In 2015, I rid myself of the belongings that filled my two-bedroom apartment and packed my car with newly purchased camping gear. I left my loved ones, the life I knew, and my comfort zone to travel by myself. My plan was to live in a tent in National Parks around the Western United States for the summer. This evolved into three and a half years of nearly continuous travel, including a year of international vanlife. 

Before my skin was ever red-dirt stained from desert living, glistening from drops of the Indian Ocean or burned like hell from a bear spray incident, it wore pantsuits. My life revolved around employees, emails, breweries, and brunches. It had the complacent comfort of a familiar life close to my roots. This essay offers the starting point of how I went from pantsuits to nomad.

Prior to being partially de-pantsed by a kangaroo (while commando) or fleeing fist-sized spiders in Tasmania, I fought long work weeks. At one point, my most significant daily inconvenience was pushing through rush hour traffic in Chicago, Milwaukee, or Madison. Fast forward a month and inconvenience looked like me running down a trail in Glacier National Park as some sort of Condor or Vulture swooped at me with what must have been a six-foot wingspan. There I was, blowing a whistle and waving a stick in the air for “protection” like an imbecile. I was very new at outdoor living. 

Evening efforts were once spent trying to resist the elements of binging—another glass of wine or episode of The Wire or Breaking Bad. Soon, my evenings looked much, much different.

I found myself skinny dipping in the Merced River in Yosemite Valley under the full moon in the arms of a curly-haired boy (who my sibling and I later nicknamed “Beefcake”). I laid in a van by myself attempting to fall asleep while cockroaches scurried across my body as I gazed at completely different stars than my loved ones back in the Northern Hemisphere. I poached (snuck into) hot tubs in South Lake Tahoe after getting lost off-trail for four hours in Desolation Wilderness amidst a thunderstorm. I also fought the urge to venture outside my tent to pee in twelve-degree weather, bare-assed in the dirt.

I used to dwell on having to make a quick run to the store when I ran out of tampons or needing to scour the automotive dealerships I worked at for the scarce women from whom I could steal one in a pinch. In the wilderness, I found myself with nothing but toilet paper stuffed in my underwear with a 5 mile, 3800-foot elevation gain ahead of me up to the rim of the Grand Canyon—where I had just come down from. 

Perspective. It’s all about perspective. 

Let’s talk about life before my perspective shifted; the groundwork that was undone, or at least partially unraveled.

Growing up, my family vacations consisted of five-star hotels where the scenery was observed from a panoramic window (or on one occasion on Maui, a helicopter). The hiking was to and from the elevator and the only sweat-invoking activity was lying in the sun like a beached whale. In early adulthood, I was convinced that the most satisfying way to spend time away from my usual routine was to be a complete glutton while surrounded by palm trees; devouring food until I loathed myself. My only worry was to drink my beer fast enough so that it stayed cold in the smoldering sun. These indulgences were what I looked forward to all year long, escaping the emails, logistics, and the mundane within the daily grind. 

In contrast, the travel I discovered in the Summer of 2015 was a secluded, budget-friendly, sleep under the stars, hopefully don’t get eaten by a bear, tuna-packet devouring, learn-how-to-survive-in-the-wilderness sort of travel. And I fucking loved it. 

A vast change of pace for me. I never camped or hiked in my childhood. It just wasn’t how we lived. Sure, I spent the majority of my time as a kid outside; we lived on a lake that stretched on for 30 miles, we had a big yard, and my siblings and I all played sports, but we weren’t campers or hikers.

The majority of my twenties were spent working for Dad.  I contracted for his company on and off since 2005, in and around other jobs and internships, while choosing the workload and clients I wanted. That part was wonderful and I don’t think I was as grateful for it as I would have liked to be. The work was anxiety-inducing for me though, and the industry was ridden with sexism. 

One of the jobs outside of this contracting work was a gig I was offered right out of college. Like what I had done for my Dad, it was in the automotive industry. I was hired to build business development centers from the ground up; interviewing, hiring, training, and maintaining new staff; equipping the offices, creating and implementing pay plans, commissions, schedules, and so on.

Within a year of being out of University, I had a few dozen employees throughout various locations. I was just shy of a raise to hit the six-figure mark but felt light-years from being content. Whether it was my job at the time, or how I spent the time I had away from it, I prioritized my life much differently than I do now. That shift took time and a change in values along with it. The first step in this process was recognizing that I needed a change. 

Grad School was on my mind. 

I had always wanted to be a History Professor and teach about past and present genocides, civil rights, and especially social justice challenges relating to race, religion, sexual orientation, and the psychology of injustice. It wasn’t even a year of school before I decided I didn’t want a lifetime of debt followed by decades of work to possibly hit the income I had made by the time I was twenty-five. Before I knew it, I was right back to the old grind. At least, I had switched it up a bit, rather than working the same job and not taking any chances. Even so, I felt as if I had never ventured off, as though I had failed. 

I was back to square one, and felt the weight of my stress-ridden days growing heavier; managing what seemed like a never-ending cycle of employee sick days, vacations, no-shows, underperformance, turnover, and the nuisance of sexism. My deteriorating romantic relationship with Andy compounded it all. I found myself unfulfilled and unhappy both in and out of the office. And in a moment’s notice, with one phone call from my Dad, it all seemed trivial. I was anticipating that he would fill me in on a doctor’s visit regarding what we suspected to be a cyst in his neck. It was very shortly into the call he revealed it was anything but frivolous:

“It’s cancer.”

My heart dropped, as did my computer from my lap, as Andy and Alycia each jolted their heads towards me having overheard the dreaded C-word. 

My Dad and my sister, Maggie, in a time of reflection of what was to come.

He started undergoing chemotherapy and radiation for the tumor. If life was indeed this precious, this precarious, this fragile, then I should act with immediacy in whatever dreams or ventures I felt I needed to fulfill. The experience of my Dad’s cancer triggered something in me to consider a change for myself in more radical ways. With appropriate timing, my had Dad looked at me in the car one day after his radiation treatment:

“I want you to know that no matter what happens, I have lived a full life, Molly. I am happy. I am happy because I have your Mom and you three kids, and because I traveled.”

There it was.

I didn’t foresee being able to make the vast, immediate change I desired, but I felt I needed to trip into nature.  About a year after my Dad’s diagnosis (which felt like a decade) he was in remission. Gratitude and joy were filling our hearts and I now believed I had the freedom to venture. I had a dear friend living in Salt Lake City and I hadn’t visited any National Parks at that point, so I decided I would visit her and head to Zion National Park. 

By the time I departed, I was single for the first time in years. When I say years, I mean years. I spent most of my adult life consumed by serious relationships. The sort of relationships that I didn’t think allowed me to pack a suitcase and say sayonara for months at a time. I’m not sure why I couldn’t part. It’s not as though I had children, just…men. Apparently, this was enough to allow my teeny tiny brain to think I had to be stationed in one area.

Silly me, oh silly me! 

After my partner, Andy, and I split and I visited Utah, I moved into a new apartment half a mile from where Andy and I had cohabitated. I couldn’t help but wonder what was next for me. I had been living in the Midwest my entire life, moving from one city to another. In recognizing that I had become too comfortable, I also saw an opportunity. This is how I realized I was at a high risk of settling; believing I needed nothing more out of life than what I had; deciding I’d just continue down the trajectory I was on without question. That mindset didn’t threaten my comfort, as opposed to taking significant risks, but comfort didn’t bring any novelty either. 

“A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”

John A. Shedd

I think the thrill of battling a dust storm and then hiking Angel’s Landing in Zion had planted another seed (or watered those that had already been planted during a European backpacking trip after college and then in my Dad’s words about travel).

“Want great reward? Take great risks.”

Thomas Jefferson

My comfort zone was a great neighborhood on the east side of Milwaukee, right off Brady St. It was a thriving community with bars, restaurants, boutique shops, hiking and biking trails, the River Walk and Waterfront (plus, plenty of compadres to enjoy it all with). I lived for boozin’ on the weekends, which typically included indulging in a little “hair of the dog” on Sundays; think Midwestern-style bloody marys with beer chasers. 

I could have spent ten years hanging out with the same people at the same watering holes, as well as easily heading home at the same time annually for holidays. Many of my friends did, still do, and will continue to do so. A fulfilling life for many but was this what I wanted for my life? I was unsure and found myself getting caught up in the weekly grind and weekend binge routine. You know the one: work to get through the week so you can spend the weekend drinking and eating with those you love, making memories and spending said earnings. I thought about moving to another city or a smaller town, but where? I didn’t know what was out there and felt the change I needed had to be considerable.

Several of my peers were either just trying to make it home from the bar safely or getting married and having babies (yes, intentionally having babies in their mid-twenties). The former was my evening routine and the latter? Well, that sounded lovely for later in my life but certainly not then. I remember hearing people say they wanted to have children early so that they could enjoy life later. This statement made me quite sad. Even in putting the insinuation aside that they wouldn’t enjoy themselves while raising children, I didn’t find the tactic very practical or mindful. Didn’t they know they could never get that time back? I especially disagreed with the idea of having children prior to identifying what my “unconditionals” were, not to mention addressing and working through existing traumas before passing them along.

I feared if I didn’t take time for self-discovery and my own personal development outside of what was expected of me (or was considered “normal”) I’d end up sacrificing what I really wanted without even knowing it. Then when I did, it would be too late. My “unconditionals” could be lost in compromises with my partner or in-laws or society or hell, even close friends. If I didn’t know what I absolutely needed, then I didn’t know what I was absolutely not willing to compromise on with a partner, or anyone for that matter. To me, having babies before this self-awareness happens could be where midlife crises (and divorces) are conceived. Sure, it might be a long incubation period before the birth of said crisis, but having kids before I discover my own wants and needs, core values, unconditionals, and life goals? I’ve lost it for less. 

I recall all the thoughts about babies and 401K’s making my stomach turn and head spin. I needed to act…before I ended up with a job I didn’t want to give up or a man I felt I couldn’t live without, or holy hell! before I woke up one day having eloped and reproduced in the blink of an eye!  

But I digress.  

After I had been in my new place for a little over five months and single for a little over six, I bought myself a national park book and decided to plan a little road trip. I became more and more ambitious, eventually thinking that if I explored enough places, I would discover where I wanted to land…which is exactly what happened.

The problem was that there was just so much to see and so much I wanted to take in. Why not make a big trip of it? There it was. Once I set my mind to something, there’s no going back. Actually, once I set my mind to something that I’ve researched and know is attainable, there’s no going back…because I’ll be honest, I’ve had to take a lot of shit back that comes up on a whim. Once, I was going to move to Boulder, CO, for grad school and announced it before even being accepted. I’m sort of…an impulsive, adventurous, and obsessive person when I get into something.

Anyway, this was not that different on the surface but eventually became very, very different. You see, I would typically get anxious about new adventures, travels, and just plans in general and would jump the gun at every opportunity to talk about them — I’m easily excitable. Somehow, this trip was my little secret. That’s how I knew it was real. 

For the first time in my life, I decided to keep everything to myself — literally (even from my best friend and family) until I was certain I would pull the trigger. I simply cannot emphasize enough how significant of a change this was for me personally. I once accidentally went on a date with a man in Moab (who is now a dear friend) and as our rendezvous was coming to a close–at the moment I realized it had been a date–he looked at me with a smile, chuckled and responded to my statement about desiring a platonic relationship with him by telling me that I leave very little room for mystery. Not very sexy, I know, and he was absolutely right. It might be the best and worst thing about me.

After three months of planning for the trip I managed to leave a mystery, I confronted my Dad with the question of how much time he’d need if I were to no longer contract for his business. He knew something was brewing.

The agenda was to leave within the first few days of June 2015, since my lease was up at the end of May.  So, I asked my parents to go to dinner and once I sat with them, I explained that I had some news. We dined at a restaurant not even a mile away from my parents’ house in a town of 40,000 people in southeastern Wisconsin. 

Now, I was dealing with some pretty worldly parents, from pretty unworldly backgrounds. Both of my parents were raised in small Wisconsin towns. My Mom is literally from a town of 400 people called “Cobb.” She was raised on a farm by her parents and had six siblings. They were poor but had a hell of a lot of Irish-Catholic love and discipline. To sum it up, they weren’t given much, if any, freedom for recreational purposes outside the home (not sure a lot was cookin’ in Cobb anyway), unless it involved a school organization such as band, sports or drama club.

My Dad, on the other hand, had all the freedom in the world to venture off for recreation in his youth, but strict manners were in place (no elbows on the dinner table!). Some of this was of course due to gender norms, especially in those days. So, Mom and Dad brought an interesting mix of parenting to the table. Mom would tell me I couldn’t stay at a friend’s, but if I said “shit” it wasn’t the end of the world. My Dad would tell me I could stay over at said friend’s but chastised me if I said “fart” instead of “poof.” Mixed messages. As a teenager, I quickly learned how to capitalize on each.

My Dad had pioneered a successful business and then met my Mom, who eventually had quit her teaching job and moved to Australia to be with him. My Dad had spent several months working in various Australian cities. Then “poof”… marriage, three kids, travel, the whole shebang. 

Mom and Dad at a wedding in 2014, after his treatment.

I sat down with my worldly yet relatively traditional folks:

“I’m going to move out of my apartment, give away or store my belongings, buy camping gear and go travel by myself and live in a tent in National Parks around the country.”

Not surprisingly, there was a moment of silence. 

I told them I’d be taking off the first week of June. As mentioned, my Dad had more than an inkling I’d be doing some traveling, but I had told him not to tell my Mother that I had inquired about the work notice. To my surprise, he had kept quiet. My Mom looked at me, then my Dad, stunned.

It was disturbing for such a loving and caring Mom of a different generation and upbringing to hear that her little girl would be taking on such a journey on her own. For her, it was not about quitting my job and not having a plan or affording the trip, or any of those realistic questions you would be asked by so many. It was about safety; it was the concern of her, my Father, my close friends, my former boyfriends and all who cared dearly about me. Some of my male buddies were a little short-sighted in this matter, unless they had sisters. We would all like to think that 2015 brought good people and safe passages, but wits needed to be in full force as a woman traveling without another human or beloved canine companion. Also, let’s not forget bears. 

Being in shock, and feeling overwhelmed by the news (I assume), my Mom opted to excuse herself from the table for a moment. Once my adorable 95-pound little spitfire of a Mother came back, she had a few conditions:

“You’re going to call or text daily…”

The list went on.  A daily call or text, weekly skyping, etc. None of these happened. Not because I wasn’t going to keep a promise, but because there was literally no cell service. I knew there wouldn’t be, but I also figured that after a couple of weeks of safe travels, my Mom would accept that I was being smart in my travels. As it turns out, that only took a week. We never skyped once. 

My Dad, being the clever man he is, said just one thing to me at that moment and it was the only thing he needed to say, 

“I know you will be wise, Molly.”

It wasn’t long after this that I found myself standing naked in a hotel room I wasn’t supposed to be in, at a fancy lodge in Yellowstone, debating whether I call 911 or just run out into the hall bare-assed for fresh air. I had just accidentally inhaled bear spray and was choking over the toilet while simultaneously rinsing my eyes with cold water. Wise indeed, Dad, wise indeed.

Thank you for reading! Click here if you enjoyed the essay and would like to leave a tip for the author!

Be sure to read pt 2: Deserting the Life I Knew; Amateur Hour in Nebraska

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