I’ll probably never have a 401K, but I have some trout from the stream to sustain me. Of course, a sudden accident or illness could do me in at any time, but I’m afraid this is true for all of us

Every once in a while someone asks me about my “aha” moment: the exact time when I knew I would become a full-time nomad, quit my job and “retire” from a budding and promising career at age 29 to travel across the American continent indefinitely in a 22-foot Rialta RV with one dog, one cat and one husband in tow.

I would usually tell the story of my epiphany on the summit of a mountain in Colorado. I would also describe how I managed to convince my husband, an electrical engineer in a rising company, to abandon our mailing address and our white picket fence in San Diego. It’s a good story and I wrap it up neatly.

Then last week, I finally understood how silly that story was. My real turning point came way before that. The “aha” moment was more like an “uh-oh” moment.

This story involves the collapse of a failed long-term, live-in relationship back in my 20s, when I still believed a woman could change a man with nags and threats alone. It was the day I abandoned my treasured and custom-made cherry wood table.

The night we split up, we didn’t discuss the table. We discussed my debts. The ones he caused with his traumatic brain injury, lengthy recovery, even longer rehabilitation, subsequent reschooling, and ultimate refusal or inability to get a job. We discussed how bad my credit was. How badly I needed to sell the condo.

When things were first becoming strained between us, I had the cherry wood table custom-made. It was spectacular: dark brown, beautifully finished, simple and sturdy. I displayed it without a tablecloth. In the evening, the sun would hit it just right and it would practically glow.

I gave it all up … to live off the land Read more

“Here is something beautiful for the both of us that I have helped create,” I thought.

My efforts didn’t work, and our paths shifted. I gave up the dream of a house-centered life that didn’t quite fit me.

My new path took me to San Diego, where I re-entered the workforce and eventually married a wonderful man whose destiny it was to drive me around.

That first year in the RV was like a vacation. Both of us overworked and under-stimulated, we drove from San Diego to Alaska, across Canada, then back down the East coast. And for the next two years, we did our favorite parts all over again.

These days we have slowed way down. Our senior dog, now 15, is showing her age and doesn’t travel as well as she used to. We are ageing too, favoring quiet campgrounds over urban convenience. We chug along with poor clearance in a never-ending pursuit of that perfect campsite no one has ever heard about.

We own two bowls, two spoons and two forks. We wash our dishes with creek water. My husband goes fishing for our breakfast. I walk a lot. I seek solitude like a junkie seeks crack. I sleep extravagantly.

The miles have been kind to me. I’ve known hummingbirds as friends, holding their tiny pulsing bodies in the palm of my hand. I often waste an entire day reading. I can sneak up on a squirrel.

I live and write offline. The sunsets slip by one after the other, and I am sentenced to watch them quietly, without reaching for a selfie. I tuck these moments away in my heart where they fester into a messy sort of love.

I have learned that I don’t need to possess things in order to love them. I have learned that most people are not like me. I have learned that many people are exactly like me. I have learned that security is a myth.

At this exact moment, I have a little over $6,000 sitting in my bank account. Without any extra sacrifices, this can feed and sustain my humble family for three months.

Of course, a sudden accident or illness could do me in at anytime, but I’m afraid this is true for all of us. Or at least it has always been true for me. I used to have insurance once, many years ago. When I had to start choosing between food or coverage, I picked eating. I have never been able to afford both since then.

One winter morning while I was working towards my university degree, I picked up the school paper to read an article about how very affluent our student body was and how much disposable income we all had. Just the day before I had eaten dinner out of the garbage, my first meal of the day. Somehow I always feel that everything is going to be okay.

I have faith not so much in the positive outcome of things, but more strongly in my own ability to endure everything. There will always be times of trouble and I will always survive them. I am good at making jokes in the dark places. I am good at suffering. I am good at loss.

Today I went to see the Gila Cliff Dwellings in New Mexico. Seven hundred years ago, Mogollon natives inhabited these caves. I walked where they walked. I saw where they ate and drank and slept. I looked out of their windows and saw the same views they would have seen.

I didn’t spot any cherry wood tables, but the view was of one giant mesa: a table for God himself. Deep and dark and black-veined, more intricately carved than anything I could dream up and teeming with life.

“Here is a mesa that has been holding hundreds of trees for hundreds of years,” I told myself. “Surely I’ve been brought here to do more than cling to one dead slab of cherry wood.”

I’ll probably never have a 401K, but I have some trout from the stream and there’s enough to share with you, too, should you drop by. I have fresh water from the mountain and an extra mug of coffee. I have a little bit of bread, some wine in my mason jar, and a messy sort of love for you.

And everything is going to be okay.

Vanessa Runs is the author of The Summit Seeker: Memoirs of a Trail-Running Nomad and Daughters of Distance: Stories of Women in Endurance Sports. You can follow her at vanessaruns.com.