“Do you carry a gun?” Bemusement becomes concern on his leathery face.
I quip something like, “So far, no one’s had to find out.”
It’s not the first time a man has asked me how I plan to defend myself.
He steps back from my van window, locks his thumbs into either armpit of his tackle vest. “It’s impressive what you’re doing,” he says, “traveling alone like that,” before adding he’s fairly certain there aren’t campsites up the north road.
I’ve broken one of my own guidelines—don’t arrive at a new area on a weekend. The sun’s looking at me tilt-wise, too lazy even to blind me as I turn west, and I don’t yet know where I’ll sleep. So, I’m about to break a second.
I was drawn here high in the southern region of the Coconino Forest by road-life grapevine whispers of ample dispersed camping.1 After first a boot by a not entirely unfriendly police officer and then a road barely passable sans 4-wheel drive that I fear has damaged my transmission, I long for a 14-day stop. Two weeks is the limit in many primitive sites. And this one, with its juniper trees and Douglas fir-lined hiking trails making the air smell of pine nuts and maple and earth, is no exception. Recent memory of soaring temps far below on the desert floor still so close I can feel my skin burn make the coolness of its high elevation heavenly. Plus, its sites are large and tucked back against the trees, promising privacy—all already claimed. By the time the thinning road forces me to turn back, I’ve resigned myself to parking (not a designated spot) at the lake once the fishermen have cleared out and heading up the road first light of dawn.
Halfway there, I spot a man with an accordion strapped to his waist, a guitar in his hands, and contentment riding his shoulder. A woman steps from a white van, and as he turns to her, the gentle kindness that tethers them soothes my frayed nerves.
I pull into a flat, juniper-lined, Ruby sized spot on the far end of their site. Along with their welcome for the night comes an invitation for sunset happy hour. We sing and top and sip cold lagers, and they invite me to stay as long as I want.
At our final happy hour, we make a discovery. “You guys are Make Like an Ape Man?” I squeal, referring to our iOverland handles (an app for finding sites like this). “I'm Road Quill.”
Duwan and Greg and I will share other spots, whenever plans or serendipity bring us to the same coordinates. Duwan is a birder, whip smart, and a fantastic writer. Follow her posts from the road at Make Like an Apeman. Greg is a generous, talented musician and a deep thinker. They’ve been roaming together by sea and land since 2011. I hope they’re among the first in my coming road-life profile series.
Ask or Give: An Exquisite Road Life Pleasure Turned Virtual
Gathering a “road fam” and taking part in a tradition of reciprocity has been an exquisite pleasure of life on the road. This giving when you feel (or want to feel) abundant and asking when you’re in need—often among “strangers” of diverse backgrounds—is a surprise of joy, balm for a weary heart, grease on an impossibly stuck zipper of connection. May the ASK and GIVE chat be our own “stack fam” version of the tradition. Looking for a song to cry to, a book to get lost in, a recipe to make you drool but without too much effort, a virtual shoulder? ASK. 🤲 Have a painting, quote, pet photo, blooper reel that’s been lighting you up? GIVE. 🎁 (No need to do both. You can reply to an ask. You can start a new give or a new ask. You can simply peruse. Come any time you need it.)
Come to the Rolling Desk’s first Sunrise Zoom Dec 16
Writing life and road life share an extreme when it comes to connection—each are at once profoundly solitary practices of connecting to self and deeply communal engagements bringing us to intimate spaces with few or many. Many a writing circle or nomad gathering has been fuel in my empty tank.
On Saturday, December 16, 2023, 9 am–10:15 am (PST), the Rolling Desk will be hosting its first Sunrise Zoom gathering. Mark your calendar. This one will offer two prompts; time to create (write/draw/paint/whatevs) in silent communion using the prompts or working on anything else; and time to share. Subscribe for free or paid to receive the Zoom link in your inbox along with next week’s post. If you’re already a subscriber, deets are already on their way.
Dispersed camping (aka boondocking, wild camping, pirate camping, roughing it, and/or free camping) is basically camping outside designated campgrounds while fully self-contained, i.e. with no amenities like pit toilets or water. Spots are often designed by a rock fire ring. In the United States, dispersed camping sites where you’re allowed to stay for a designated period—14 days is typical, but there are variations (sometimes posted)—are Bureau of Land Management, Forest Service, state, and sometimes county land. There are nuances, and my temptation to talk about them may eventually inspire a whole post on the boondocking life.
When’s a time you’ve helped or been helped by a stranger?
Unfortunately I haven't been reading your Substack lately or any of the blogs I usually follow. I barely look at Facebook. Our lives have been thrown way off kilter. Hopefully soon I will share on my blog what has been going on with us these last 5 months.
But when I saw the headline to the post, I wondered if it was about our meeting. I scanned the post, found our names, and told Greg. I finally got a chance to read this today.
I'm so glad that you stopped at our campsite! Not everyone driving down a forest service road would see a guy playing the Accor and think that was a good place to stay for the night.
Here is one of my favorite story about being helped by a stranger.
Greg and I were aboard Blue Wing in the Bahamas anchored off Lee Stocking Island in the Exumas. There was an abandoned research center there that we wanted to explore. As we rowed our little plastic butter tub of a dinghy, Fever, to shore through the tiny anchorage we were greeted and had small chats with a few other cruisers as we passed their boats.
The next day we decided to explore another nearby island, Norman's Pond Cay. This was a much longer trip in our rowboat but is was a beautiful day and we loved tooling around in Fever. We ended up on the other side of the island a good distance and out of sight from the anchorage and went ashore for a hike. About the time we decided to go back our beautiful day started looking nasty. We hurried to Fever and set off back to Blue Wing. The wind picked up, rain spit down on us, and waves tossed us and Fever around. Greg rowed and I bailed.
As we rounded the southern corner of the island, the anchorage was in sight but still a good ways in the distance. It was slow going but we knew we'd make it eventually. Then, much to our surprise we saw a fellow sailor in an inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor coming towards us. Apparently, this sailor, one of the people who we had met in the anchorage the previous day had seen us row towards Norman's Pond that morning and had noticed when the weather had turned that we hadn't come back yet. He called around to the other boats and hailed us on the VHF, but no one had any idea where we were and apparently we hadn't thought to turn our radio on.
As the dinghy approached our neighbor from the anchorage asked us we needed help. Greg was ready to tell him we had it all under control (we did in a way but it was very unpleasant) when I said, "Yes!" I climbed into the inflatable and our rescuer towed Fever and Greg back to the anchorage.