Living Outside the Lines: Life as a Solo Female Nomad
"If you were my daughter, I'd never allow you to road trip and camp by yourself!" said the kind-faced, middle-aged man as we took a break next to each other on a trail overlooking the Black Canyon of The Gunnison National Park in Colorado. I had just explained to him that I was in the midst of my first extended solo road trip and that I would be on the road for four weeks.
My stomach dropped. The man's young daughter was sitting a few feet away, within earshot.
I knew he meant this as a lighthearted joke, but this comment made my face hot. Because beneath the surface of his joking tone, I knew he was being serious.
I tried to laugh it off, not wanting to make things awkward in front of his family. But I was upset. I also wanted to take his daughter aside and tell her that she was capable of doing anything on her own. Instead, I packed up my things and hiked on. A tiny doubt crept into my head, though. I wondered if maybe he was right and that I should be more concerned.
I started solo traveling and adventuring many years ago, primarily because I was tired of waiting around for friends to be able to go on a hike, go to a concert, or visit a place with me. Add on a move to Colorado (where I knew two people), and exploring the area by myself became inevitable as a result. Otherwise, I would have been stuck on the couch waiting for the friends-I-didn't-yet-have to call.
Maggie, my Craigslist roommate in Boulder, Colorado, would talk about the solo backpacking trips she would take in Moab. My initial reaction was, "Wow… you are such a brave badass." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized my initial reaction made no sense. I was so impressed because she went backpacking alone as a female. I wouldn't have had that reaction if a guy had told me the same thing. And that is a silly way to think. So I bought some trail runners and headed out every weekend to the surrounding area to explore trails on my own.
I felt alive. I hiked to the tops of peaks, to alpine lakes and waterfalls, often not seeing a soul for hours. And when I did see other hikers, it was always pleasant. I found an amazing, welcoming community on trail where people said hello and smiled at each other when they passed. I'd have these short but impactful conversations with people of all ages and backgrounds. We'd typically chat about the gorgeous surroundings we found ourselves in. The last time I had experienced this was in the teensy-tiny town in Illinois, where I was raised. I grew up greeting and waving at every person I passed, but this dissipated immediately after moving to larger cities. Humans acknowledging other humans with eye contact and a smile -- what a concept!
I was hooked. The length and difficulty of my hikes increased. I went on my first backpacking trip with friends. I started car camping by myself almost every weekend. I went on my first solo backpacking overnight. My road trips grew from weekends to multi-week trips. It was a slow burn, but I felt myself getting more and more comfortable on my own as I piled on experiences. I found my stride and built an enormous amount of confidence along the way without even realizing it.
One day, I was sitting at home, wallowing in the disappointment of having the rug pulled out from under me professionally. A client whose project I had poured my heart and soul into blindsided me, unexpectedly cutting my hours and my rate due to their decreasing marketing budget. I was gutted. After a few glasses of wine and many, many YouTube videos, I made a decision.
No more putting things off. I will hike the Pacific Crest Trail.
And so it began. I dove into gear research and trail logistics, carefully curated my pack, prepped my food, prepared my boxes, and went on training trips. I wrapped up client relationships. I subletted my apartment. I was really doing this.
"You're not hiking alone, are you?"
"2,650 miles by yourself?! You're out of your mind."
"You'll be alone?! You carry a gun, right?"
I'd always laugh the comments off. But I'd be lying if I said they didn't get to me. Just as I did with the man's comments on the trail years before, I silently wondered if there was some truth to these concerns and that maybe there was something I wasn't seeing. Was I nervous about taking on something so big on my own? Honestly, yes. But I couldn't let myself think that.
I let the comments roll off my back and hit the trail. I spent nearly six months hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. While I met and hiked with people for a large part of the trail, I spent many days and nights in complete solitude. I had run-ins with rattlesnakes (15 to be exact!), bears, a curious mountain lion, and questionable local characters. I faced my fear of heights on exposed trail, crossed swift rivers, and navigated each pass. And with each step, I felt my confidence growing. I was getting stronger, both mentally and physically.
The number of miles was overwhelming to think about, so I didn't. I focused on where the next water source was, where I might camp for the night, and how far to the next town. All of the sudden, I was at the halfway point and knew I could make it to Canada.
And so I did.
When I returned home after reaching the Northern Terminus, I felt lost. I struggled to settle into my 'old' life. I had the same apartment and the same job, but I was a completely different person. I felt disconnected from the life I left for the trail. I looked around at my friends who were buying houses, getting married, and having kids... and didn't understand why I didn't want those things. I wanted the opposite. Instead of settling down, I craved more freedom to explore. I was restless, uncomfortable, and felt suffocated by four walls.
Every free moment I had, I'd load up my Honda Pilot "microcamper" and head to Moab, Utah, in search of dry trail, a beautiful campsite, and ample alone time. And each time I roamed around on those dirt roads or trails, I felt completely relaxed and fully myself.
On one of these trips, I was sitting at my campsite when two vans drove by. I saw them set up camp down the road from me. As I watched them, the same familiar definitive feeling that came over me the day that I decided to hike the PCT.
It's time to build out and live in a van.
This was not a new concept for me. I had been dreaming about becoming a full-time van dweller for many, many years. Since I work remotely, it was always a possibility to do. But the transition scared me. It's an expensive, enormous project to undertake. I had no building skills (or tools for that matter) to speak of. I wasn't certain that the technology that was available would be enough to fully sustain my business on the road. There were so many reasons that made it seem like a slightly insane move, that the idea always remained in my mind as just a dream... something that maybe I'd do one day. Maybe, but not likely.
But I was now a different, more confident person. I was over-confident in my ability to figure it out, because I had proven to myself over and over again that I could handle just about any situation.
After taking a six-week test run in my Pilot to ensure I could work from the road, I officially made the decision to take the plunge. I bought a van shortly after I returned home. And the build began. And so came the doubtful comments.
"You're really building out the van? By yourself? With no help?"
"A woman isn't safe on the road alone."
"Can you really drive that big van by yourself?"
This time, I addressed them head-on and didn't feel an ounce of self-doubt. I found enjoyment in proving people wrong.
The build was hard. It was more difficult than anything I've ever taken on. Physically, I was pushing myself hard every day. I learned that I was allergic to sawdust (which is highly inconvenient in a project like this) and tore a ligament in my wrist, nearly eliminating the use of my right hand. When I wasn't physically building out the van, I was watching tutorial after tutorial on YouTube, deep in building forum threads, or reading a book on RV electrical systems. It was mentally exhausting to be in a constant state of learning and planning. For six months, I worked 14+ hour days between the build and my job, not taking a day off.
It was an overwhelming process. But just as I did on the PCT, I broke the project down into smaller, digestible chunks, rarely focusing on the fact that I was building a tiny house.
And the work paid off. The result is a beautiful build that I did with my own hands that makes me proud. I've now been on the road for two months and have gotten into the swing of living and working on the road. And I couldn't be happier. It feels like I've landed somewhere in between thruhiking and my old life. I'm free to explore, but can still handle my adult responsibilities — a win-win.
The initial conversation with that man happened more than eight years ago. Since then, I've road tripped and hiked thousands upon thousands of miles solo. I'm still safe. Not only that, I've accomplished things that I never thought I'd be capable of doing.
And while I still receive the comments, I'm no longer bothered by them. I've realized that so many of them are others projecting their fears onto me and this path I've chosen, which happens to fall outside of societal norms. I have a great sense of freedom because I've built a lifestyle that makes me truly happy. I'm constantly immersed in beautiful places. I'm able to do my job from the comfort of my van at campsites and trailheads. I've experienced a tremendous amount of growth as a person. And I've made amazing connections and had experiences that I wouldn't otherwise experience because I'm alone -- not in spite of it!
