Unsettling, going nomadic, is trending like an idler pulley on a high single pivot. Perhaps the attraction is that the alternative is to settle, which sounds like an uninspiring, underwhelming compromise.
Everything happens in cycles. In the 1930s, motor bungalows and rolling homes were popularized as cheap portable living spaces for the poor and as vacation wagons for the more fortunate. A nice new Schult trailer could be had for just $275 in 1934. Returning from war and through the Great Depression, many had trouble finding housing and jobs. By necessity, people were living on the move, trying to find a place with some work, or just a place to disappear and get by with as little as possible.
With fallout from the financial crises of 2008, people again turned to the home on wheels as a more affordable way to live, escape, or means to move from place to place where intermittent employment might be found. The current surge in nomad life is further fueled by images of cozy wood clad van interiors, draped patio lights, a steaming cup of coffee, and doors opened to panoramic views.
We bought a vacation wagon, and then it happened. There in the desert, thousands of kilometers from home, the sun’s last golden rays kissing the brush rustling in the autumn breeze. A feeling of contentment… Happiness! Leading up to this we had settled, life had become a comfortably familiar humdrum of work, paycheques, property, and possessions, all masquerading as happiness but not delivering the elusive nectar. We were working more to have more and subsequently actually doing less. I had recently sold my home, and in a matter of days I’d return to work to give my notice, retiring from what had been a career for a quarter-century. If you want your audience to think you're mature, you don't say you quit, you say you retired. Now with no home and no job, the plan was to do a lot more with far less. Going full nomad is a simple enough idea. Rid yourself of most of your material possessions, leave your cares and worries behind, go where you want to go, do what you want to do, cruise the open road to perfect weather and idyllic destinations... oh... and bikes!
It's been a year since we began our nomadic wandering, since we left the stability of being settled. It's not all perfect weather and idyllic destinations, it's not all happiness. But 99% is, and we're not looking to settle again anytime soon. Here's looking back on a year of being houseless and chasing happiness.
Where would we go? What would we do? Hurricane Utah is a familiar shoulder season escape along with the surrounding communities and parks. That familiarity seemed like a comfortable way to begin an unfamiliar life. The fact that our rolling home was in storage in nearby St. George made the decision easy. It was the beginning of March when we maneuvered into one of the designate sites on the Hurricane Cliffs BLM. Our neighbours were a couple of women in a travel trailer that had seen better days a long long time ago. It wasn't sitting anywhere near level, curtains fluttered out of missing windows, and bits of trash were migrating across the desert from heaps of garbage piled against the sides of the trailer. Their favourite pass time seemed to be shouting obscenities at one another. Up the road was a newer looking unit. A couple pieces of plywood pretended to cover a massive gaping wound in the wall of the trailer. It had been completely ransacked. This isn't the nomad life that hashtags are made of. This is the reality of people who have run out of options.
Our time in Dixie was a lot colder and a lot wetter than our stereotypical assumptions of the Desert Southwest. Precipitation in the area turns the soil the type of slick goop that would suck your gumboots off as a kid. While waiting for trails to dry after storms, adventures in Zion National Park and Snow Canyon State Park kept us plenty busy. One dollar Taco Tuesdays, and Enchilada Thursdays were something to look forward to regardless of weather. Long rough drives, with a wet bog or two mixed in, to the must-do mesas like Gooseberry, Little Greek, and Guacamole grew tiresome when done on repeat. Even though the JEM network lacks some of the flare of the mesas, it became a favourite go-to for us simply because it was nice to pedal from home and avoid those drives. If anyone is listening, an airy line from Gooseberry Point to the JEM network would be legendary.
At the end of March, as the seasonal weather and temperatures improved, we pushed north to Moab. The jaw-dropping awe of vertical patina cliffs and towering arches never gets old. Dispersed camping outside of town again allowed us to keep our costs in check... Spring is notoriously busy and expensive in Moab. If repetition is the measure of favouritism, our favourite trail was Slickrock, followed by, Mag 7, Porcupine (from the Notch which still held some snow till late April), and Ahab.
Home in Canada
Is home where the heart is or where you park it? The Bow Valley has been home for most of our adult lives. Returning at the end of April we were greeted in the customary Canadian Rockies fashion... with snow. And the snow seemed to just keep on coming in fits and starts, a brief reprieve mid-summer, and then more snow long before fall would officially arrive. With a climate portable rolling home, we often found ourselves fleeing the Bow Valley to bike parks and drier warmer weather in parts of British Columbia. For us, home is where you park it, preferably it's warm and sunny there, and for health reasons we hope our hearts come with us.
Running From the Cold
Shovelling snow and chiselling ice off the home likely isn't on too many people's bucket list, and neither is towing a 16,000 pound home over snow-covered mountain passes that even sedans can't seem to successfully navigate. In early September heavy snowfalls and the associated seasonal traffic accident chaos had already begun in the Canadian Rockies. By mid-October we had enough and were ready to retreat south.
In part because we wanted to explore, and in part because unseasonable cold weather kept finding us, we were constantly on the move through the fall, from Moab to Hurricane, to Las Vegas, a couple visits to Phoenix, and some time in Sedona.
Running Out of Options
Unsettling is to alter from a settled state or cause to be no longer firmly fixed or established. Living on the road can feel precariously close to being homeless. Especially as you realize how many of your neighbours have run out of options and are in that exact circumstance. This reality is driven home as I finish reading "Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century" while parked on the ruins of a long abandon community near Ryan California.
As winter closes in on the Desert Southwest, we're running out of options in a different way. The hunt for warm and dry weather nearby, with overnight lows that generally remain above freezing is getting harder. Why do we need it to be warm? Because nobody likes frozen poop tanks or pipes. Ideally, there would also be a good network of trails nearby. Not too much to ask, right? Adding to the struggle is the growing number of people flocking to free public land, the problems people bring, and subsequent loss of access to land. The popularity of RVing and loss of access to public lands means Campgrounds and RV Parks are commonly sold out and rising costs reflect it. With some loose criteria and running out of options we find ourselves in some unforgettable places.
Celebrating a Year
In Sedona Arizona we celebrate a year since going full nomad, being houseless, and chasing happiness. One of our biggest fears as we ripped our roots from the ground a year earlier was leaving community, connections, friends and family behind. Leaving the things we associate with home. Like so many times in life our fears were unwarranted. We've been welcomed into some of the most diverse communities we've ever been exposed to, we've grown our family, discovered a nomadic tribe of friends, and old friends and family have joined us along the way. No matter where we've been we've felt part of a community and sense of belonging, we are at home as nomads.