Where Do You Sleep?
Living the dream…
A good tent is one that keeps the bugs and water out. Anything else is a bonus.
Imagine being able to carry your entire house between your handlebars. That’s kind of what it’s like to “bike-pack”. Everything that you need for survival is strapped to your metallic steed. If anyone ever shows interest in my journey and inquires about where I would sleep, I usually pull up this picture and take great amusement in their shifting facial expression. I think that most people immediately assume that I was living lavishly and spending each night within the safety of four private walls. Those that do, greatly overestimate the number of zeros in my bank account.
I spent most of my nights alone, curled into the fetal position while wondering what that big scary noise was outside my tent. At first, I would exert a great deal of effort to plan my routes around designated campsites. It didn’t take more than a few nights for me to realize that this was a wildly inefficient way to traverse the country. Sometimes, the campsites would be so sparse that I would find myself riding ten or so miles off of my route just to find somewhere to pitch my tent. The next morning, I would have to retrace those ten miles just to begin making headway again. For that reason, I became accustomed to the forbidden art known as “stealth camping”.
Stealth camping is exactly what it sounds like. Silently, and usually under the cover of nightfall, you find a quiet piece of public land that is hidden from view. If anyone stumbles upon you at night, they usually assume that you are some crazy homeless person, and leave you alone. Honestly, that assumption isn’t too far off. However, it’s best practice to avoid these meetings at all costs. Additionally, it’s prudent to be aware of local laws when choosing a sneaky campsite.
When I was in East Texas, I found it very difficult to find public land that I could use to camp. Knowing the baffling statistics regarding gun ownership in the state, I didn’t want to take my chances. On one occasion, I was having a particularly difficult time finding a place to rest for the night. I checked the map and saw that there was a marked campsite in downtown Navasota. I remember being confused at the thought of a campsite smack in the middle of town. I arrived at the address and was even more confused when I realized that it was, in fact, a fire station. I must have looked pretty desperate because when one of the firemen happened to walk by, he stopped and said “Caaan… I…. help you?” with a concerned look.
“Can I sleep here?” is all that I was able to reply to because I was so tired, frustrated, and confused. He paused for a moment, gave me a good look over, and then said through his mustache “yea, I’ll clear a space in a bay for you”. I suppose that although I looked distinctly homeless by the time I arrived, he determined that I wasn’t much of a threat. After a bit of conversing, I decided to sleep behind the building in a small field. I was cozier there.
In the expanse of the desert starting in West Texas, it became incredibly easy to find places to camp. There was just nothing out there. The different towns that I would pass through would be anywhere from 10 to 80 miles apart. Instead of riding into these towns and paying to stay at the RV parks, I began to check my cell phone for service. Once a trace of signal would appear, I would pull off of the road and begin pitching my tent behind the nearest rock or shrub knowing that I was only five or so miles from a resupply in the morning. The reflectors on my bike and tent had been blacked out with electrical tape for weeks at that point. I was perfectly invisible to anyone on the road. You might be thinking that this sounds sketchy. But, I assure you, I felt much more safe in my tent hidden from view than in those strange desert towns. From my observation, It takes a peculiar kind of person to live out there, and I looked pretty vulnerable. I’d take my chances with the coyotes any day of the week.
Another invaluable alternative to camping or paying for a hotel room is a platform called Warmshowers. This is a community of adventure cyclists that spans around the globe. These people get it. If you sign up on the website, you become connected to everyone in the community. The idea is that when you are out exploring the world, you have people that you can contact who have been where you are, and kindly offer you a place to stay in your travels. Oftentimes, you are able to pitch your tent in the backyard. Sometimes, they offer you a spare bedroom and a home-cooked meal. On two separate occasions, I ended up with a log cabin to myself! Another time, I visited a kind woman named Perry, who built an entire plywood hostel on her property, North of Batton Rouge, LA. It came complete with bunk beds, a bathhouse, and even a garage loaded with tools so that her guests could tinker with their bikes. When signing up with Warmshowers, you pledge that you will pay the kindness forward when possible. If I eventually carve out a piece of land for myself, maybe I build a tree house in the backyard so that I too can host the occasional lunatic with an insatiable thirst for adventure.
