
A landlocked Colorado kid, a lifelong fear of sharks, and the afternoon a shadow in clear water turned out to be exactly what I was afraid of.

A landlocked Colorado kid, a lifelong fear of sharks, and the afternoon a shadow in clear water turned out to be exactly what I was afraid of.

Eight years of van life and we kept saying we would write it down. This is why we waited, and why we finally opened the door.

Seventy square feet, eight years. Tap around one photo of our galley and we'll tell you what you're actually looking at.

No week-long product tests here. Everything on this list has lived in our van for months or years. This is what we actually grab every day.

We didn't set out to live sustainably. We set out to live freely. It turns out those two things have a lot more overlap than we expected.

Movement that lasts is designed, not accidental. The financial and structural reality of building a life that can keep moving.

Eight years of van life didn't give us one version of freedom. It gave us several, and each one was right for its season.

A bonfire in my aunt's backyard, my little cousin beside me, and no way to explain what we were about to do. So I didn't try.

Forty-nine days from San Diego to Denver the long way: Sequoia, Yosemite, the redwoods, the Oregon coast, Olympic, Rainier and Glacier.

Three weeks north with the inflatable kayaks, a bison that stopped dead in the road, and a fox at Jenny Lake.

Two weeks from the Finger Lakes to the far corner of Maine and back, and the hike up the Beehive that I did not think I would finish.

The van had a floor and a ceiling. We threw a futon on it and drove to Yellowstone for twelve days.