I just got woken up by blue jays at the crack of dawn — in my tent, under tall redwood trees. I took a video and posted it on social media. And no, I am not homeless. But if you do feel sorry for me and want to help, I’ll gladly take $90 for one more night at this fancy campground by the river. Thank you in advance.
Lately, my friends have been (jokingly) inquiring about my tent camping obsession. My husband flat-out refuses to pay money to “live like the homeless” in the woods. He reminds me, weekly, of the warmth and comfort of our bed at home.
There is a growing number of people — individuals, couples, even large families — who sell their homes or stop paying rent to live “alternative” lifestyles. Technically homeless, maybe. But they sugarcoat it with terms like van life, off-grid living, full-time RVers. I am not one of them. I love my washer, dryer, and closets — where I clean, reorganize, and lovingly store my camping gear. But I do share their love for exploring and connecting with nature.
Camping was something I did every summer with friends and family — until I had a baby. A tiny human I couldn’t possibly expose to the horrors of nature: spiders, raccoons, broken zippers. So for 11 years, we stayed local — city parks, hotel trips, green and blue spaces within reach. Then came 2024 — the summer I took him out into the wilderness. With flushing toilets and showers, of course. Every week. Sometimes twice a week.
The research started in the spring. I watched all the YouTube videos. I read all the blogs. I joined every FB camping group. And yes, some of the people I took advice from were, technically, homeless — with surprisingly good internet access. I could’ve stopped at just a tent and a sleeping bag. But research exposed me to the endless world of camping and glamping, and now I have a dedicated closet full of gear for every situation. I also had a conversation with my husband about buying a van next year.
Summer ended the day the school district decided my child had done enough “learning in nature.” I told him he has a lot more to learn before he can build that cabin with a pool in the woods — ideas he came up with himself. The same kid who, on our first trip, refused to get out of the car because of an unreasonable number of yellow jackets.
Our next redwoods trip is in a couple of weeks. We’re also checking out land nearby — a place we might want to buy so we can camp even more. Without neighbors playing guitar and disrupting the forest peace. The hot tent is in my Amazon cart. I should probably get rain boots, too.
We’ve definitely contracted the outdoors disease. We crave that feeling — cold faces, warm sleeping bags, looking up through the mesh of the tent to see blue sky through the branches. We get why some people choose to live this way.
So, dear friends:
No, I’m not homeless.
Not yet.
