RamonaCreel.com

Some folks are perfectly content to live in the same nesting-staycationing-never-venturing-more-than-ten-miles-from-home-locale their entire lives. And I wish ’em well — tucked up all warm and snug on the couch mit blankie and cocoa. Just leaves more world for me to see!

Scratching Them Itchy Feet With A Whole Lotta Travel

I inherited busy feet from my father — that man could not sit still to save his life. Very little excited him more than jumping in the car and heading off to wherever he’d never been. (Well, except a ridiculous bargain on something he didn’t actually need in the first place.)

I’m definitely Richard’s daughter in that regard. The “continuous-state-of-exploration-makes-me-happy” part — not that “defeat-your-whole-purpose-as-a-massive-cheapskate” thing.

But our society’s insanely-restrictive-and-supremely-American-two-week-vacation-limitation (to which I was subjected back when someone else called my shots and I stupidly allowed an external employer to dictate said leave-of-absence schedule) frustrated me — did you know that even Bangladesh mandates more time off for its workers? We’ve reached a whole new level of sad when a country that ranks in the top ten WORST places to be employed does something labor-related BETTER than the United States.

I was faced with a serious dilemma. How in the name of Odin’s great glittering golden gonads was I going to fit all the destinations I wanted to visit into just 14 planetary rotations every trek around the sun?

I know, move faster!

So I became a “banzai-excursionist,” a samurai-suicide-sightseer, treating every trip as though it might be my last. And at the rate I was going, each was very likely to become exactly that — at least for the woefully-mortal-running-themselves-ragged-struggling-in-vain-to-keep-up-with-my-energizer-bunny-ways globetrotting companions who dared attempt a journey with me. It took me a while to figure out why they all returned home broken and bleeding and twelve-plus-letter-word-cursing the day I’d ever discovered Roadside America. (I’d always just thought they were pussies.)

For a lotta years, my motto was “if you’re semi-conscious and not doing at LEAST three different things simultaneously, you’re a travel slacker.” I crammed as-much-activity-as-humanly-possible-and-then-a-little-bit-extra-for-good-measure into my itineraries. And I’ll tell you right now, you do NOT want to mess with a compulsive planner and her recreational checklists — she will fuck you up and force you to have a good time while she’s doing it! Armed with a combination of unrealistic expectations and superb scheduling abilities, I guaranteed that pretty much any expedition (while stuffed-to-overload-with-fun-and-resulting-in-a-photo-album-full-of-memories) would end in exhaustion.

Why I’m The Anti-Tourist

That’s why I ditched the house and the job and became a full-time wanderluster — initially as an RVer, then as an around-the-world backpacker.

As a full-timer, I can stay in one place as long as my greasy little heart desires, enjoying all that an area has to offer sans deadline — zero anxiety, negative pressure, minus any vague FOMO-based sense of disappointment. I’m no longer in a mad rush to tackle every landmark known to man as quickly as possible, before the forced return to real life. This is real life, and it moves at a much more leisurely pace.

Even though I travel more than ever before, the word “vacation” has virtually disappeared from my vocabulary — as the line between work and play grows blurrier, and “touristing” becomes just another normal part of my daily routine. Not to mention the fact that I have folks all across the country, and I could use up every bit of a two-week vacation visiting high school and college buds — now I can plan my route so that I can pass through those towns where my peeps live.

I now go farther afield, discovering cool-art-walk-funky-festival-weirdo-neighborhood-stuff I’d have previously missed (when I rarely had time to leave the beaten path). And even though I travel more than ever before, the word “vacation” has virtually disappeared from my vocabulary — as the work/play line blurs, and touristing becomes just another normal part of my daily routine. Most importantly, it no longer bothers me if I miss an activity, because I know I can come back again whenever I want.

I’ve even started a whole new set of lists for each city — “to do next time!”

And I don’t just limit myself to domestic road trips — I’m just as happy toting a backpack in a place where I can’t speak the language and have no idea what that thing is the waiter just served me. But god forbid anyone peg me as a tourist! My goal while traveling abroad is to shut out all things American and “go native,” immersing myself in whatever culture I happened to be passing through. I don’t care if it’s watching French “Funniest Home Videos,” otherwise known as “Drle de Vido” (wow, the French are not funny!), listening to Hello Muddah Hello Faddah being sung on the radio in Welsh, eating rice crackers and dried fish while at a sumo match, or mastering the squatty-potty in India — that’s the fun of travel.

I can think of no greater joy then landing in a new town, someplace I’ve never been before, and coming to know it like home. I’ve seen some amazing things, met fantastically gracious people, had incredible experiences on the road — and come to realize that this is a pretty damned fine world in which to live!

Living Everywhere And Nowhere At The Same Time

Random Person: “So where do you live?”

Me: “I’m a full-time wanderer. I don’t really have a set home. We just travel from place to place.”

Random Person: “Wait — so you can just pick up and go? Wherever you want? Whenever you want?”

Me: “Pretty much.”

Random Person: “Wow, that’s so awesome! I’d love to be able to do that someday. Must be a great life!”

Me: “Yes. Yes it is. But not for the reasons you think.”

The only thing better than total strangers suggesting that my planetary existence is amazing, and something to which they aspire? Correcting a core misunderstanding most folks seem to have about the tin can life! I’ve discovered that a goodly number of non-nomads view itinerant living from a strictly “you-get-to-gallivant-365-days-a-year-you-lucky-dog” perspective. Totally understandable (after all, that’s the fantasy those slick-talking dealers are selling at the RV shows) — but it still a-little-bit chaps my hind-end.

This way of thinking completely discounts the even more earth-shattering “trim-your-stuff-simplify-your-life-say-goodbye-to-stress” aspect of freewheeling that attracted me to full-timing. While at-a-moment’s-notice-hinterland-splitting is certainly awesome, life on the road involves more (much more, HELL of a lot more — I’m talking a moving-to-the-next-scientific-order-of-magnitude level of “more”) than that colorful collection of stickers on your rig-map. Folks who so casually reduce my beloved bedouin-minus-the-sand lifestyle to its lowest-common-travel-denominator are wholly and completely missing the point!

My decision to give up stationary life in favor of hyper-mobility was only partly about the wanderlust. (A sizable component no doubt, but still just one single slice of a big-ass pie.) My larger goal was to downsize and disentangle — to shed all the unnecessary trappings, the unsustainable expenses, the unreasonable expectations of modern life. Society told me that I should purchase property and work a 9-to-5 job, that I needed to breed a houseful of children and accumulate a lot of spendy stuff. But when I studied those who’d followed that plan, all I saw was debt, exhaustion, and discontentment. My response? Screw that!

I’ve always been a non-conforming-minimalist at heart — I mean, clients pay me (a lot) to coach them on downsizing and decluttering, for fuck’s sake! But it took moving into less-than-200-square feet to teach me what simplicity was really, REALLY all about. More than any other life-choice, relocating to the equivalent of a light-aircraft fuselage on wheels allowed me to most-drastically shrink the money/time/energy it took to maintain my living environment — which left more of all three to invest in enjoying the larger world.

You see, this whole live-in-a-vehicle thing is (at least for me) about freedom — not only the freedom to have or be or do what you want, but the freedom to NOT have/be/do those things you DON’T.

And that (yes your RV as a source of peregrinatory adventure, but also its power as an instrument for choosing a uniquely-fulfilling-and-totally-unlike-anyone-else’s life-path) is why ditching the brick-meets-mortar approach and taking that proverbial show on the road truly is the American dream!

A Big-Ass Leap Of Full-Timing Faith

You know the time is right for something to happen when you’re suddenly bomarded with a cascade of fall-from-the-sky-and-land-unexpectedly-in-your-lap opportunities — and this was sure-as-hell the case as I made my decision to hit the road full-time.

(In fact, I ended up with some pretty grody-looking bruises that made folks think I’d either been assaulted or was a pole-dancer.

Thanks-so-much to all the freaking serendipities plummeting down from above and crashing onto my thighs.)

But manifesting the RV-dream is less about magic and more about mindset. I first had to accept deep-in-my-heart-of-hearts that this was the lifestyle I wanted. I asked myself some hard questions — and got 100% certain about what I was prepared to sacrifice (a house, a whole lot of stuff, a stationary community) in order to have what I wanted most (smaller existence, mobility, freedom).

Then comes the point where you need to go big or go home. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been one to make a wishy-washy resolution. (I don’t just commit heart-and-soul. I pledge my mind-mouth-hands-and-feet — even those NSFW naughty bits tossed their tiny pubic hats in that wanderlusty ring.)

So  I created a “vision board” for this prospective mobile lifestyle, and assigned the whole thing a projected launch date three years down the road. (I was trying to be patient, practical, realistic — completely unlike me. And any sooner seemed not-especially-feasible. What a moron!)

Professional-planner-and-anal-retentive-person-that-I-am, I read books and visited dealerships. I did pootloads of research, joined a dozen RV forums, and asked a tremendous number of annoying newbie questions. I told everyone I knew (and a handful that I didn’t) about my bedouin-minus-the-sand plans.

I threw every chip I had as hard as I could toward that pot — all-in, baby.

And that’s when the “be-careful-what-you-wish-for” part snuck up on me.

Once my intentions were clear, this process didn’t just snowball — it frigging avalanched!

In April, I posted a classified, outlining my requirements for a suitable Airstream. (Yes, I’m one of those from-day-one-nothing-will-do-but-a-hip-little-tin-can snobs. Get over it.) In May, I got a call from a lovely lesbian couple who renovated vintage models for a living, and were selling their personal 29-foot Excella.

After seeing so many overpriced-in-terrible-shape-requiring-a-far-greater-investment-of-time-and-money-than-I-was-prepared-to-shell-out P.O.S. rigs, this retro-funky-yet-tastefully-modernized-mechanically-sound-and-priced-less-than-I’d-planned-on-spending rolling home was heaven-sent.

My ladies were thrilled to have their best-beloved become my domicile — I was thrilled to have her swallow me whole and keep me safe in her belly while I traveled. And so my baby girl “Stella” (as they’d for-the-love-of-god named her) was delivered on June second for the low, low price of $15,900.

A new home in under two months, for cheaper than the cost of its companion tow vehicle — holy crap!

The stars had aligned, and my time-frame for becoming a nomad was suddenly given a violent shove forward. I allotted one year to deck Stella out, fit my stuff into less-than-200-square feet, and get all those “disconnecting-from-stationary-life” administrative ducks in a row — then I’d have to put up or shut up.

And I made it — with three days to spare.

Was I an expert on RVing before I took off? Not even close. Did I feel ready for this gigantic life change as I pulled out of the driveway? Sort of. Have I ever regretted the decision for even a split-second. Hells no!

I learned what every full-timer eventually figures out. At some point, you have to jump in with both feet — trusting that your smarts, your rig, and the rest of the community will be there to catch you when you land.

(Good news is, we ain’t dropped nobody yet!)

Intentionally Homeless And Loving It

I met some new people this last week when I was out with friends. When they asked, “And where are you from?” I gave them my standard cryptic answer (“Everywhere and nowhere”) — then explained that I’m a full-time RVer. They said, “Oh, so you’re homeless!” Sure, why not! But I guess you would say that I’m “intentionally homeless.”

A lot of folks have a hard time relating to the idea of a living environment that travels around the country with you — but to me, my little tin can is just as much a home as that oversized pile of bricks I left behind! Think about what makes a home. Having the things you love and cherish, those mementos that remind you of your experiences in life (I have that). Someplace comfortable to return to at the end of the day, where you can relax and let down your guard and get a good night’s sleep (I have that). Having the people you love nearby, so you can enjoy their company (I have that, even if it’s different people every few months).

People who would never even consider full-timing love to talk about their reasons for not being able to live the RV life — and number two (just behind “I just couldn’t let go of all my stuff”) is usually “Because I like having some place to come home to after I’m done traveling.” So do I! And I come home to my house and my cats and my own bed every single night — it’s just that my house is parked in a different place than it was last month! I’m not sure where we Americans got the idea that a home has to be rooted in one spot with a permanent foundation — there are plenty of people around the world who carry their houses on their backs. If a tent strapped to a camel can count as a home, I’m pretty sure that my rolling casa does too!

This talk of homelessness makes me think of “The Fisher King” — one of my all-time favorite films by Terry Gilliam (who I met in person last weekend at Dragon Con!) There’s a scene where celebrity Jeff Bridges is being pitched an idea for a comedy show about the homeless. The concept is hideous — dreamed up by a moron TV exec who has no concept of the real world. “But it’s not depressing. So we’ve got three wacky homeless characters. The hook is they love being homeless. They love the freedom, the adventure. It’s about the joy of living, not the shit we deal with: Money, politics. And the best part is, it’s called Home Free.” I can see it now — that’s me!

Seriously though, the “home-free” concept applies beautifully to RVers. We do love adventure and freedom and travel, more than we love a big house and a yard and a set place in the world. The term homeless naturally implies a lack or deprivation — someone who wants a house, but can’t seem to acquire one because they have no funds, poor credit, medical problems, difficulty with a job, or other social issues. So I’m not homeless, I’m “home-free,” because I broke free from the shackles of homeownership — the yard work, the constant repairs, the mortgage and property tax payments. In fact, a lot of the reason that I chose to become full-timers had to do with my very flawed decision to buy a house. Homeownership did not agree with me — I had never felt so trapped by my living environment. So much for the American dream! But I can’t say that I regret the decision to buy a house. Had I not given homeownership a try, I don’t know that I would have been willing to consider such a drastic downsizing. Sometimes, you need to go radically in the wrong direction to discover that the right path is directly behind you. Deciding to become a full-time RVer allowed me to kill two birds (actually three) with one stone — I could reduce my stuff, reduce my expenses, and be able to take my home with me wherever I traveled. It let me be “home-free!” And for those of you who have never seen “The Fisher King,” I have to share my favorite scene — I’m thinking about dressing up as Michael Jeter for Halloween this year!

Why What I Do Ain’t Even Close To ‘Camping’

The other day (while toilet-deodorizer-shopping), I had a weekend-warrior-type ask where my rig was parked. I said I was full-timing at blah-de-blah-RV-resort — he responded, “I’ve never camped there before.” I smiled conspiratorially, gave an Eric-Idle-worthy nudge-nudge-wink-wink, and replied, “Neither have I!”

Poor dude raised a confused eyebrow, looked at me quizzically, then pulled out his best Imma-be-blandly-pleasant-while-dealing-with-this-potentially-unstable-stranger expression. “How’s the camping over there?” he asked — I shrugged and grinned evilly. “I really wouldn’t know. I don’t camp. I live.” Radio silence.

My new friend’s blank countenance told me that this man was not picking up what I was laying down — so to avoid completely alienating him, I added, “It’s a very nice park.” With palpable relief, he gushed, “Well great! I’ll have to camp there someday!”

I sighed. “Yes. You do that.”

Could I have launched into a prepared speech about what it honest-and-for-true means to full-time? Attempted to explain why a lumpy gaucho sofa or crack-your-head-sleeping-loft doesn’t cut it for decent 365-night-a-year slumber? Described the changes your housemate-relations will undergo upon final jettison of that brick-and-mortar residence? Examined moving-beyond-burgers portable meal options? Expounded the inadequacies of RV park wifi — the necessity of carrying an internet connection with you?

Sure.

But I’ve had head-banging conversations about my rolling planetary existence with these folks before — it’s almost HARDER than discussing this lifestyle with a never-set-foot-in-a-recreational-vehicle virgin.

With the clock fast-approaching noon and my belly growling, I was forced to make a choice between investing a lot of time/energy in a fruitless attempt at domestically-automotive education — or Taco Bell.

(Fortunately, I’ve always been really good about recognizing my priorities.)

I love these less-oft-rolling brethren/sistren — really I do. My issue is the assumption that they intimately understand what the hell I’m talking about (RV-wise), when that patently ain’t true. It’s a case of non-cognizance of that about which one is non-cognizant. While total noobs embrace knowing exactly dick re: nomadery, existing part-timey-peeps can let preconceived notions get in the way of their schooling.

Weekenders see travel as “getting away from it all.” They pack up bathing suits and hiking boots (while quite intentionally leaving behind briefcases and business cards), then head off to the mountains or forest or beach — taking long naps, day-drinking, acquiring skin cancer, grilling out for every meal. The whole experience amounts to a special activity, something unusual that happens for a short period of time before daily life comes crashing back down upon their crackhead-level-vacation-addicted excursionist heads.

Then the recess bell rings, and it’s return-to-your-job-and-laundry-basket-and-bills-and-paperwork-and-grocery-shopping-and-soccer-practice time. It doesn’t matter whether these people take off for a few weekends here and there or engage in an extended multi-month-running-away-from-home sabbatical — they still have another permanent place to be at trip’s-end. Their rigs are truly vehicles of recreation, and the life they lead while driving them is very different from their existence back in the real world.

Not so for us full-timers!

A good many dabblers face comprehension difficulties when it comes to the difference between camping in your rig and living in your rig. They think, “We’re all RVers, we’re of the same species” — yeah, not so much. To be fair, I’d’ve shared a similar belief before I sold my house and hit the road. But there’s actually a grand-canyon-sized (those 18-miles-wide-spots, not the marble-canyon-600-foot-across-part) gaping disconnect between those who use their rigs for vacationing and those who treat their rigs like home.

Well, maybe next time I’ll have the patience (and enough food in my tummy) to engage the right way.

I guess one moral of this story is, “If you meet Ramona out in the world, she’s prolly going to fuck with you at some point — so don’t take anything she says too seriously.” The other is, “Part-timing and full-timing are like and shopping carts and hula hoops. (They both roll, but that’s where the similarities end.)”

Travel looks very different for a full-time RVer (like me) than a weekend warrior. Sure, I enjoy the same vacationy-type activities as my sunburnt-tourist compadres — biking, swimming, canoeing, torching hot dogs, throwing up on roller coasters. But at the same time, I’m still managing the daily grind that those escape-artists are trying so desperately to flee.

I pay taxes and bring home bacon. Vacuum cat hair and cook pancakes. Do laundry and fix the toilet. Balance my checkbook and holler at credit card companies when they screw up a transaction. Even on travel days, I might be writing a novel or coaching a client or photoshopping pictures in the car. (God bless internet you can use at 65-plus-miles-per-hour!)

Globetrotting doesn’t remove me from my daily routine, it is my daily routine. What I do in my rig ain’t camping — it’s life. The only difference between you and me is that I live mine in different locations.

After this long in transit, I expect to have a diverging-wildly-off-in-the-opposite-direction-from-brick-and-mortar-ways perspective on the world. But here’s what I find really interesting — apparently, I also treat my nomadic living environment quite differently than many counterpart-timers. (See what I did there?)

The most recent visit with vacationing RVers was a real eye-opener. I got the sense that because they were “just camping,” they gave not crap-one about their surroundings. Literally (LITERALLY) every horizontal surface was covered in stuff — piles of clothes, stacks of paper, heaps of playthings, you name it.

Overflowing plastic tubs spilled their not-yet-and-probably-never-would-be-unpacked contents onto the floor. Cabinets dribbled cargo like an unconscious wino leaking vomit from the corners of his mouth. The bed was camouflaged as a Labyrinth-ian junk lady taking a nap, the sink was filled-beyond-the-brim with dishes, counters buried under mountains of microwavable detritus and fast-food containers.

For a downsized minimalist who earns her keep helping folks turn chaos into order, the thought of living in less-than-200-square-feet-worth of that mess was legitimately horrifying.

All that I could see (and probably quite a lot that I couldn’t) screamed “temporary.” The anal-retentive-homebody-who-needs-a-perfectly-tidy-house-to-truly-relax in me responded by metaphorically shrieking, “No thank you!” and bolting out the door. My actual corporeal self smiled and tried not to touch anything.

When I asked (ever-polite-and-diplomatic as you know I’ve got to be with this flaming red hair and Irish temperament) how they managed amid all that mess, the response was, “It’s only a week. You can tolerate anything for a week.” Nuh-uh! There’s no “tolerating” going on in Stella The Excella — not on my watch!

All sorts of folks (both RVers and civilians) are always pleasantly surprised when they see how comfy-cozy, how nicely decorated, how place-for-everything-everything-in-its-place-and-utterly-devoid-of-clutter a rolling domicile I inhabit. The usual comment’s somewhere along the lines of, “It’s like a little apartment!”

Well of course — this is mah home.

Besides, “camping” means “roughing it” — and “roughing it” (at least in my world) means “living-off-of-dried-foods-and-smelling-stinky-to-the-point-where-you’d-kill-for-a-shower-and-a-fresh-vegetable.” I truly believe you can’t call it “camping” if you have access to home-cooked almond crusted salmon with leek and lemon cream, a nice Napa Valley pinot noir, full seasons of The Walking Dead, and a queen-sized tempurpedic mattress. When I want to camp, I’ll grab my backpack and tromp out into the woods.

The punchline to this story? I gave these fine new friends a tour of my tiny tin can — and they ended up hiring me to organize their RV for them. I do love part-timers. They’re a whole new client base!

From Dilbert To Nomadic Lifestyle Entrepreneur

Soon after discovering that I’m a full-timer, the-non-nomad-to-whom-I’m-speaking usually says something like, “Gosh, I sure wish I could afford to retire so young.” My response? Well, so the hell do I!

Why do stationary folk automatically assume that a traveling lifestyle means independent-wealth-and-leisure? Not all RV-peeps spend their days sitting under sunbrellas, reviewing their investment portfolios, drinking estate chardonnay, and gossiping about the neighbors.

(Well, mayhap some of them AARP-ers who park it down in Florida all season — the rest of us have other responsibilities!)

I work while I wanderlust, and will continue this blessed-state-of-geo-occupational-exploration until the day I die. I do it not out of any indentured-servitudinal-obligation — but because, at least in Ramona-ville, these activities are “everyday life” (instead of “vacation”) and “my calling” (rather than a “job”).

And the reason I can meander my way across the country without worrying about punching someone else’s timeclock? I’ve traded stationary wage-slavery for more “portable” self-employment.

When I coach newbie-nomads on how to pay their bills while 365-day-a-year-pootling around the continent — I hear lots of plans for temping, workamping, rideshare-driving, mailer-stuffing, election-polling, telemarketing, fruit-picking, seasonal-tax-and-holiday-jobbing, even plasma-selling. (??)

Very rarely does anyone propose small-business-formation.

That’s unfortunate. Because bossman-or-woman-ship truly is one of the most stable, reliable, avast-ye-scurvy-swabs-you-can’t-downsize-me-because-I’m-captain-of-me-own-schooner-and-any-bilge-sucking-landlubber-who-tries-will-be-keelhauled-shark-bait ways of earning a mobile living.

Of course, I was partial to self-crackage of the old whip even when I lived the bricks-and-sticks way — so I’m a tad biased in favor of auto-vocationalism. I told “Da Man” to take his job and shove it in 1998, launched my own modest entrepreneurial empire that same year, fit the company HQ with wheels a decade later. And I’ve never so-much-as-glanced in either-my-literal-or-proverbial-rear-view-mirror since.

I’m the epitome of “virtual” — with a network of products that sell themselves in my sleep and a cadre of freelance writing/speaking/coaching/art gigs I can manage from anywhere in the world. It doesn’t matter if I’m parked in the mountains, by a river, along a deserted stretch of beach, or in the middle of a city — cell service and a power plug are all I need for these many trickles to create a steady stream of income.

If I can do it, you sure as hell can too!

To be fair, not every RVer is built for self-directed-capitalism — but if you’ve got the gumption to live in a completely-contrary-to-how-traditional-society-says-you-should way, Imma bet there’s at least a drop or two of go-getter blood running through your veins. And lemme tell ya, ain’t nothin’ makes you feel like the master of your own fate the way managing business affairs while driving down the interstate does!

Escaping My Own Personal Money Pit By Hitting The Road

Homeownership’s supposed to be a cornerstone of the American dream, innit? I mean the damn thing’s right up there with childbirth, ladder-climbing, and religious freedom — all that makes ‘Murica great.

Family, faith, fringe-benefits — and freeholdings!

I had eschewed the first three as unnecessarily-life-complicating, but got somehow-or-other-sweet-talked into the latter. What the hell was I thinking, you ask? That (for an I-just-want-it-the-way-I-want-it-contrarian like me) the concept SEEMED sound.

No longer at the mercy of a landlord’s whims, I could make whatever capricious-and-quixotic residential modifications I desired — turn the backyard into an orphaned-warthog sanctuary, disconnect from the power grid to live off woodstoves and kerosene lanterns, paint the living room in puce stripes accented by smaragdine polka dots. (Are those not just the BEST color names you’ve ever heard?)

If only I’d realized that I could accomplish the exact same thing with a far-less-headache-and-minus-the-ginormous-possessorship-expense Airstream — I’d’ve hightailed it before attending that first open house!

(The one time I follow society’s rules, and look what flipping happens. Just look!)

I snagged myself a cute little semi-urban-atomic-age-fixer-upper (like the good “reduce/re-use/recycle” organizer that I am). I packed the cats — literally. (Azi hid in a cardboard box the entire moving truck trip.) I then spent six months doing my best Tim Allen impersonation. (Mastered the grunting and got that “more power” thing down pretty good — but I never did manage to develop a trendy coke habit or get arrested.)

Dammit!

I painted, I sanded, I stripped. (Oak, not clothes — get your mind out of the gutter.) I replaced appliances and refinished hardwood floors. I put up crown molding and put down trim. The end result was most-certainly-Bob-Vila-worthy — but the whole time, I was pure-d miserable. While this manic DIY streak would’ve made ye olde depression-era-the-mere-thought-of-outsourcing-a-home-improvement-project-causing-them-physical-pain parents proud, it ended up far too much do-it-myselfing for Ramona’s taste.

Next up — a harsh lesson in the non-linear-maintenance-mathematics that accompany any real estate acquisition. Turns out home-size-versus-energy-expenditure is an exponential relationship.

Suddenly, it took a whole godforsaken weekend to attain the same I-wouldn’t-suggest-eating-off-the-floor-unless-you-want-cholera-but-at-least-you-can-sit-without-sticking-to-a-chair standard of cleanliness I’d previously achieved in 30 minutes with my barely-nine-hundred-square-foot-one-bedroom condo. Solly Cholly, but I’ve got better things to do during non-work-hours — explore a surrounding, be creative, sleep.

Not happy!

And don’t even get me started on all the freaking money I expended! Mortgage. Insurance. Property assessments. (Whenever anyone tries to tell you that an IRS tax break even comes CLOSE to balancing out those additional be-your-own-tenant expenses, punch ’em in the throat — they’re full of crap!)

Plus, bigger space equals more moolah. I found myself with twice as many rooms to heat and cool, a lawn to tend, double the furniture — cha-ching! When something broke, it was no longer my lessor’s wallet that took the hit. (Made painfully clear after a $2,000 overflowed-washing-machine-drainpipe-basement-flood, a three-grand-below-zero-February-furnace-replacement, and enough “little” fixes to nickel-and-dime me to death.) And how-I-oh-my-god-hated (more than haggis, ptomaine, or root canal work) cutting grass!

Stick a fork in me — I was done.

I’d never felt so burdened and trapped and flat-fucking-fed-up by my living environment. Dream, meet nightmare! But I regret nothing — it was this highly-misguided-house-buying-decision that convinced me to ditch the white picket fence and take off traveling as a full-time RVer. Had I not gotten so drowning-in-homeownership-over-my-head, I don’t know if I’d’ve ever considered such a drastic downsize.

Occasionally, you need to go a ‘fer piece down the road in radically-the-wrong-direction to discover that the right path is directly behind you. (Actually, that happens to me a lot — I’m sure that says something!)

Now that I’ve waved buh-bye to the brick-and-mortar existence? Itinerant nomadery killed two birds (actually three) with one big rolling aluminum stone. It pared down my stuff, reduced my daily expenses — and eliminated those fat stacks I was shelling out on travel every time I left home.

Living like a turtle, toting your domicile wherever you go — much more enjoyable than HOA meetings!

Tallying The Nomadic Cost-Of-Living

I’m the first to admit my born cheapskateitude (inherited from Richard, along with the itchy feet and doofy sense of humor).

Really truly, never let me on The Price Is Right — my “what’s-it-worth” barometer’s perpetually stuck in about 1982.

(I’m forever saying embarrassingly-dumb-shit things like, “When did a dozen eggs stop costing 79¢?” “What happened to all the freaking $19-a-night motel rooms?” And, “I hope they put gold on that quarter-pounder instead of cheese!”)

I absolutely hate how much the modern world costs. (Actually, that’s not a strong enough word — abhor, detest, loathe-right-down-to-the-very-closed-fisted-core-of-my-being.)

However, I’ve stopped apologizing for this congenital case of extreme frugality, and decided instead to embrace my thrifty-conservatorial-Scottish-bred-economicality in all its penny-pinching glory.

Needless to say, full-timing’s a fabuloso existence for a skinflint like me.

Now I’ve seen folks drop a half-mil on the newest-sexiest-most-extensively-accessorized luxury rig — while others end up poorhouse-bound because of a fixer-upper-that-needed-a-lot-more-up-fix-than-they-bargained-for. I’ve met those who burn through thousands-of-dollars-a-month-worth-of-always-in-transit gas. Or have an addiction to trendy high-end-golf-swim-tennis-resorts. Or blow every penny on fancy toys, eating-out-three-meals-a-day restaurants, and vacationy-type entertainment.

Their RVing lives are expensive — but that ain’t me.

Of course, you have to take any claim about how much year-round-nomadery costs with a huge shaker of salt. (One person’s “perfectly reasonable” is another’s “are-you-fucking-kidding-me-with-this-price-tag??!”)

But for someone with a provident predilection, a love of lengthier location-visits, and a lifelong claim on “money-saving” as a superpower (like I have) — this entire way of life’s just one big rolling bargain!

• Wanna engage in homeownership using much-skinnier-stacks than that suburban white picket fence requires? My little tin can was $15,900 fully renovated — that’s less than the cost of the first truck I pulled it with! (And no mortgage for me — all the crap I sold when I hit the road netted enough to pay for my rig outright. How many of you can claim to have bought your home with cash?)

• Wanna shell out a fraction of what you do now on furniture, clothes, cookware, linens, electronics, sports equipment, and other material possessions? Trim it down to fit in less-than-200-square feet.

• Wanna turn the clock back a couple decades on monthly expenses? Take up residence in an RV community instead of a house or apartment. (I routinely pay half-or-less-than-what-the-median-rent-and-utilities-run-in-any-given-area for a leased parking space plus electric/water/sewer hookups — and if you’re cool with boondocking, you can live pretty-damned-close-to-free in a lot of places.)

• Wanna stop wasting money on hotels, airfare, rental cars, and restaurants when you travel away from home? Don’t travel away from home anymore — drag your domicile with you like a turtle.

• Wanna home repair bill that’s nowhere near as spendy as traditional brick-and-mortar-maintenance? Live in a travel trailer or fifth-wheel — where systems are smaller, mechanics are simpler, and a whole-hell-of-a-lot fewer things can go wrong. (However, all bets are off with motorhomes — slides, auto-awnings, and built-in engines have a tendency to negate any potential savings.)

• Wanna smaller chunk of take-home-pay to go toward motorized transportation? Lose the three-car garage and get by with just your tow vehicle. (Again, no guarantees on a class A or class C rig!)

• Wanna save on seemingly-fixed-but-actually-highly-variable-when-you’re-mobile incidentals (like every kind of insurance and sales-property-income-taxes)? Select a lifestyle where you get to choose the state in which you plant your flag — then pick a territory with the lowest rates.

• Wanna stop surviving (in a financial sense) and start thriving? Quit devoting your hard-earned dollars to paying for bloated daily expenses, and start pitching them toward once-in-a-lifetime experiences!

I live more grandly than anyone at my income level has a right to. But it’s because I make frugal choices. Genetic abstemiousness certainly assists a bit with this — but full-timing helps me do it even better!

Wanderlusting Logistics

When a stranger asks where I’m from, my response is “nowhere-and-everywhere-all-at-the-same-time” — ‘cuz that’s your permanent address when you sell the house and ditch stationary life in favor of an RV! Endless wanderlusting’s a no-brainer for someone who hates yardwork, is a career-minimizer, and can’t sit still. But the actual transition from bricks-and-sticks to full-time-nomadery is a tad more complicated — lotsa details to square before actual road-hittage (like picking a domicile state, mobilizing your legal/financial affairs, earning money in transit, deciding what to take with you, and clearing out the rest.)

Research-girl-that-I-am, I asked both library and interwebz to educate me about this bedouin-minus-the-sand lifestyle — to answer questions like, “Where will my mail go?” and “What kind of insurance will I need?” and “How does one stay powered-and-watered sans hookups?” Unfortunately, the pairing-a-retirement-fund-with-occasional-workamping-to-bankroll-antiquing-excursions-and-grandkid-visits info I found didn’t match my pre-AARP-home-base-free-self-employed-no-freaking-way-am-I-swamping-toilets-for-a-campsite version of transitoriality. So I decided to create a different kind of peripatetic resource.

Each day brings a heaping helping of migratory life lessons (which I here bestow upon you) — this tell-it-like-it-is-with-zero-punch-pulls-and-minus-the-usual-monosaccharide-varnish blog explores the ups-downs-and-honest-to-pete-realities of rubber-tramping. As a hyper-creative-to-the-point-of-scary-full-timing-RVing-year-round-traveling-veteran-professional-organizer-cum-accountability-guru, I’ve dedicated my existence to eliminating the boundaries between live-work-play, sharing as-I-see-the-world-from-my-Airstream observations, and encouraging others to join the caravan. If I can do it, so the hell can you!

I was chatting with a couple yesterday — while waiting for the start of a live Hunger–Games-style-kill-or-be-killed theatrical performance, only with video game characters like Mario and Link and Donkey Kong. (It’s fair to say that we gypsies do meet people in the strangest places!)

Anyway, I listened with great patience (and a solo cup full of pinot in hand) as they bemoaned the many seemingly-insurmountable obstacles standing Gibraltar-solid-and-resolutely-in-the-way of their becoming year-round RVers.

Money. Work. Family. Timing.

All totally legit concerns — but I could sense something else going on, lurking right beneath the surface.

After a little impromptu coaching (‘cuz that’s what I do, whether folks request help or not), it finally came out that the REAL reason my new friends hadn’t hit the road is that they just weren’t yet willing to live the smaller-less-stuff-driven life nomadery required. They blamed a million other “circumstances” for cockblocking their dreams — but this was a smokescreen. Not-so-secret-code for “I’d have to do things differently to make it happen, and I’m ill-prepared to pay that particular piper at this moment in time.”

Same story as with most goals we struggle to achieve. (The biggest roadblock we face is usually us!)

The real kick-in-the-head is, you can have almost anything you desire in life (except maybe sex with George Clooney or a lottery win), if you’re willing to make the necessary sacrifices. And when you aren’t, what you’re really saying is that you didn’t want it badly enough to forfeit something else in return.

Think you might like to be company president? How do 80-hour-work-weeks-sans-vacation sound? What if I offered you debt-freedom — but only if you put a total moratorium on any less-than-life-or-death spending for a year? Want to pen the great American novel? Still excited about writing it if doing so means indefinitely giving up all your favorite shows? Wish for one of those mister-or-miss-universe-I-could-break-you-in-half-like-a-twig-with-my-bare-hands bodies? Get ready to sweat — for hours, every single day.

That’s what it takes.

Now before you get onto me about using an unrelated blog post to play “Little Miss Organizer” here — know that ain’t the case. (Not that I would be above such sneakitude in any way, shape or form.)

We’re talking goals, ‘cuz embarking upon a full-timing adventure is about the same sorts of trade-offs.

Which aspects of your sticks-and-bricks life would you absolutely-with-no-complaint-or-hesitation be willing to surrender in exchange for all that travel, freedom, and simplicity? Which MIGHT you be prepared to relinquish — if the cost’s not too dear? And what parts of said existence couldn’t be pried from your cold-dead-Charlton-Heston-esque-hands, no matter what the compensation?

Hard flipping questions! So how do you find the answers?

Start with either a buttload or a crapton (your choice) of logistical decision-making. With modern RVing, you can’t simply jump in your rig and go — not unless you’re planning to completely unplug from society, start writing manifestos, and become an itinerant Unabomber in the process. Life is very different minus a set home base, and you’ve got to plan accordingly before you make like a banana and split.

How will you pay the bills? Who’s traveling with you? What kind of trailer/motorhome/fifth-wheel will you get? What activities and social connections are you leaving behind? Any physical, financial, or other limitations? Which possessions are you bringing? When will you be ready to launch?

At every question mark, you may run into one of those self-created impediments I talked about earlier.

When this happens, think in terms of a commercial transaction. Ask yourself, “What toll am I being charged to move past this obstruction? How much will it cost to purchase my dream life?” See how your response feels. Sit with it for a while. Does the thought make you anxious? Energized? Overwhelmed? Filled with contentment? That says VOLUMES about whether or not you’re making the right move.

Last step (and this is the hard part) — are you willing to ante up, or have the stakes have suddenly risen too high for you? You’ll find out soon enough how desperately you want to live on the road.

(And FYI — this works really well for the rest of your life, too!)

A Mini-Moon, Then The Real Thing

When it came time to figure out what we wanted to do for our honeymoon, of course we couldn’t just be happy with a week at the beach — so in typically-over-the-top style, we decided to have three different honeymoons.

Honeymoon #1 (a.k.a. our “mini-moon”) was two weeks in Jamaica — courtesy of my beautiful, beautiful in-laws. Bless their hearts, they have a timeshare-hoarding-disorder (I think at last count, they own four of them). And Ben’s dad now suffers from vertigo so bad that he can’t get on an airplane — so they gifted us with a week in Ocho Rios and a week in Negril.

Honeymoon #2 is going to be an attempt (hopefully successful, but it depends on how my frankenfoot holds out) to hike the Appalachian Trail. That will be happening in spring 2020 — ‘cuz it’s going to take us that long to get in good enough shape!

And then honeymoon #3 is the “for realz” (I mean seriously, how ridiculous are we??) — we’re going to sell everything we own (yes including the Airstream) and take off on a year-long-around-the-world-backpacking-trip.

If you wish to commemorate our special day with a gift, we can think of nothing better than helping make this dream a reality. So we’ve set up an online travel fund — allowing folks to celebrate our union with incredible memories (instead of a fondue pot or zebra-wood-marital-aid-display-case for which we have no room). You might so kind as to sponsor:

– a romantic meal shoveling our faces full of something tasty/weird (we go out of our way to eat the craziest possible shit — anything oversized, served in excessive quantities, containing questionable ingredients, or prepared in an extreme culinary manner is fair game — but no blood, testicles, or eyeballs)

– someplace funky to sleep, walls/roof/plumbing/comfort optional (we’ll shack up in a treehouse, underwater/underground, upside down, dangling off a cliff, in a sewage pipe, on a platform on the Serengeti, or incarcerated — heads resting on skulls, rocks, ice blocks, or robotic pillows)

– tasty libations, bottom-shelf hooch, fermented/distilled adult beverages (we admit a disturbing weakness for cray-cray local potions — especially when they include ingredients like horse milk, a mummified toe, lizards, spit, dog penis, bacon, reindeer horn, or a dead seagull — well, maybe not that last one)

– unusual mode of conveyance to get from one adventure to another (always on the lookout for the most over-the-top-memorable-inconvenient-likely-highly-painful transportation available — camel, rickshaw, glider plane, gondola, deep-sea-submersible, husky sled, Orient Express, missile-carrier)

– outdoorsy adventures, a.k.a. “mama nature makes us her sweaty bitch” (crawling through a too-small cave, riding a raft hurtling over a waterfall, storm chasing, sliding toward a lava pit on a wood plank — can you blame us for viewing the planet as one big adrenaline rush, when it keeps trying to kill us?)

– animal encounters of the bitey/scratchy/slobbery kind (we’ll pet anything-and-everything-wild-kingdom-esque that comes our way — we’re happy to share our collecting of camel fleas, giraffe snot, lemur screams, tiger whisker-tickles, birdie nibbles, kangaroo sniffings, and monkey drool with you)

– going native with outside-our-comfort-zone ethnic/cultural experiences (if the locals are walking on coals, engaging in a tomato fight, camel-wrestling, getting inked-or-pierced, allowing monkeys to dine from their table, or kissing a fish — dammit, so are we — when in Rome, or Mumbai, or Bratislava)

– once-in-a-lifetime experiences we must have before we die (natural formation or world-wonder — piece of history or modern-day celebration — ecotourism or volunteering stint — elephant-bathing, jellyfish-swimming, wall-hiking, reef-diving, kilimanjaro-climbing — it’s on the itinerary!)

We’ll think of y’all fondly as we wander, raise a glass to toast you in absentia, send hilarious updates, and return with amazing stories (along with a few new scars) to share. Should you locate some off-the-wall activity that you REALLY want us to try, we’ll do our damnedest to make it happen.

And oh-my-god-please meet up with us anywhere along the way that you can! We would love for you to join us on top of the Eiffel Tower, while rafting through a river cave in South America, inside an Egyptian Pyramid, while exploring catacombs full of dead monks in Rome, at the South Pole, wherever — we’ll post an itinerary once we plot everything out!

Thanks so much for joining our festivities, and for being such an important part of our lives as we cross over into wedded bliss!

Finding Cool Crap To Do On The Road

When I was little, my favorite thing in the world (well, one of my 10,000 “favorites”) was to flip through my father’s road atlases and AAA books, searching out all the sites I wanted to see “some day.” Running my finger along the bright blue highway lines — marveling that places like Boogertown, NC and Cheesequake, NJ and Hell, MI existed for me to visit. I loved it all — tacky roadside attractions with dusty mannequins and peeling paint, natural wonders, historic sites, those boring National Register plaques (that you wished you hadn’t wasted your time on but still kept pulling over to read), the world’s biggest ball of twine. Each page held so much possibility — potential adventures, new worlds to see, different lives to live.

Travel planning may not have quite the same sense of romance these days (nothing ever does once you grow up) — but it sure is a hell of a lot easier now, thanks to the interwebz. I’ve done my best to find all the resources you’ll need so your next trek is a breeze — as well as provide you with plenty of bizarre diversions along your route. May you never run out of gas, suffer from crappy signage, or find yourself stuck on the side of the road wishing for a motel in the middle of nowhere!

General Travel Guides

• Audissey Guides — download free audio guides (for most major cities) that play on your Ipod
• American Association Of Museums — extremely useful “find a museum” feature
• Convention And Visitors Bureaus — portal to every CVB and visitor info office in North America
• Discover America — the “official” (according to whom?) travel and tourism website for the entire US
• Frommer’s Budget Travel — see the world for less with these money-saving travel tips
• How Do You Do — get the inside scoop before attending major annual events
• Lonely Planet — guide to more adventurous (and less crowded) activities than typical tourist spots
• Museums USA — check out this state-by-state listing for art, culture, and history in your area
• My Scenic Drives — plot out a scenic drive based on your origin and destination
• National Scenic Byways — skip the interstate in favor of a scenic drive along a beautiful highway
• Scenic Drives USA — search for interesting backroads, byways, and scenic roads by state
• Trip Advisor — extensive travel planning search engine with unbiased reviews of any location
• Virtual Tourist — info about your next stop from the real-life local people behind the places

Things-To-Do Calendars

• Art Festivals — see where the upcoming juried exhibitions and craft shows are as you travel
• Contemporary Dance Festivals — many ways to experience innovative movement performance
• Fest 300 — your guide to the world’s best festivals, all in one location
• Festival Searcher — searchable database of event lists, maps, calendars, and lineups
• Festivals And Events — browse all sorts of upcoming activities by month or state
• Festival Trek — search more than 50 categories of cultural, artistic, and community celebrations
• Film Festivals — find an indie film lineup along your route (two thumbs up!)
• Music Festival Junkies — live performers, outdoor stages, overpriced drinks, and crowdsurfing
• Renaissance Festivals — if you like corsets and mead, now you can hit a faire in every state
• Strange Festivals — the folks at 2 Camels specialize in cataloging the world’s weirdest gatherings
• Top Events USA — the biggest, best, and most unusual festivals the country has to offer
• Transceltic — Guinness-lovers check out this list of Irish festivals, music performances, and pubs
• Upcoming Cons — geeky events galore, and plenty of opportunities to dress like a fool in public
• World Fringe — highly creative (and generally low-budget) theater festival productions

Getting Off The Beaten Path

• Amusing Planet — points you toward attractions designed to make you smile
• Atlas Obscura — a massive online compendium of the world’s wonders, curiosities, and esoterica
• Jim’s Big Things — oversized plaster animals, giant molded foods, gargantuan pieces of furniture
• Roadside America — for those who like bizarre roadside attractions (and really, who doesn’t?)
• Roadside Architecture — dinosaurs, Paul Bunyans, Muffler Men, and all things retro-roadside-kitsch
• Road Trip America — easily locate all the really super cool things to do on your next road trip
• Roadtrippers — maps built for travelers (filled with attractions, natural wonders, and weird stuff)
• Silly America — working off the philosophy that you can’t take yourself too seriously while traveling
• Waymarking — a wiki-style website for tracking odd roadside attractions across the United States

Eat, Drink, And Be Merry

• Beer Festival Calendar — if you like craft brew, check out these hoppy-malty celebrations
• Farm Festivals — pick your own at a variety of local harvest, berry, fruit, and veggie activities
• Food Tours — culinary, cooking, gourmet, wine, and pub tours around the world
• Local Wine And Food Events — wine tastings, food pairings, and related education events
• Tea Map — a great resource when you’re looking for a good cuppa anywhere in the world
• Upcoming Food Events — munch your way from place to place as you travel

Ramona-Riffic Activities

• Burning Man Regionals — the burn need never end, with this list of year-round off-playa events
• Christmas Light Shows — mapped locations of outdoor holiday decoration displays
• Long-Distance Yard Sales — for those of us who like bargains (lots and lots of bargains)
• Factory Tours — if you like seeing how things are made, this is the travel guide for you
• Literary Traveler — visit your favorite book locations or author’s birthplace/homestead/grave
• Movie Locations Guide — find out where those blockbuster (or indie) films were made
• National Caves Association — plan a trip underground with this state-by-state list of show caves
• On Location Vacations — stand in the same spot where the celebs did during their last movie shoot
• Pow Wows — your opportunity to participate in native American tradition
• Redhead Events — bless the Ginger Parrot for this global assemblage of carrot top gatherings
• Redhead World — another collection of events for we flamers (‘cuz we’re evil and can’t be stopped)
• Sacred Destinations — for those drawn to sacred sites, ancient wonders, and religious places
• Tacky Light Tour — over-the-top holiday light displays (both residential and commercial)
• United Drive-In Theater Association — outdoors, under the stars, the way god intended

Flat Out Weird Shit

• Dark Destinations — mysterious places, macabre locations, and creepy side-trips
• Destination Strange — favorite fucked-up destinations, brought to you by the Roadtripper folks
• Famous Murder Sites — perfect, if you’re one of those who likes gawking after-the-fact
• Find-A-Haunt — every haunted house/trail/hayride, pumpkin patch, and cemetery tour in the country
• Forgotten US — abandoned sites, creepy spots, and all things designed to freak you out
• Ghost Towns — are you fascinated with empty streets and derelict buildings? awesome!
• Oddball Museums — thanks Waymarking, for these funky (and often engagingly repellant) displays
• Shadowlands — the original state-by-state-country-by-country haunted places directory
• Travel Darkly — destinations focusing on death, murder, and mayhem
• Urban Explorers — let’s explore some crumbling hospitals, derelict prisons, and creepy tunnels
• Weird US — anecdotal guide sharing stories about America’s local legends and best-kept secrets
• Where The Stars Died — Hollywood is filled with ghosts, if you know where to look for them

Art Of All Kinds

• Bailaqui — latin dance events and venues, everything from salsa to tango to zouk
• Ballroom Dancers — searchable directory of teachers, studios, teams, competitions, and dance spots
• Belly Dance Classes — don your hip scarf and shake that booty middle-eastern style
• Community Choirs — everything you need to make a joyful noise with a local vocal ensemble
• Concert Band And Orchestra — time to dust off your instrument and get your chops back in shape
• Contra Dance Links — local callers that will help you allemande-promenade-swing-chain anywhere
• Drum Circle World — find a drum circle in your area and join in the rhythmic celebration
• International Art Guide — sign up for a local class or workshop in any medium
• Folk Jam — the easy-peasy way to locate other musicians for an informal or public jam
• Regional Theaters — a strangely organized but extremely comprehensive list of theater companies
• Sculpture — international directory of al fresco artwork, sculpting classes, and other resources
• Swing Plan It — swing dance and lindy hop events throughout the US
• Workshops And Conferences — writing/photography/art/music/dance/film learning experiences

Feeding Your Soul

• Art Of Living — join in a weekly meditation practice or sign up for an extended mindfulness course
• Body Mind Spirit Directory — search for all sorts of different healing practitioners
• Meditation Finder — directory of meditation centers for every taste and style of practice
• Natural Awakenings — searchable calendar of holistic and new agey (in a good way) activities
• Retreat Finder — yoga, meditation, consciousness-raising, empowerment, and health-improvement
• Society Of Friends — if you want to go to a service that doesn’t feel like Bible-beating, this is it
• Spafinder — relax with a massage, facial, steambath, or other body treatment
• Urban Prankster Network — the best way to feed your soul is by creating scenes wherever you travel
• Yoga Finder — locate a yoga instructor or group class in just about any town you might visit

Get The Hell Outside

• All Trails — info about more than 50,000 trails, complete with reviews and photos
• Find A Park — the easiest way to choose a National Park by location or amenities
• Fish And Wildlife Service — a listing of state offices and their attendant outdoor facilities
• Hiker Central — route maps, lists of campgrounds, and more for the foot-driven wanderluster
• Hot Spring Enthusiast — few things in this world are more calming than a good hot soak outdoors
• MTB Project — thousands of ride suggestions for those who know what a single track is
• National Speleological Society — connect with a local grotto and join an excursion underground
• Paddling — launch sites, water trails, group trips, and instructional courses (both kayak and canoe)
• Pedaling — find a path, a guided bike tour, or a cycling event anywhere you travel
• Rock Climbing — grades, topo maps, photos, and suggested routes for every ability level
• Swim Guide — scope out that beach before you put on your suit
• Swimming Holes — pinpoint even the tiniest cooling-off spots when you need a good dunk
• Trail Link — list of rails-to-trails converted train tracks that are now bike/walk/jog/skate routes
• Trail Source — whatever kind of path you need (cycle, hike, horse, ski) they’ve got it fer ya here
• Waterfalls — an interactive map of waterfall hikes throughout the US

Play Harder While You Relax

• Active.com — locate a structured fitness program or sign up for a participatory sports experience
• Camp Channel — screw the kids, these camps are for grown people who don’t act their age
• Grown Up Camps — traditional and fantasy summer camps for the 21-and-over crowd
• Golf Course Locator — whether you’re looking for a short course or are in it for the long game
• Gym Finder — hunt up a convenient workout facility and get busy sweating
• Indoor Climbing — list of indoor rock climbing gyms and simulated rock walls around the country
• iSport — connects you to sports facilities and groups around the US
• Map My Fitness — plot your run/bike route, calculate total distance, and locate group events
• Tennis Maps — get out your racket and hunt up a public or private tennis court in your area
• Volksmarch — open walking club (meet friends and walk scenic trails at your own pace)

Volunteer Opportunities

Working While You Travel

• Backdoor Jobs — short term work adventures for those with itchy feet
• Cool Works — cool temporary jobs in great places
• Mobile Work Exchange — online resource center for teleworkers
• Snagajob — searchable part-time and seasonal work database
• Summerjobs — short-term work opportunities during the June/July/August
• WWOOF-USA — work on an organic farm in return for a free place to stay as you travel the US

Finding A Dump Station In Bumblefuck, Iowa

• Boondockers Welcome — connect with RVers who can offer a dry camping location for the night
• Boondocking — database of places (generally in the middle of nowhere) with gratis campsites
• Bureau Of Land Management — no-cost camping managed by the Department Of The Interior
• Campgrounds — a convenient online search engine for campgrounds throughout North America
• Escapees — membership-based organization offering discounts on camping fees
• Find A Campground — About.com-style links to dozens of regional campground directories
• Free Campsites — a multiplicity of spaces (some with, some without hookups) for <$10 a night
• Go Camping America — guide to private and public parks around the US
• Good Sam Club — searchable directory of participating and non-participating parks
• Happy Camper — up to 50% off on RV rates (but has many restrictions)
• Harvest Hosts — free overnight stays at farms and wineries around the country
• I Love Parks — locate a site in any national or state park, as well as those in other countries
• Passport America — can save you big bucks, as long as you stick to their rules and limitations
• Pilot/Flying J — for cars and RVs, too (gas, propane, dump station, food, and sundries)
• Recreation.gov — centralized reservation system for camping at government-owned parks
• RV Dumps — handy list of dump stations throughout the US for when you’re sans hookups
• RV Park Hunter — photos and real reviews of the locations you’re considering
• RV Park Reviews — read the real poop on a park before checking in (forthright, honest, uncensored)
• RV There Yet — a campground map, reviews, dump station directory, and blog guide all in one
• Travel America — find all the services you need on the road in one place at “TA”
• The Trucker’s Friend — searchable national truck stop directory
• Ultimate Campgrounds — the web’s largest public campground portal, with >20,000 listings
• US Bureau Of Reclamation — 300+ campsites at National Recreation Areas and Wildlife Refuges
• Woodall’s — extensive directory of public and private sites, with ratings and amenity information

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