Life on the Road, pt. 1: Leaving Behind Mile-High City
Believe it or not, “life on the road” is quite a common concept out West. My readers who met me along my journey in and beyond Denver know this concept well. Yet, so many people still think of living out of your car as something “only a poor person” would do. Let me change that for you.
I didn’t move into my car because I ran out of money. I did it to travel more freely and to curate once-in-a-lifetime memories. Living in Colorado, a place that collectively values adventure and life outdoors, I met plenty of people who took up residency there only during the winter months to ski/snowboard. Most of these powder-chasers spent the “non-ski season” surfing or traveling wherever their hearts desired.
Yes, this nomadic lifestyle is usually only afforded to those with the privilege of having fully remote jobs, but if there is one perk to being a teacher, it’s the paid summers off. That’s not to say that I did not have to make constant sacrifices, save money, and budget my ass off to make this adventure happen, because I did.
All of this to say, I don’t take credit for the idea of “living on the road”. I had plenty of friends who had already practiced this lifestyle for years and were more than happy to help me plan, problem-solve, budget, design my car build, etc. I owe a huge thank you to Kevin, Nick, Brooke, Emma, and Jon. Without your guidance, encouragement, and support, I would not have had the creativity or bravery to hit the road. I don’t take the roles you all played in my adventure’s success lightly.
I began to fantasize about what it would be like to be so untethered- no job, no major bills to pay, no responsibilities other than the Maslow’s of myself and Birdie, nowhere to be, no one to report to, no destination, no return date. If you knew me before my time on the road, you would probably describe me as an anxious person, type A, overly planned & prepared, but life on the road challenged these characteristics within me. It must be something about having to think about where to use the bathroom or how to brush your teeth without destroying the environment that makes you zoom out on the menial shit you become so concerned with. Still, I wouldn’t describe myself that way anymore– and my friends wouldn’t either.
Life on the road was wildly therapeutic, it purged me of all that no longer served me and made space for what was to come. I never could have anticipated all of the benefits of this adventure. In more ways than one, leaving my life in Denver behind was just what I needed.
The timeline went something like this: from August to December, grief over my most recent relationship seemed to linger, and I found myself lost in its aftermath. I craved something more—a change, a fresh story, and adventures that would pull me out of the funk. Every day, I would go home from work and dream of ideas. By December, I started dating a van lifer–enough said there. It was during that time that I had a lightbulb moment. This was the life I wanted: one filled with freedom, movement, and new experiences. With that realization, I started planning and saving, thinking of ways to make this dream a reality. In February, I upgraded my car to something bigger, knowing I’d need the space to travel with Birdie, and began thinking through the logistics of life on the road.
April marked the point of no return. I informed my job that I wouldn’t be coming back and found someone to take over my lease. The days were filled with designing and building out my “rig” and purchasing all the necessary gear for life on the road. It was happening—the adventure I had been dreaming of for months was taking shape.
May was the month of final preparations. I made decisions about what to do with my things—what to sell, what to store, and what would come with me. I crafted an itinerary and created a budget to make sure I could sustain my new lifestyle. The countdown had begun.
And then came June…
Every bit of the journey leading up to the day I left Denver was filled with excitement and anticipation. Until the day came. On June 2nd, I reported for my last day of work, cleaned out my classroom, turned in my keys, hugged my beloved coworkers goodbye, and gleefully hopped into my car. Except this time, instead of taking Colorado Blvd. 15 minutes North and parking outside of my home, I took I-25 West. No sooner than I took my exit did it dawn on me what I was doing and what I was leaving behind. Not to mention what I had risked, what I’d miss, the unknowns I’d be facing, and the daunting realization that it was finally just Birdie and me. Of course, I wanted to go home. All I wanted was to snuggle up to my roommates on the couch or go climbing with my friends, but there was no stopping the train that had set off nearly six months earlier.
I cried for the first three hours of my first stretch on the road. “Why didn’t anyone try to stop me? What am I doing? Where am I going? Will I regret this later?” Doubt and fear almost got the better of me, but not before I turned up the volume on my favorite Ruby Waters album and decided I wasn’t going to begin this journey with anything but the same anticipation and excitement that it was born from.
When it was all said and done, I spent over 90 days on the road. During that time, I traversed Utah, Nevada, California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, British Columbia and Alberta, Canada, and Wyoming. Don’t get me wrong. I miss my home in the mile-high city every day, but I would not trade it for the memories I’ve created, the lessons I’ve learned, or the person I’ve become.
Book a consultation with WellTraveled today to curate your next adventure, and stay tuned for more details on and stories from Life on the Road, pt 2.
