me she was checking the stay tags of visitors in Fairholme Campground at Crescent Lake in Olympic. We were reluctantly packing up to leave after two glorious weeks exploring the park. 

“Tell me about those bikes,” the woman said brusquely, pointing with her pen to our e-bikes, leaning dustily against a pine as if fatigued by yesterday’s adventure. 

“We only rode them on the designated bike trails,” I stuttered, worried about some wrongdoing.

Her expression softened. “No, I want to know how you like them.” Her grin was a ray of light breaking through clouds. “I need something to get around camp on, and I’m looking into those.”

“Oh!” I smiled in relief. “We love them!” 

After a brief info-mercial extolling the battery-assist bikes, we exchanged names. I told Lynn we were tripping around the country in our trailer fulfilling a long-held dream. “I see your official volunteer badge and hat. What brings you to work at the park as a host?”

“I’ve done this every summer for years, but I just sold my house in Seattle and now I’m embarking on a new chapter of my life. I’m full-timing it in my trailer. Not sure what’s next for me after this stint here.”

“That’s a funny feeling, isn’t it? Both freedom and uncertainty.” We’d dived into the deep end of the conversation pool, and I loved that.

Lynn nodded in her brisk way. “That’s it exactly. I wanted this, but now I’m nervous with no way out of it. Though so far, so good.” She gave a short bark of laughter. “Also, my rig is full of boxes because I had to get everything out of the house. I have no idea what to do with them.”

“We have too much stuff, too. A hazard of emptying out,” I said. “But to be honest, I love having less stuff.”

“Me too. Turns out you don’t need much. Where are you planning to go?”

“We had a giant trip planned but the heat and fires have changed everything about our route.”

“I’ve got some ideas for you.”  Lynn suggested several places where we could winter should we be so inclined, including famous Quartzsite, Arizona, a mecca for full-time “trailer tramps.”

“Oh no, that’s not our scene. Too many people!” I told her I’d read about Quartzsite in a recent nonfiction book, Nomadland, which does a great job exposing a whole socioeconomic layer of American RV dwellers perpetually on the move, many of them “work camping” and living nomadically out of economic necessity.

“Quartzsite is an experience, but if lots of people aren’t your thing, you’d probably like Yuma better,” Lynn said. “Still a good place to winter but not such a circus.”

“I’m writing a book about our travels; it’s called Passages,” I told her. “I was inspired by the title from Gail Sheehy’s book on adult stages. The plan is to write about camping in changing times which include climate change and personal aging change.”

“Sounds interesting. That book was good, but I liked Pathfinders even better,” Lynn said. “Sheehy talked about what makes for resilience. You’d like it.”

We ended up taking a picture together and exchanging hugs. 

We made a real connection, no matter how briefly, and that mattered to both of us

I’d met a strong, unique and interesting woman who was committed to a life on the road as a personal lifestyle choice. I’d made a real connection with someone who’d been a stranger when she walked up to me.

Every time that happens, I’m reminded that the world is a friendly and loving place that responds to the energy and expectations that we project around us.

What do you think about the idea of living in a trailer full time?

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