I’ve been going back and forth every couple weeks, moving from one life to the other, which is the way I see it. It’s a small ordeal—requires timing, planning, loading, unloading—each swap, Pittsburgh to Maryland.

But, as my stepfather once pointed out (God rest his soul): You’ve always lived two lives—if not literally, then in your mi…

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I made a Freudian slip. In fact the same one—twice—in one day.

The first time, a friend pointed it out to me on the phone, and I wasn’t sure if I believed him. But later that day, I caught myself about to say it again.

On the day of the closing for my Pittsburgh apartment, I referred to the closing as…

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WATCH / LISTEN TO THIS ESSAY HERE.

I’ve chosen to go on the road for many reasons throughout my life, but it wasn’t until I went fully nomadic—wandering through America by hatchback and sleeping in a tent, with no job or home to go back to—that I received its greatest teachings.

Road life provides a medicine that is harsh at first and bitter—the loss of comfort and routine, with no distractions and nowhere to hide.

But as it worked its ways on me, the magic of its medicine unfolded, and it showered me with gifts and insights. I took so many of these lessons with me.

NON-ATTACHMENT

Living in motion offers the experiential version of non-attachment that no amount of meditation or philosophical reading could teach me. When home is everywhere and nowhere, you begin to connect with transience itself. The discomfort of constant hellos and goodbyes eventually transforms into a new rhythm and the recognition that all of life is exactly this: continuous arrivals and departures.

PERSPECTIVE

As Henry Miller once put it: “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” This new vision doesn’t arrive all at once—it accumulates in fragments—but I will never see the world or my own life as I did before living on the road.

TRANSIENCE

The fleeting moments of wonder—morning fog lifting from a valley, spring peepers in Appalachia, sharing tea with a stranger who becomes a daylong companion before disappearing forever—became my sustenance. I began to collect them not as possessions but as invisible mementos. They became precious precisely because they couldn’t be grasped or replicated or photographed.

PRESENCE

Without the scaffolding of familiar routines, even simple tasks require presence. Making coffee becomes a ceremony when you’re balancing a kettle on a campstove at dawn. Finding a place to sleep becomes an exercise in reading geographical and cultural cues. Even the most seemingly routine acts—washing dishes, showering, eating a meal, working—change each day with each location.

This constant state of awareness becomes a living meditation.

Memory catalogs differently, too, organizing around place rather than dates on a calendar. When recalling conversations or books or other small moments, I remember the campground where I was, the weather, what the air felt like or the light of day or where I’d eaten dinner, rather than whether it was March or April, 2019 or 2023.

THE HEART IS A COMPASS

In the silence of long drives and the anonymity of unfamiliar towns, I started to hear my own thoughts again. Not the reactive thoughts that bounce like pinballs but the deeper currents. And as my thoughts quieted, my intuition grew louder.

I began to trust those strange intuitive nudges— urn here, stop there, talk to this person, avoid that place—even when they made no rational sense.

I learned to let my body wisdom—my heart, my intuition—lead me. The heart is much wiser and its path much more expansive than the plans constructed by the mind.

All of those subtle nudges connect to a larger pattern, a life path that can only be seen in retrospect, when the seemingly random dots connect into a constellation that was always there.

SURRENDER

The road taught me to surrender—to weather, to mechanical failures, to closed roads and changed plans. I learned to let the wind carry me, to resist the urge to control outcomes and to expect the unexpected.

A DISCONNECT FROM MATERIAL THINGS

Material possessions fell away, sometimes literally, like offerings to the journey. I learned in a fundamental way that every material thing is replaceable, regardless of its perceived value or sentimentality. We never truly own anything; we’re just borrowing this stuff for a time.

When life is distilled to what fits in a car, priorities become clear. The question shifts from “what do I want?” to “what do I need?” And the answers were always simpler and fewer than I’d expected.

TRANSFORMATION

The person who leaves home is never the same person who returns.

THE ROAD IS A MIRROR

The road serves as a mirror, reflecting who you are, who you aren’t, who you always were, who you never were, and who you could be. It shows possibility and missed opportunity, past lives and future lives, places and people that resonate and those that don’t.

THOUGHT VS. EXPERIENCE

The road liberated me from my own head—that hamster wheel of analysis, projection and rumination. It was replaced with direct experience: the sensation of wind against skin, the changing light of day, the taste of cold water from a natural spring.

The thinking mind recedes on the road, and something more primal, more immediately alive, takes its place.

HOW TO BE ROOTED

I discovered that my roots are internal and invisible, not tied to geographical location but to my own sense of being anchored in something within myself—feeling stable and secure within myself, with no need for an external symbol for this state of being.

You can be profoundly connected while perpetually in motion, just as you can be desperately alone while surrounded by familiar faces in familiar places.

THERE IS SUCH A THING AS TOO MUCH FREEDOM

Paradoxically, I learned that freedom thrives within certain constraints. Unbounded freedom becomes formless and overwhelming, like trying to contain an ocean in cupped hands. Some structure or limitation provides the vessel for freedom to take shape.

THE ROAD KNOWS WHAT YOU NEED

The road gives you precisely the medicine you need in the moment, whether you recognize it as medicine or not at the time. The medicine works slowly, invisibly, until one day you wake up and realize the chronic ache of whatever you were carrying has faded.

FAITH

I began the journey with a “leap and the net will appear” mindset—and those nets did appear, over and over again. As I worked my faith muscle, it grew stronger.

After enough roadside emergencies, close calls and unexpected rescues, I just started trusting that everything was going to work out, because it always did.

Sometimes the “disaster” turns out to be a gift, the “wrong” turn the right path, the “breakdown” the breakthrough.

Faith becomes a living thing on the road, a bridge between the known and unknown that leads me along my path.

WE ARE ALL NOMADS

Whether we cross continents or simply move from room to room in the same house for decades, life is in constant transition. We are moving geographically or emotionally, intellectually, spiritually.

Seeing everything through a traveler’s perspective — as temporary, as a gift, as a visitation—is the most valuable medicine the road gave me. Everything we encounter is fleeting and worth celebrating. The joy is in the witnessing, in the passing through, in the momentary communion and exchanges.

SOME PRACTICAL ADVICE FOR LIVING ON THE ROAD FULL-TIME

You don’t need to pack as many clothes as you think you do, but you might need more variety than you think you do.

Don’t pack your car or van full because you’re gonna end up picking up stuff along the way.

Don’t plan anything. Don’t even waste your time. Good chance it’s gonna change.

Campgrounds are cleaner than most motels.

Amazon lockers are convenient for essentials.

Mobile hotspots often work better/faster than motel/campground Wi-Fi.

Find a way to dry your tent before you leave a campground.

I slept the best at campsites with no cell reception (but then, there’s no cell reception).

Tire pressure is gonna change a lot.

Sometimes you’ll want local culture, and sometimes you’ll crave the familiar, like Trader Joe’s or Walmart.

Tell someone where you are every night.

***This story appeared in the April 17 edition of 72 Hours (my day job). This week’s edition was a SPECIAL TRAVEL ISSUE that I had so much fun compiling.

Here are some other stories in it for you to check out, from a talented group of local writers:

• Celebrating 100 years of adventure on the Appalachian Trail with ‘Grandpa Walking’

• Unwind and relax in the Frederick region

• Roadtrip playlists for every mood

• The art of preserving travel memories

• Best roadtrip movies of all time

• Loneliness of the long-distance letter writer » find him on Substack!

• The loveliness of the Lake District

Physical copies of 72 Hours are distributed throughout Frederick and surrounding counties. Enjoy and happy trails!

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After that cold snap in January (not just in the Mid-Atlantic but stretching across the entire country), a 40-degree day felt positively balmy. I made use of those first few days of “the thaw” in Maryland to sort and organize my van,…

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It’s amazing how quickly you acclimate to things. The size of your home, for instance.

After only a week of living in the van, it simply felt like living in a teeny, tiny apartment—albeit an apartment with a lot of moving parts, i.e., a daytime setup, a nighttime setup, a…

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Sitting outside of a Trader Joe’s one afternoon in Pittsburgh, I was thinking about youth and my idea of youth and our collective ideas of youth and this unspoken edge they seem to ha…

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There is a time to eat sorbet and frolic in fields and a time to put your head down and work, a season of dreaming and a time when visions are made manifest. I have been quite conscious of holding the big picture while making many small steps, week by week and month by month, incrementally plodding along to impact the broader view and vision I’ve been holding in my head for a year.

And this past week, a huge piece to that picture has arrived: THE VAN. Oh, thank God, the van. I got a van! I can finally stop starting and ending sentences with “when I get my van.”

I will soon be living in it full-time.

Let me preface all of this by saying this is one big experiment, not just this portion but my life since 2018. Going on the road without a home was an experiment. Going on the road with a day job was an experiment. And the transition to doing that in a van will also be done through trial and error.

Despite many people choosing to live nomadically before me and all their recommendations online, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, no two stories are the same. No two vans, no two travelers.

I guess the whole purpose of living this way is to customize your life to fit your needs (and wants), so here I am, adding my two cents and my story—and I will be reporting back on the progress and you are welcome along for the ride.

THE EMOTIONS

Just after buying the van, I had one of those mini panic moments at some point in the night—lying in bed, half awake, half asleep, that other state. It swooped in and took hold of my mind: “I bought a van. I’m really doing this.” The good kind of fear, though, a flash of it. The kind that signals big change that pushes you past your comfort zone, that excitement that sometimes stirs so wild, it feels like panic—probably because of how infrequently we feel it. How often do we take leaps and make the big changes ourselves, rather than waiting to encounter them? I knew in that moment that everything was about to be different for me, but in the next, I knew it was time.

I can’t wait to see all the places I will park it, though I am still getting the hang of driving it.

I am not used to being so high up—and so visible. I feel like everyone sees me. When I am behind a car at a stoplight, I am able to see everything inside their car, which is also very strange. Driving over bridges, I can see views of rivers I hadn’t seen by car (you’d think just that bit of added height wouldn’t make much of a difference, but it does). I also have not mastered parking yet. Or the mirrors (it freaks me out a bit to not have a rearview mirror, but I’m told I’ll get used to it).

It feels like I’m carrying my home. That is the best way I can explain the feeling of driving it down the highway.

It also kind of feels like riding a horse who doesn’t know me yet. And I don’t know her. Or him? I’ve been lovingly referring to it as my “Dream Baby.”

THE SPECS

I got a Ford Transit Cargo 250, which, from what I understand after a year of researching, should be powerful enough to haul a home on wheels.

It’s a medium roof—so I can stand! But people taller than 6’ won’t be able to (sorry in advance).

It’s white. I was hell bent on not getting a white van, but colors were hard to find, and I’m reminded of something my Southern Arizona friends said: white vans stay cooler in the summer (they are RVers and have given me many tips like this one—and they know a thing or two about staying cool in the heat).

It is not built out. It’s an empty shell (although it does have some shelves). Because I am living on the road in part to heal from CIRS, I did not want to buy a van with a sink in it and risk water damage, and every already-built van I found had a sink. You know, because people want sinks. I am not handy in any way—like, I needed help putting my license plate on, so, uh, yeh. This is not going to be a Pinterest van … but it’s a big upgrade from living out of a Prius hatchback. I am happy living in it with nothing but a rug and my camping pad.

But I am adding some essentials. I am putting screens on both doors and will probably build a table of some sort. Maybe a bed frame? Storage space? Lockbox? I am in no rush. I will start living in it soon and just need some of the critical elements, i.e., screens for fresh air and a workspace. I also have an outdoor sink and a power station, plus a solar panel, so there’s my makeshift water and electric. I got a very basic composting toilet (apparently “hemp litter” is good for this—and also for cat litter boxes) and a Verizon jetpack, so wherever I have cell service, I’ll be able to connect to the internet and work.

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“You have nothing better to do on a Saturday night?”

I was at my desk in the newsroom, where I work my day job, and my honest answer was “no.”

I’d just spent the day with a dear friend I hadn’t seen in over a year—got lunch, talked for hours, caught a movie, exchanged critical reviews of the movie—and then I needed time to sort my…

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You never know where the wind will take you, if you let it.

It is very strange and bizarre and surreal to me that I am, for the time being, living in my dad’s apartment in Pittsburgh, that this is where I ended up, simply b…

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“It’s to our own detriment sometimes that we can acclimate to anything.”

A friend said this on the phone the other night, and I’m still thinking about it.

It was partly his response to my realizing how quickly I’d acclimated to being around people constantly again while back East, like I was suddenly back in my “former life,” and how f…

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In this untouched land, bison and wild horses live free—and I am fairly certain I saw a bobcat for a moment, as it darted behind a small cliff.

A path among tall grass and sagebrush leads to the Little Missouri River. The drizzly, foggy day just added to the mystique.

The little town of Medora sits right at the edge of the park.

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Somehow, I always end up spending more time in Wyoming than planned. Why this is, I don’t know, but it’s real. It’s happened ever since I started traveling as a teenager.

I took my first long road trip with two friends a few weeks after graduating high school—destination Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest in Montana for the Rainbow Gathering, where about 20,000 hippies would hang out in the woods for a couple weeks.

Sully, bless his heart, drove a good 24+ hours from Hagerstown, stopping only for gas, while his girlfriend (now wife) and I gazed out the windows and slept. He finally pulled into a motel in Sundance, Wyoming, to sleep. I remember it being dark outside, and the air felt different—though that might have been my imagination. That was my first small taste of the West: Wyoming.

On a cross-country road trip with a friend 10 years later, I’d planned to drive I-70 clear through to Utah after spending time in Boulder. I’d wanted to see “the highest paved road in the U.S.” and its purported abundance of wildflowers, though I hadn’t considered the timing. It was October—and snowing. As we struggled (and ultimately failed) to find a campground in the Rockies that was still open in a blizzard, we ended up taking a detour—through Cheyenne—and heading west through Cheyenne on a new route toward Oregon.

Again when I was on road in 2019, I’d planned to zip through Wyoming after leaving Yellowstone. I was headed for a reservation in South Dakota. But instead, I got slammed with a bad CIRS flareup, got an emergency motel room and then an emergency cabin and ultimately decided to go back to New Mexico rather than continue driving back East. In the interim, I spent an unexpected week or so just hanging out in Wyoming at cabins and motels and campsites, trying to regain my health.

This time around, I’d planned to spend at least a week with a dear friend who lives just outside of Boulder. We knew I was (deathly) allergic to her dog from past visits, so I’d planned to camp in her yard, rather than sleep on the couch. After four days of camping and being unable to breathe—my lungs tight and heavy, chest pains, rashes, the whole nine—she mentioned that she is surrounded by hay fields, and they were being baled that week. Yeh, I have a pretty severe allergy to hay, too, as learned when farmers baled the fields around my old farmhouse in Keedysville. I had to leave. I took a sick day from work, the first of the year, and headed toward—yep—Wyoming.

I’d planned to stop in Cheyenne for a night or two after Colorado, to break up the drive to South Dakota. But with an unexpected full week open, I ended up, well, exploring Wyoming some more. I did camp in Cheyenne but also drove west to see the little railroad town of Laramie, then took Route 130 through the Medicine Bow Mountains (such beauty), soaked in the hot springs in Saratoga, wandered around downtown Casper, spotted several antelope as I was driving two-lane highways for hours on end, saw the strange wonder that is Devil’s Tower, stayed at the coolest vintage motel up in Gillette, found the best truck stop I’ve ever been to (in the middle of absolute nowhere), all the while picking up souvenirs for friends and family from all over Wyoming.

And yet! There are still places in Wyoming I want to see.

I want to camp at Buffalo Bill State Park near Cody, a beautiful little spot along a state road with a huge reservoir surrounded by rugged mountains that jet up from its waters.

And maybe one day I’ll make it to Thermopolis, where there are public hot springs and caves to explore and reported sightings of Bigfoot (a guy running the cash register at a gift shop in Casper told me all about it).

I wouldn’t mind a return visit to Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Jackson Hole either.

MUST SEE

Yellowstone — The first National Park and for good reason. I could wax poetic about Yellowstone forever because it’s my favorite park. Elk, grizzlies, bison; lush land, rivers, and lakes; rainbows; huge expanses of wilderness; endless hiking trails; geysers; every color on the palette.

Grand Tetons — Take a boat across Jenny Lake for beautiful hikes and clear, pristine waters. Some people prefer this park to Yellowstone because it’s smaller and “more manageable.”

Bighorn Medicine Wheel — A meditative space at the end of a dirt road atop a mountain, with free-roaming cattle. Walk to the top and circle around the medicine wheel, made of stone like a labyrinth, with offerings left there by those who came through.

Saratoga — Teeny town with a cute little main street, worth a stop if only to soak in the public hot springs on the edge of town.

Medicine Bow National Forest — Forego the monotony of I-80, and take the drive through Medicine Bow Mountains along Snowy Road Pass (Route 130). If you catch it in the fall, the mountains of pine are mixed with the glowing incandescent hues of golden aspen.

Jackson Hole — What’s not to love about this cool little tourist trap? It’s just a cool little town on the outskirts of the Grand Tetons (and Yellowstone) and kind of the only town around. It’s artsy, it’s Wild West, it has good food and coffee and wifi, and the VIEWS … the views …

Cody — Where cowboys go to get coffee, have a drink, or pick up a new saddle or riding boots (I really don’t know what I’m talking about here, but that was the vibe).

Laramie — A cool little railroad town / college town with lots of murals and fun places to stop (coffee shops, gift stores, restaurants, etc.).

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I keep comparing this time to my time on the road in 2019, and I must stop.

It’s not that. It’s not even a little bit that. The world has changed. I have changed. It’s fall, when we all start moving inward. It’s not spring. It’s not summer.

The road gives you the medicine you need now, and that medicine is likely quite different from the medicine you need…

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This week, I toured Boyce Thompson Arboretum in Superior, Arizona. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of the saguaros against the mountain cliffs. Trails meander through several sections of outdoor “gardens” of exotic plants from around the world. Future generations of visitors are indebted to William Boyc…

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Because so much of what I’m doing right now is tucked away and behind the scenes, it occurred to me that most people, even people I talk to on a regular basis, probably don’t know what I’m working on in my spare time—that I am reimagining and rebuilding from scratch a new way of living, so that I can ensure I never …

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The external

I can hardly believe I’ve been in Scottsdale for five weeks now. I craved standing still more than I’d realized. Maybe I just craved anything but the chaos.

There was a point around the four-week mark when I felt as if I’d woken up from the haze of a dream. What just happened? Coming back to life, waking up.

Now…

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For those of you of you wondering where/when I’m going, I began mapping that out this weekend.

Right now, I am staying in a peaceful home in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my primary focus being rest and healing.

I’ve recovered from mold illness (hallelujah!) but …

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These are a few things I found to be most helpful while living on the road on a budget. These are geared toward living out of a car and tent camping; an RV would eliminate some of these needs. While living out of a car, necessities like bathrooms, showers, and places to wash dishes were a learning curve. Some of these migh…

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