Day 0: Preparation, Panic, & Possibility

If you’re looking for a glamorous itinerary or glossy snapshots from a solo female camping trip, you might want to keep searching. This wasn’t smooth sailing. It was messy, imperfect, and deeply personal. What you’ll find is a raw reflection of last-minute travels and quiet struggles through the winding backroads of Canada.

The idea for this trip began to take root after a few major life shifts, one being my decision to quit my job. In the two fleeting weeks I had left in my cozy cabin on the Maine coast, I spent every night packing up my world: sorting, folding, letting go. In between it all, I was researching, thrifting, and sketching out a journey that had long lived in the hazy corners of my mind. With a move back home to Michigan on the horizon and a few spare weeks before my next seasonal gig, I decided to take the long way home.

The plan was loose: go north, explore the few parts of Maine that I still hadn’t crossed off my bucket-list, then head into Canada and follow the pull of scenic parks and winding coastlines. I gave myself 10 days, a tight squeeze for the distance, but just enough time to roam. The first hurdle, of course, was packing everything I owned into my Subaru while still leaving room to sleep. Easier said than done.

My first step? A few dreamy, late-night Google searches: “Best sights in Eastern Canada”, “Hidden hikes in Nova Scotia”. You know, the rabbit holes you fall into when you’re chasing wonder. I found itineraries, but none that matched my path. So I started from scratch. Night after night, I chipped away at a route, picking my must-sees and drawing imaginary lines across provinces I’d never visited.

And then came the biggest challenge: where to sleep. I’d already decided to camp in my car, partly for the budget, mostly for the freedom. But this would be my first time navigating dispersed camping solo, and in another country. I didn’t want to spend nights driving aimlessly in the dark, chasing cell signal and a sense of safety.

My usual go-to app, The Dyrt, didn’t cover Canada. So I turned to Google (once again) and found that Canada Crown Lands allows free camping under certain rules. The maps were confusing and the guidelines vague. Eventually, I found a little gem of a site called iOverlander, complete with reviews, photos, and scattered hope. I pieced together a few solid options and tucked away trailheads and quiet provincial parks as backups, just in case.

Once I had my rough outline, I made one last stop at the local outdoor trading post on a rainy April morning. I already had a modest gear stash from years of thrifting, but I still needed a few essentials: a camp stove, cooking utensils, a water jug, and propane. Walking out of that store, arms full and hair damp, I felt invincible. I was really doing this. Not just dreaming or talking or “maybe someday”-ing. I was going to do the damn thing. Alone.

That feeling, equal parts freedom and fear, came in waves. Every task I completed brought a jolt of excitement. But in the quiet moments after, nerves would creep in. I’m not someone who scares easily. I’ve been told more than once, “Cassidy, you are not invincible.” And yet this trip made me feel vulnerable in a way nothing else had.

I’ve hurled myself off 40-foot cliffs into still lakes without blinking. I’ve moved to cities where I knew no one but my own curiosity. I’ve SCUBA dived through eerie shipwrecks in the depths of the Great Lakes. So why did this feel different?

Maybe because this time, there was no one to laugh with when things went wrong. No one to help navigate when I felt lost, physically or emotionally. Still, something in me knew I’d regret not going. This felt like one of those quiet rites of passage they always talk about in your twenties. The ones that change you, not loudly, but intimately.

The day before I left was a beautiful mess: cleaning out the last corners of my cabin and trying to meal prep ten days’ worth of food with zero strategy. I figured I’d throw together a few basic meals, cram them into Tupperware, and pray it all fit in my cooler.

In the end, I was able to tetris in overnight oats, chicken with veggies, protein pasta salad, taco bowls, hard-boiled eggs, and carrots and hummus.

No fancy prep, no portion perfection, just fuel for the road ahead.

Day 1: Departure, Doubts, & Discovery

April 11th arrived. It was go time. The night before, I had carefully packed the car, leaving just enough space to shift things around each evening. That way, I could crawl into the backseat and rest atop the cooler and suitcase that formed the base of my makeshift bunk. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was mine.

That morning, I said a heartfelt goodbye to my landlord. He handed me three oil paintings, gifts he’d been working on all summer. They were beautiful and unexpected, and I clutched them like talismans. Then I was off, with my film camera and journal within arm’s reach, nestled atop the duffel bag riding shotgun. This was the beginning of my first solo road trip. My first real experience in Canada. I was hoping that I was ready.

My first stop was Lubec, Maine, to see the red-and-white sentinel that is West Quoddy Head Lighthouse. The air was brisk, the sky wrapped in fog. Classic spring in coastal Maine. I wandered along the rocky shoreline and wound through the trails at Quoddy Head State Park, collecting beach glass and little moments that might live well on film. The coast was dramatic and wild, but daylight was slipping, and I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to reach my first campsite in New Brunswick before dark.

Shortly after leaving the park I crossed the Canadian border. In reality this was quite an unclimactic moment but in my head it felt NatGeo worthy.

I pulled into the nearest gas station, not just to fill the tank, but to breathe, to settle into the fact that I had a long journey ahead. I swiped my credit card and whispered a silent hope to the universe. Then: “CARD NOT ACCEPTED”. My heart dropped.

Luckily, I had a backup. My debit card worked just fine, and the panic passed as quickly as it came. I walked out with a snack and a grin that stretched across my face. It was such a small thing, but it felt unforgettable. One of those oddly significant travel moments that doesn’t photograph well but lives forever in your body.

As I drove along the Atlantic, inching closer to Saint John, the sky began to shift. I rolled the windows down and played my favorite music, a blend of John Vincent III and a few others who’ve kept me company over the years. Somewhere near a little coastal town called Alma, a sign reminded me I was driving beside the highest tides in the world!

I pulled over and out my camera to capture it. Then I cried.

From joy? From fatigue? From something unnameable? I still don’t know. But the tears came.

Eight and a half hours after leaving, I finally rolled into my campground. The sun had long since disappeared. My first night camping alone was officially underway.

I was exhausted and a little bit scared. I parked, grabbed a fork, and ate cold pasta salad from the container. After brushing my teeth and rinsing my face with water from the trunk, I climbed into the front seat to start the clumsy process of turning my car into a bedroom.

Now, about that “bed.” To call it cramped would be generous. I’d stacked my hard-shell suitcase and my giant cooler to make a platform, then layered an inflatable pad and my sleeping bag on top. When I finally lay down, there were maybe six inches between my face and the ceiling of the car. It wasn’t claustrophobic. I preferred to call it cozy.

And somehow, it worked. That alone felt like another small victory.

Day 1 taught me something I hadn’t expected: How triumphant the tiniest achievements can feel when you’re on your own.

Day 2: Flower Pots, Fire, & Fear

April 11th had passed, and somehow, my first night alone had gone smoothly.

I was in an established, free campground, and I’d parked under a soft canopy of trees where the world felt still. When I woke, I was more rested than I thought I’d be, though I was shaking from the frigid air seeping through the cracked window. It was nearly 20°F all night. After quietly psyching myself up to leave the warmth of my sleeping nook, I made the careful descent from my makeshift bed into the front seat.

Outside, frost clung to the grass in delicate layers. My eyes, still puffy with sleep, lifted toward a sky marbled in pale shades of orange and pink. Birds began their morning chorus as I found an old wooden swing overlooking the marsh and pulled out my journal. The morning felt sacred.

I hit the road early, skipping “getting ready” in favor of catching low tide at Hopewell Rocks Provincial Park: my first real destination of the day. I was looking forward to walking the muddy ocean floor while the tide slept. The park was closed for the season, of course, so I parked just outside the gate and walked in, ignoring the “DO NOT ENTER” sign.

I slid through the mud, snapping film photos and pausing every few steps to absorb the sight of the morning light draping itself over the flower pot rocks. Everything around me was shut down: the gift shop, the restaurant, the shuttle. There was even a machine used to lower people down to the beach. I tried to picture what summer would look like here: tourists laughing, taking photos, eating ice cream. That became a quiet game I played throughout the trip, imagining the crowds that weren’t there. Most of the time, the emptiness felt like peace. Sometimes, it felt like something lonelier.

After rinsing my boots and dusting off my pants, I hopped back into the car and crossed into Nova Scotia. I began searching for a patch for my hiking backpack to add to my collection. But store after store turned up empty. Even the Nova Scotia Visitor Center, supposedly open every day of the year, was closed. I felt a twinge of disappointment but kept moving.

Eventually I reached Burntcoat Head Park, where the land falls away into red cliffs so vivid they almost don’t look real. It was just as beautiful as I had imagined. I pulled out my book and a taco bowl to admire the presence of no one around but the rocky shores.

By late afternoon, something in me had shifted. I was losing steam fast. I’ll admit it I started fantasizing about cutting the trip short. It was only Day 2. I was cold. I was lonely. And I hated that I felt this way.

I should have been grateful. Thrilled, even. I was out here, doing the thing I had dreamed of. But instead, I was zoning out behind the wheel, missing exits, and skipping songs and podcasts that suddenly felt hollow. A couple of wrong turns added thirty minutes to my route. Not the end of the world, but in the moment, it felt like the last straw.

I passed through a few small towns, their names already slipping from memory, and eventually pulled into a rain-soaked lot at the Cape Split trailhead. I had read it was a popular place for hikers to camp overnight, despite the very clear “NO CAMPING” signs. I parked at the cliff’s edge and planned to spend the evening reading, waiting out the rain, and cooking myself a warm meal.

I set up my pocket stove on a picnic table and got ready to heat up some simple chicken and vegetables. Easy. Until I realized I had forgotten a lighter. Somehow, I had packed flint and steel instead.

I struck the flint, sparked the stove to life, and watched in horror as a foot-and-a-half tall flame shot straight up. I panicked. The burner was stuck. I couldn’t twist it off. So I made a split-second decision to throw the entire stove off the table.

It hit the rocks and landed in dry grass. It ignited and panic turned to terror.

Was I about to start a wildfire in Nova Scotia? Was this how the trip would end, with me in handcuffs?

With shaking hands, I pulled gloves from my coat pocket, reached into the flames, and managed to shut the burner off. I stomped out the fire as fast as I could. When the smoke cleared, I sat back on the bench in shock, staring blankly at the waves below.

My puffer jacket sleeve had melted. My nerves were shredded. I was starving and barely holding it together.

Eventually, I picked everything up. The stove was bent beyond repair, but I still tried to bend the metal back into place. After thirty minutes of fumbling and frustration, I gave up and tossed it into its box: where it would stay for the rest of the trip.

Dinner was cold chicken dipped in ketchup, eaten with trembling fingers in the front seat.

Desperate to salvage something from the wreckage of the day, I unrolled my yoga mat and practiced for twenty minutes. It helped. My breath slowed. My body warmed. Something in me steadied.

But the night wasn’t done testing me.

As the sky darkened, I noticed a man wandering around the lot. He looked rough, maybe homeless, maybe just passing through. I told myself it was nothing, but the unease settled into my chest. I tried to ignore it. I climbed into the car, curled into my sleeping bag, and kept my pocket knife within reach.

Every time a truck engine revved, I jolted awake. Every time, I told myself, “You’re alone, but no one knows you’re alone. For all they know, your husband is just up the trail.”

What haunted me wasn’t just the fear itself. It was the fact that I was afraid. I’ve always seen myself as strong and unshakeable. I’ve never been easily rattled, but this fear felt different. This fear felt personal and maybe that’s why it landed so hard.

Day 2 I learned I’m not as fearless as I thought.

Day 3: Mascara, Museums, & Maybes

I woke up overlooking the moody shores of Cape Split Peninsula, with Scots Bay in the distance. The rain had been relentless all night, but I slept surprisingly well after running through 101 scenarios in my head of how I might be killed in my sleep.

The morning arrived with clouds hanging low in the sky and I decided against hiking the famous Loop Trail to the cliff’s edge. The view, they say, is worth the many miles, but I was ready to get out of the rain. Regret hit me as I drove away, but I made a conscious decision to turn this day around. It gave me more time to explore Halifax after all.

I stopped at a few scenic outlooks along the way, but eventually found myself at a Planet Fitness in Halifax. After a quick mat Pilates session and a long shower, I threw on some mascara and suddenly, I was reborn. A brand new day.

I strolled along the waterfront, where the sea kissed the edge of a small island, crowned by a quaint lighthouse. Food booths and vendors lined the boardwalk. Even if they were all closed in the rain, it had a certain charm. The area had a laid-back, conservation-minded energy with turtle protection organizations and LEED-certified buildings. I couldn’t help but feel the pull of those sailboats dotting the harbor. One of my favorite pastimes is wandering docks, dreaming of the day I live aboard one of those boats and call the ocean my home.

Eating alone doesn’t faze me. I’ve always enjoyed solo trips, whether it’s a weekend adventure or a flight. But even so, I catch myself imagining what the people around me think. It’s another little game I like to play in my head. Maybe they think I’m a business woman on a work trip. Or maybe they imagine I’m a mysterious world traveler (I wish). I enjoyed letting the fantasy of it all play out in my head.

Then, I ventured into the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. It was incredible. There was a wealth of information on shipwrecks, steamboats, and the infamous Halifax explosion. The Titanic’s story, Oak Island’s mysterious folklore, and Indigenous perspectives on the area were all part of the exhibit. A whole floor was dedicated to the history of solo sailing explorers. I’m not one to have the best attention span in museums, but this one? I was hooked.

A few hours later, I emerged with a stomach in desperate need of food. After aimlessly wandering the streets of downtown, I found Durty Nelly’s Irish Pub and ordered the best veggie burger and hand-cut fries of my life, paired with a local cider. It was my first real meal in days, and it felt like a slice of heaven.

Fortified and tipsy, I wandered into a few overpriced vintage shops and little boutiques, eventually leaving with my hands empty and my sight set on Cape Breton Island.

The drive was an adventure in itself. Nova Scotia’s roads are chaotic. They’re not even that fast until a hairpin turn around a cliff face comes out of nowhere, and you’re speeding at 65 mph, holding on for dear life.

By the time I reached Cape Breton, the sun was starting to dip, casting a warm glow on the view I’d wake up to tomorrow. It was spectacular. I spent the rest of the evening cleaning my film camera, eating cold chicken, and reading until the quiet of the night settled in.

Day 3 I realized that delusion can make for some fun.

Day 4: Skylines, Scat, & Solitude

The morning began with a bone-chilling breeze. After a quiet moment admiring the shoreline, my stomach quickly reminded me it was time to find a bathroom or at least a place to squat in privacy. This is the less glamorous side of car camping: trying to hold it in while scouting for a discreet spot to finally relieve yourself. My campsite was open, with houses visible in the distance, so I hurried down the road and dashed into the woods which was probably someone’s backyard. At least now, I was ready to take on the day.

Several hikes were closed due to ice and mud, including the Skyline Trail, a 5.9-mile loop along a mountaintop. Still, I was determined to take it on. The fog was thick, and the promised panoramic views were nowhere to be seen. But honestly, the fog only added to the eerie atmosphere of hiking an isolated mountaintop. Halfway through, the boardwalk disappeared into the mist, winding its way down the mountain. I trotted along, greeted by curious birds and noticing piles of scat every twenty feet. At first, I thought it might be from a bear or bobcat, but after getting some service, I came to the exciting realization that it was indeed moose poop. Although I had no sightings, the solitude and peacefulness of the morning were a win in themselves.

After logging a few thousand steps and feeling the cold seep into my toes, I continued along the Cabot Trail through Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The weather was a mess: windy, rainy, and icy in places. There were moments when I thought I might skid off the road and into the ocean, but thankfully, I made it through alive. To pass the time and lift my spirits, I listened to a few self-help podcasts (I love Soul Gum by Victoria Hutchins), which helped reset my mood.

I won’t lie, I was a bit bummed about missing out on the gorgeous views everyone had raved about. But I took a moment to appreciate that every place I stopped was entirely mine to experience: no crowds, no distractions. I danced in the rain, sang on the trails, and spoke my mind without anyone around to hear. Plus, I was surrounded by endless flowing rivers, with bald eagles gracefully soaring overhead.

Sticking to this positive mindset, I decided to leave the island and find my campsite for the night. But as I crossed the bridge onto the mainland, it hit me: I still had no idea where I was going to camp. I hadn’t planned on finishing the drive so quickly, so I scrambled to find a safe spot to park and stay.

Two hours later, I found myself perched at the northern tip of Nova Scotia, at the Cape George Lighthouse. It wasn’t really meant for overnight stays, but that had never been an issue so far on this trip. Still, the lack of an ocean view left me feeling a bit deflated, so I took a moment to journal my hopes for sunshine the next morning.

Weather can make or break a trip like this. When you’re driving all day, the least Mother Nature can do is give you a little sunshine once you step out of the car after hours of mind-numbing podcasts and audiobooks. It’s the little things, really.

As usual, I ate another cold meal, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. It was, without question, the coldest my face has ever been, with the wind biting into my bare skin. I climbed into my sleeping bag, feeling the urge to stretch my legs or take a walk, but the truth was, I didn’t have that luxury. After being cooped up in my warm car for most of the last two days, I had nowhere to go but sleep.

The flickering lighthouse light danced in my peripheral vision, eventually lulling me into a peaceful night.

Day 4 taught me to just do it anyways. Do it tired. Do it when it’s raining. Do it alone. Just do it.