No Room in the Forest

“Do you carry a gun?” It’s not the first time a man has asked me how I plan to defend myself. 

I quip something like, “So far, no one’s had to find out.”

He steps back from my van window, locking his thumbs into either armpit of his tackle vest. “It’s impressive what you’re doing,” he says, “traveling alone like this,” before adding he’s fairly certain there aren’t campsites up the north road.

His response is mostly a relief. Sometimes, men who want to know if you’re armed follow up with questions about where specifically you’ll be staying for the night or a “joke” that sound like a leer.

Still, I’m on edge. I’ve broken one of my own guidelines: Don’t arrive at a new area on a weekend. Especially with Covid chasing the brick-and-mortar-housed, often beer-fueled “weekenders” to the hills for entertainment, prime sites fill up. And I’ve already scoured the west road, along which the designated sites are situated, as well as the north road, along which, he’s right, there are no sites, though I don’t tell him that. It’s the lack of empty sites that’s brought me to the lake, to the man and his two fishing buddies—or them to me—driving slowly and craning my neck for a spot where I can tuck in behind a grove of trees and reassess in the morning, my unintended lure.

“Well, good luck,” I say, nodding to the fishing poles and crossing the lake off my list of possibilities.

Back at the entrance to the lake, I have a decision. Carry on down the road and see what I can find. Or hit the west road once more. Maybe I didn’t follow it far enough in?

I’ve trailed road-vine whispers of ample dispersed (primitive) sites here. In the United States, dispersed camping (aka wild camping, pirate camping, or roughing it) is the Shangri-la of full-time boondockers (those of us living in rigs that are self-contained, no-amenities-needed, no fees taken). Dispersed spots are designated by rock fire rings. But that’s it. No pit toilets or water. Only largely untamed land managed by the Bureau of Land Management, the Forest Service, or the state and sometimes a county. Typically, you’re allowed 14 days per spot.

And sure this site high in the Coconino Forest is everything I’ve been dreaming of. Juniper trees and Douglas firs and hiking trails and air that smells of pine nuts and maple and earth. Air so cool the soaring heat that’s burned my skin and made my head loopy for days on the desert floor below seems already the stuff of dreams. But mostly, it’s those those two weeks of stillness I want.

Three days ago, while waiting for a general delivery package at a post office, I was booted by a not entirely unfriendly but also kicking-me-out-of-my-planned-spot-in-the-middle-of-the-night police officer. That sent me down a road that turned out to be barely passable without 4-wheel drive, which, despite my having navigated it impressively, had possibly damaged my transmission. Before that, it had been days on the desert floor with soaring heat and uninvited guests of the rodent variety. I want to stop. Here.

So, I decide.

The sun’s looking at me tilt-wise, too lazy even to blind me as I turn toward it once more. If I don’t find a spot soon, I’m about to break a second rule—get nestled into the spot where I’ll be spending the night before nightfall.

The road eventually thins enough Ruby the van can’t go on. I back up and, with a mult-multipoint turn, head east. I’ve resigned myself to parking at the lake, if it’s clear the fishermen are well and gone. I’ll reassess in the morning.

The Two Musicians by Max Weber, 1917

Halfway back to the lake, I spot a man with an accordion strapped to his waist and a guitar in his arms, pondering the trees with utter contentment. A woman steps from a tall, white van. He turns to her. I swear I can see the gentle kindness that binds them stretching out like a silky strand.

Without really thinking about it, I pull into a flat, juniper-lined, Ruby-sized spot in a corner of their site. “Hey,” I say, stepping out, “you mind if I share your spot, just for the night?”

“Absolutely,” one or both of them says, beaming grins I’ll come to adore.

After setting up for the night, I join them for sunset happy hour on their porch. We sing and swap stories and sip cold lagers. Duwan and Greg have been nomading together by water and land since 2011. Sea salt and generosity and bits of desert and ease with self and other things road life rubs into you are knitted into his beard and songs of joy and longing and into her wit and breadth for taking in the world around her. I play the one song I’ve written, “80 Proof.” Greg asks if he can sing it next time he’s on stage back in Cabbagetown (Georgia, where the pair often stop for a spell).

“Stay as long as you want,” Duwan says before we head into our vans to lay our heads beneath the stars.

Sunset at our shared site in the Coconino Forest, Arizona, USA, May 2020.

A handful of days later, we share our final happy hour (at this spot; we’ll meet again). I’m staying; they’re moving on. We make a discovery. “Wait! You guys are Make Like an Apeman?” I squeal. “I’m Road Quill.”

It turns out, they’ve already been guiding me. We both use a user-populated app called iOverlander to find sites like this, as well as other road life needs. For months, I’ve been appreciating the tips from Make Like an Apeman, who seem to be wherever I’m thinking of heading next.

Greg and Duwan in Cartagena, Colombia.

Duwan Dunn

and Greg and I will share other spots, whenever plans or serendipity bring us to the same GPS coordinates. Duwan is a birder, whip smart, and a fantastic writer. She’s now, with a bit of gentle nudging from yours truly, moved her posts from the road here to Substack, 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.

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Ask & 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.)