I was thoroughly convinced I was about to be killed or kidnapped at any moment on my first night sleeping in my recently bought campervan.
The 40 mph wind gusts at the Interstate 80 rest stop somewhere between Laramie and Evanston were a far cry from the glorious lifestyles you’d see under #vanlife on social media.
Earlier that day, I’d flown into Denver from Salt Lake City to pick up the old Ford van from the previous owner.
I’d been hooked on the idea of living out of a converted camper van since I first saw the term “van life” on travel blogs as a kid. For years, I came up with excuses not to do it until a low point after a break-up made me realize that if I didn’t pursue the dream now, I would likely never do it.
With the average median sales price of houses in the United States at $420,400, according to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, the mobile lifestyle has become a viable alternative for many young adults. Many have put off buying a home or settling in one place and adopted a life of adventure since the pandemic.
Between 2020 and 2022, van lifers increased by 63%. An estimated 3.1 million people are living out of vans, according to Statista. Social media has been a heavy driver of interest, with more and more van lifers sharing their adventures on TikTok and Instagram.
I set a nine-month deadline to find a van, pack up my belongings and hit the road. I scoured Facebook Marketplace for months, slowly widening the radius of the search as I became more desperate to find the right van.
Finally, with about a month to spare before my apartment lease ended, I found one in Denver.
Alone With Yourself
It was a 20-year-old Ford van that was a bit rough on the outside. But it came with relatively low mileage and was entirely built out, including solar panels, running water, a kitchenette, lights, a fridge, a Wi-Fi booster, a bed and ample storage.
I initially planned to camp on a stretch of U.S. Forest Service land halfway back to Salt Lake City. After a few delays pushed back my arrival time to around 9:30 p.m., driving down a dark dirt road seemed less and less appealing.
As I got closer to my intended stop for the night, I decided I would rather drive on through the night all the way back to Salt Lake City rather than camp on isolated, forest land. My second wind of energy was short-lived. An hour or two later, I admitted defeat and pulled into a rest stop.
I’d packed extremely light to avoid paying baggage fees on the budget airline I’d taken to Denver. That left my backpack for a pillow and my jacket for a blanket as I curled up on the bed in the back of the van.
I was exhausted, but I was also hyper-aware of every gust of wind or noise.
Eventually, I started hearing what sounded like footsteps on the top of my van. It seemed ridiculous — there wasn’t even a ladder up to the roof. But being alone in an unfamiliar place, especially at night, has a way of making the absurd seem reasonable.
I began questioning the life decisions that had led me to this point. What had I been thinking, giving up a comfortable apartment and network of friends for this? I’d already told my apartment manager that I was moving out in two weeks and was pretty sure they’d already found a new tenant, but maybe I could convince them to let me stay?
As time dragged on, I became convinced that whoever or whatever was on top of my van wished me ill. Now wide awake but too scared to get back on the road this late at night, I steeled up enough nerve to quickly unlock the van and peek my head up to look at the roof.
My would-be assassin was just a loose piece of heavy-duty RV tape.
First Stop, Wyoming
Once I got back to Salt Lake City, I worked on making the van ready to live in full time.
Although the van was entirely built out, I did add a few extras, most importantly a camp shower and a bucket toilet that I told myself I’d only use in the most dire situations where a campground, gas station or other public restroom wasn’t an option.
I packed the van full of personal belongings, easily prepped meals like sandwiches or pasta as well as clothes for almost any type of weather. I stuffed all the outdoor and camping gear I owned — various backpacks, water bladders, rock climbing shoes, snorkel goggles and fins, hiking poles and more — to make sure I would be prepared for any adventure.
When I set out for full-time life on the road, Wyoming was my first stop.
A friend of a friend was rock climbing with a group in Lander. As a newbie climber who had only climbed outside the gym once, I jumped at the opportunity, even if climbing with strangers was way out of my comfort zone.
When I got there, I discovered the International Climbers' Festival was taking place and that the city was generous enough to let us camp in the city park.
Over the next few days, my confidence both as a climber and a van lifer grew thanks to the amazing people I was meeting. But when the weekend came to an end and the friends I’d made went back to their own lives, that same doubt I’d felt at the I-80 rest stop started creeping in.
I was truly on my own now, and I felt like I was starting “real” van life, where the glamor and adventure gave way to feelings of isolation and anxiety in an unfamiliar place.
There was no longer a predetermined spot for me to camp overnight, use the restroom or hang out in my downtime. I pushed down some of the uncomfortable feelings I had about being on my own and decided I’d travel to Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks, where I figured the multitude of summer tourists would take off the edge of being alone.
‘I Was In Awe’
Finding a camp each night proved to be one of the most stressful parts of life on the road. Camping reservations for a spot in many popular national parks like Yellowstone and Grand Teton usually fill up months in advance (although I’ve managed to get lucky with a night or two by checking for cancelations).
Instead, I used the app iOverlander to find campgrounds, showers and more. In a state like Wyoming where about halfthe land is public, the options for camping vary widely, especially if you’re open to exploring areas without amenities like restrooms and cell service.
Social media, Google and the hiking app AllTrails also became my go-to's as I researched what to do on my journeys (although I often found national park or Forest Service rangers could give great insight on hidden gems and current conditions).
There was one fear, though, that I couldn’t solve by simply downloading an app or chatting with a ranger: bears.
The Arizona suburb I grew up in was positively devoid of any bear activity and, though I often hiked solo in Utah, I’d never done so in bear country. I decided to write off any hiking, but I felt the pull of the Tetons as soon as they jutted up on the horizon.
I was in awe.
After a conversation with a park ranger who assured me I could hike safely alone in the park and a kind sales clerk who showed me how to use my first can of bear spray, I set out on one of the most popular hikes in the park around Jenny Lake. I clapped or shouted “Hey bear” an unnecessary number of times until a couple coming from the opposite direction excitedly told me there was a bear and her cubs a few minutes up the trail.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I thought nervously. “Less than an hour into my first hike in bear country and I’m already going to encounter a bear?”
The actual encounter, however, was nothing like the terrifying rendezvous I’d built up in my head. I knew the bears were close based on the mass of tourists clamoring near the side of the trail for a photo.
The black bears could’ve cared less. Unbothered, they nosed through the brush nearby, slowly making their way away from the crowd.
It All Started In The Cowboy State
I did a few more hikes in the park, becoming less and less fearful each time until I worked up to a 14.5-mile solo hike up Cascade Canyon. It was something I never would have thought I’d be capable of at the start of the trip.
But van life — with its constant stream of new experiences and pushes to step outside my comfort zone — was changing me for the better.
Three months and four states later, I’m well past the deadline I gave myself as a tryout period for van life.
Although my time in Wyoming was brief — only about two weeks in total — I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to start my van life journey here. The vast wilderness and unmatched wildlife built my confidence in myself in a way I’m not sure would have been possible in another locale.
I still have moments of fear and uncertainty on the road, but now I’m better equipped to deal with them. I now know from experience that the only way to handle fear is to push your way through it.
