I spent my first full year full‑timing in a 23‑foot RV, traveling across America from coast to coast. This film tells the story of that year — the landscapes, the people, the challenges, and the moments that changed me.
Utah has five national parks — the “Mighty Five.” Over the years, I had visited four of them. In 2011, Natasha, Brenna, and I camped our way through Arches and Canyonlands, surviving windstorms in our tent and driving a rented Jeep far closer to canyon edges than any of us needed to be. In 2013,
Anyone who has been in my house since 2015 has seen the photograph. It hangs in a place of honor — a swirl of red sandstone, light pouring through a narrow opening, shadows curling like ribbons. I took it in Antelope Canyon on a trip with my son Jeremy, and it remains one of my
After two months in Benson, the desert was warming, the Palo Verde trees were blooming, and my allergies were staging a full‑scale rebellion. It was time to move north. At the beginning of March, I packed up the trailer and drove three hours to Phoenix, where I’d found an RV park that catered to snowbirds
New Year’s Eve found me downtown for the annual chili pepper drop, Benson’s quirky answer to Times Square. The pepper shifts colors all night long, and the big question is always the same: Will it land red or green? This year, it dropped green—a fitting farewell to New Mexico and a bright welcome to 2026.
Texas is a long, big state, no matter which way you slice it, but this year I crossed it differently — trading I‑10 for I‑20. The miles didn’t shrink, but the views shifted, and sometimes that’s enough to make the familiar feel new again. My timing was different, too. I arrived right in the middle
I began my second year of living life on the road exactly where the whole adventure started: Spring Hill, Tennessee. It felt fitting to return to the place where I first pulled away from a stationary life and stepped into this rolling one. While I was there, I visited the Columbia Peace and Justice Initiative’s
The late‑night ride from the ferry to somewhere — anywhere — far enough inland to feel safe from the coast was supposed to be simple. It was dark, raining, and I was tired, but the GPS promised a loop road that would swing me around and drop me back onto the route I’d missed. Well.A)
When I was in second grade, a new boy joined our class. He was quiet, shy, very smart, and the first left‑handed person I remember meeting. His family had just moved into a tall, imposing two‑story colonial on a little street off mine — a house I’d watched rise from the ground all summer. His
As I pulled out of Pittsburgh, I found myself drifting toward a place that’s woven into years of my family’s travel history: the New River Gorge in West Virginia. Back when we lived in Pittsburgh, the quickest route to Tennessee ran straight down US‑19, which meant crossing the New River Gorge Bridge more times than
