Day 1: Leaving a Loved Place
Labor Day weekend so often feels like a hinge in the year, the pivot from summer to fall. For most people it means back-to-school, a shift in season, maybe even a shift in spirit. For me, this year, it marked something bigger: another move across the country.
The holiday has always been a highlight in my family, our big reunion on the lake, a gathering with lots of booze, food and boat time. This year, though, it carried the heaviness of departure. I woke on August 30th with a pounding hangover, packed my carefully prepped cooler, tidied my car, and stole a few last quiet moments on the lakeshore. The water was calm, the morning sun warm, and beneath it all was the ache of knowing it would end in goodbyes.
When the time finally came, my family gathered near what was soon to be my home-on-wheels for the next two weeks. A dozen or so pairs of arms pulled me in tight one by one. Then came the part I dreaded most: holding my parents and whispering those awful words: “see you soon.” They always carry such uncertainty, tangled up in every painful goodbye I’d ever known. The truth was, I would not be back until Christmas. I was clinging to the hope that I’d receive a visit before then.
I pulled out of the driveway blinking hard against the tears. Everyone stood in the front yard waving, and I answered with a few obnoxiously long honks of my Subaru horn before disappearing down the road. A few miles later, I realized I was going the wrong way. Passing my house again, I laughed through the ache. How could I possibly be driving across the country to start a new life when I could not even manage the first turn?
The first hour passed in silence. Then came sobbing. Then a bag of pretzels to cope. As I pressed farther south, memories of summer unfolded: walks with my mom and the dogs, late-night talks with my dad, beers on the boat, live music under open skies, kayaking on Lake Huron, porch yoga, slow mornings with my sister. I loved every second. And yet my mind crowded with regrets. Why had I not let my tears flow openly during our goodbye? Why had I not thanked my dad more deeply, softened with my mom, given more time to my siblings? A million tiny should-haves gnawed at me as I set the cruise control and tried to swallow the pain.
Still, there was solace in the thought that missing something so fiercely has its own beauty. Better to miss home than miss out on the world. That affirmation helped, but it didn’t stop the tears from returning every hour. Eventually, I told myself I could not keep turning over the same stones. The only thing left was to step forward.
Hungover and heartsick, I drove through Michigan and into Indiana Dunes National Park. To shake myself awake, I tackled the Three Dune Challenge and wandered the beach, joining the tide of Labor Day tourists. Families hurled themselves into turquoise water, a boy’s kite tugged hard at the sky, couples laughed with their heads tipped together. All of it framed by the sun lowering itself into the horizon.
On my way back, I wandered through a campground alive with small scenes: kids shrieking over a game of Octoball, couples stirring pots over fires, kitschy wooden signs hanging from RV awnings. I soaked it all in, quiet and companioned by strangers, doing my best not to envy what they had.
But beneath it all, I missed my family. I missed the lake. I missed the rhythm of home. I missed it all.
Day 2: Fear in the Passenger Seat
I spent the night in the visitor center parking lot, tossing and turning until the light finally nudged me awake around eight. My morning routine has already begun to take shape: change clothes, squat in the woods, wipe myself down, brush my teeth, and then rearrange the little car-home I am trying to make functional. Inside the Indiana Dunes Visitor Center, I refilled my water bottle, bought a patch for my collection, and on my way out a woman stopped me.
We talked for nearly an hour. She was a fellow solo traveler, and to my surprise she was from Santa Cruz, the very place I was heading. She told me she had recently left a seven-year relationship, quit her corporate job, and had been on the road for a month. The coincidences felt uncanny and yet comforting. Her presence restored something fragile in me, a little faith in the possibility of finding connection, of meeting friends along the way. Loneliness had been the worry pressing heaviest on my chest. She gave me back a sliver of confidence without even knowing it. We exchanged numbers, promising to trade recommendations as our paths unfolded.
The road ahead was long and flat. Illinois and Iowa stretched endlessly in muted tones, the drive broken only by the World’s Largest Truck Stop, which felt more like a mall disguised as a gas station. I stretched my legs before pressing on until Des Moines. There I wandered the downtown Pappajohn Sculpture Park, then searched for a gym that would let me sneak in on a free trial. A shower was worth the gamble.
Inside, I took out some of my sadness on weights, recouped my emotions in the sauna and cleansed myself of it all in the shower. For a moment, I felt lighter, but that feeling faltered as soon as I stepped back into the parking lot.
While rearranging my belongings allowing for the world to see right into my reality, I noticed a man watching. As I climbed into my car, another pulled up so close I couldn’t have opened my car door. He leaned in, tossing out compliments and insisting he just wanted to talk. I told him no right away and said I was leaving. Even with the window rolled up tight, his voice carried through the glass. My pulse hammered as I pulled up directions to a campsite, praying he wouldn’t follow. I peeled out of the lot fast, but the unease stayed with me, riding shotgun the whole way.
By nightfall I had made my way to Littlefield Recreation Area, a campground in Iowa that was eerily empty for a holiday weekend. I made a simple dinner of Greek yogurt and berries, crawled into bed, and tried to still the anxiety humming inside me. Then I remembered a piece of advice I had read on a female traveler’s blog: always back in allowing yourself a quick escape route. With a sigh, I climbed back out, moved my car, and tucked in again.
The night was alive with the chorus of frogs, crickets, and birds by the lake. I let their voices lull me toward sleep, spooked but hopefully safe.
Day 3: Finding Comfort on a Page
It was September now. Already, the days were beginning to blur. The rain had fallen without pause through the night, drumming against the roof of my car. My battery powered fan died sometime before dawn, and the air grew unbearably hot, forcing me to crack the windows. By morning, everything was damp: my hair, my pillow, even my sleeping bag. Shrugging this unfortunate fact off in my groggy haze, I packed, and drove off, realizing I could cover much more distance if I didn’t waste the morning “getting ready.”
The rain kept me company for most of the drive, dredging up old Nova Scotia memories I’d rather have forgotten. At a gas station, I made a humble breakfast of soggy oats and peanut butter and brushed my teeth. What a humbling experience it always is, brushing in the fluorescent-lit mirror, toothbrush sticking awkwardly from my mouth as strangers came and went.
Six hours and countless one-light-towns later, I reached the southwest corner of Nebraska. To pass the time, I let the sound of old episodes of Gilmore Girls keep me company, their banter filling the car with the warmth of autumn even as the sun outside insisted it was still summer in this part of the country.
And then Lake McConaughy came into view, Nebraska’s largest lake stretching out before me. It opened up like a mirage with acres of cornfields giving way to a massive dam, rocky bluffs, and long sandy stretches. Trucks and RVs dotted the beaches, engines humming, people playing with their lifted toys in the sand. I felt a bit out of place as the only woman alone, the only one not camping, the only one just… there. Still, I hiked my lonely butt across the sand dunes and down to the lake to read.
I managed only three chapters of Nowhere for Very Long before biting flies drove me off, but even in those pages I carried away something I needed. I have always feared missing out on life, fearing that one lifetime is too short for all I want: to read every book, experience every culture, sail every sea, witness every sunset, explore every country. It has always ached in me, the sense that time is never enough. One passage struck a chord with me:
“Sometimes I wonder if living on a mostly little sailboat would have been my choice if I felt I had another. I was so unsure of myself those first few weeks down there on the dock. But it became comforting to think of fear as a vessel for freedom. I had scared myself right into the kind of life I wanted.”
Brianna Madia so accurately described this longing and made me feel a little less alone in mine.
With my mind steadied, I wandered back to my car and circled the campgrounds, debating whether to slip into a site without paying. I nearly convinced myself, but in the end I decided to go to a public boat launch instead. The road down was steep and sandy, opening to a quiet, hidden beach. Signs warned that camping was prohibited, but I couldn’t resist. The sunset spilled across the water, and I told myself I’d leave no trace, cause no harm. I even rehearsed a lie, just in case a knock found itself at my window that night.
As the sun fell, I stretched into yoga on the rocks and ate taco bowl leftovers that had sat out in my trunk all day. I washed my dishes and brushed my teeth in the frighteningly warm lake water, before curling into my damp bedding. My body thought it was eleven at night, though the clock insisted it was only nine. I thought about tomorrow: Colorado calling from just beyond the horizon.
Day 4: Vagabond Dreaming
Waking up stung, not just from the lingering feelings from unsettling dreams, but from the fresh bruise swelling on my forehead. My first official road-trip injury, courtesy of a clumsy midnight scuffle with my metal water bottle. In the chaos of tossing around in my cramped bedroom, it toppled straight onto my face. Not exactly the wake-up call I had in mind.
With my sight set on colorful Colorado, I pulled out barefoot, sand still crusted under my toenails, braids unraveling from the day before, yesterday’s clothes clinging with the smell of stale freshwater. I smiled at the feeling of being a true vagabond.
At the state visitor center, two elderly volunteers showered me with brochures, grinning earnestly. I falsely assured them that I’d fulfill every single suggestion, despite my shortage on time. How could I possibly let those two sweet old souls down?
I cashed in on yet another free gym trial for a workout and shower before wandering through the RiNo Art District, where murals splashed across every once-abandoned building in an effort to revive this forgotten corner of the city. Downtown, I drifted through eclectic gift shops and a spectacular vintage store that doubled as a bar, where I splurged on a pair of green Carhartt overalls that fit like destiny, or at least that’s how I justified the purchase. Later, I perched on a bench to people-watch and plan my next move until my train of thought was cut short by the sight of a homeless man fishing a moldy sandwich out of the trash beside me.
An hour later I found myself weaving through the stone paths of the Denver Botanical Gardens that offered some much needed shade and quiet. Not long after, I somehow ended up in yet another thrift store. I’ll admit it: I have a thrifting addiction. But I was quickly learning that western thrifting is a whole different league.
I had more sights to see, so I began the short drive to Red Rocks Park and Amphitheater. The mountains started to rise in the distance, their slopes stacked with pines and sunburnt rock, and my heart leapt. Just before the entrance, the little town of Morrison buzzed with open-air bars and music drifting through the streets, tempting me to stop for a drink. But the sun was sinking fast, and I had my heart fixed on the Trading Post Trail. While laughing over the phone with a friend, I hiked past clusters of purple wildflowers pushing through cracks in the sandstone, the cliffs glowing rust-red in the late light. The Pixies were playing that night, and their echoes spilled out from the amphitheater, tumbling across the landscape. A part of me wished I was sitting in those bleachers, tucked among the crowd, instead of lingering at the edges.
By nightfall, my car and I wound our way up twisting mountain roads, searching for a perch. The spots I had marked on iOverlander were cut off by a road closure, forcing me onto a long detour. At last, I landed beneath a sky bursting with stars, moonlight sketching the mountain silhouettes all around me. After a while of stargazing, I opened the hatch to settle in, only to discover my sleeping mat had gone completely flat. I huffed more air into it, shrugged at its betrayal, and finally crawled inside, nearly buzzing with a giddy anticipation for whatever the next day’s journey would bring.
Day 5: Ketchup is All I Need
I woke up cradled by mountains, their slopes washed gold by morning sun. After a quick stroll and a mountain-side bathroom break, I rolled down into Idaho Springs. Farmers market closed, shops shuttered. Same in Georgetown, another quaint old mining town. Still, the towns had been charming, their historic downtowns like postcards.
I continued west on I-70, each curve unfolding a new masterpiece of cliffs, rivers, peaks crowding the horizon. Hanging Lake was the day’s prize: a steep climb in the heat to a turquoise bowl fed by waterfalls, trout drifting lazily beneath the clear water. An elderly couple from Iowa had chatted with me for a while before we started the descent together.
In the parking lot, I took a wipe shower, changed clothes, and combined random bits of my remaining food together for lunch: rice cakes with cottage cheese, hardboiled egg, and ketchup to top it off. Anyone that knows me knows that I consume a frightening amount of ketchup on a daily basis. I settled into my front seat to enjoy it with a side of meal before promptly dropping most of it into the abyss between my car seats.
After fishing yolk from the depths, I took the two hour drive to Colorado National Monument. Switchbacks carved into the ancient Precambrian rock, each overlook wider and wilder than the last. At the top, the heat was searing at 100 degrees, but the views had been worth every bead of sweat.
Crossing into Utah, loneliness hit hard. I pulled out my phone to read some of the admittedly cheesy inspirational quotes I keep stashed in my Notes app, including one from Randy Komisar: “And then there is the most dangerous risk of all—the risk of spending your life not doing what you want on the bet you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later.” The quote didn’t erase the ache I was feeling, but it reminded me why the ache might just be worth it in this moment.
I reached Moab in the afternoon. Despite needing a shower, I wandered through the lively downtown streets, exhausted but unwilling to waste the night. I’m always in search of locally made art, especially jewelry to add to my astronomically large collection. To my delight, Moab Made was the perfect place to find anything and everything handmade right in town. I bought a bracelet, then sought refuge at The Blu Pig: live jazz, salad, cider, and the comfort of strangers’ voices.
While moseying out of my car, I burst into sobs: tired, lost, mourning the life I’d left behind and doubting the one I was heading toward. Something about sitting at the bar, watching happy couples and laughing families enjoy drinks and music together, got to me. Through tears, I searched desperately for a campsite close to my anticipated adventures for tomorrow. Instead, I found myself stuck on sandy backroads, with nothing but the moon to accompany me through the agony. Feeling low and increasingly irritated, I managed to dig my tires out of the sand and eventually stumbled upon some BLM land to park on. As I got unready, I thought that maybe tomorrow I deserved a treat: a bed, a shower, maybe even some company. I held onto the idea of these simple pleasures as I lay down on my still-very-much-deflated sleeping mat in the back of my still-very-much-so-cramped car.