Free Run of the Woods

I grew up in Illinois with woods out the back door — ours, and the neighbors' both — which meant I had free run of miles of them. I was sleeping out there alone before I hit double digits, spending summer weeks in the trees a short walk from the house. Nobody thought much of it. It was just what I did.

That pull never let go. It just kept getting bigger.

The world

It carried me into the jungles of Costa Rica. Out to a scatter of islands off a Finnish national forest, where I packed a canoe and went solo. Down to the Florida Keys, for months in the water diving lobster. Different worlds, different kinds of hard — but the same question every single time: can I actually do this, out here, on my own?

Turned out — yeah. And every time the answer came back yes, the next trip got a little bigger.

The rooftop-tent years

Six years ago I put a rooftop tent on the rig. I've logged close to 500 nights in it since — mostly by myself, parked on free public land that most people blow right past on the highway. National forests, BLM ground, the places with no hookups and no cell bars.

Which is the thing nobody tells you: the best ground in this country is federal, free, and empty — if you know how to live on it. That last part is the whole trick. It's not about the gear or the truck. It's knowing how long you can actually stay before something runs out, and having a plan for the one town run that resets the clock.

Why I built this

I was doing that math in my head on every trip. How many days of water do I really have. What gives out first out here — the drinking jugs, the grey tank filling up, propane on a cold night. Where's the nearest place to dump, fill, and top off, and how far is the loop. When do I need to point the truck toward town.

So I built the thing I kept wishing existed at the trailhead: pick a camp, and it tells you honestly how long you can live there for your rig, what's going to run out first, and the single supply run to stretch it. When it doesn't know something, it says so. That honesty isn't a feature — it's the whole point.

On sharing

People ask if I worry about giving these spots away. I don't. Getting to a real one takes effort, guts, resourcefulness, the right equipment, and a flat-out I wanna be here attitude — a good deal more than tossing a duffle and a cooler in the car. I've handed these places out for years, and I still pull in to find nobody around for days, right up until I run low on provisions.

The couch-bound 99% adventure through a screen. The people who actually come out here earned it, and there's room. So I'll keep sharing — the backcountry keeps its own gate.