Two Hundred Miles Was Enough

As we reluctantly packed up camp in South Carolina, we felt a sense of eagerness to just get to our next destination.

Banks was still battling a pretty gnarly rash, and we only had three nights reserved at the next campground — with a whole lot to accomplish once we got there.

Packing up and moving your home probably seems fun from the outside looking in. And truthfully, sometimes it is. But there are so many other logistics involved, especially now that our home is an almost 34-foot camper.

Because on top of packing up our entire life to drive a mere 200 miles down the road, there was still regular life to live. Laundry needed to be done. Groceries needed to be bought. Daily chores didn't disappear just because we were traveling.

And, most importantly, we needed to find a doctor for Banks.

We'd never been where we were going before, so we'd essentially be starting from scratch when we got there.

Every little errand required a Google search:

Where's the closest town?

Where's the grocery store?

A laundromat?

A pediatrician or urgent care?

Don't let me fool you, though — we love the challenge. We've always been "adapt and overcome" kind of people.

But with Banks's rash getting worse by the day, I couldn't wait to get there, set up camp, and find a doctor.

He was still acting completely normal, which was reassuring. His pediatrician in Tennessee had told us not to worry too much, that sometimes these things just happen when little bodies are adjusting to new environments and foods.

Still, I needed someone to lay eyes on him and tell me the same thing.

Or, at the very least, give me a solution for his poor, itchy little body.

With all of that in mind, when we searched for the next campground along our route, we weren't trying to figure out how far we could get.

We chose to drive just far enough to point us in the right direction — and take care of business.

Packing Up Our Entire Life — Again

Packing up was actually pretty easy this go-around. We'd only been in South Carolina for four nights, so most of our bigger items had stayed tucked away in the back of Zach's truck.

One last campground walk before leaving South Carolina behind.

The inside of the camper was another story.

Even though we were only driving roughly 200 miles, I still had to tuck our entire life away.

Banks's toys had to find a place.

The pantry needed to be secured.

Pots and pans came out of the cabinets and went onto the floor.

Everything in the bathroom went onto the shower floor.

The pictures on Banks's bedroom walls went into his crib, along with anything sitting on a shelf that wasn't secured.

Drawers were locked.

Everything was unplugged.

And finally, the slide came in.

If you live in a home without wheels, look around for a second. Look at your walls. Your shelves. The items in your pantry stacked two or three high.

Now imagine your entire house bouncing down the highway.

Everything that can fall eventually will.

So it all has to be strapped down, tucked away, or locked into place.

Luckily, by this point we'd gotten pretty good at knowing what was going to break and what wasn't. I finally felt confident in the little routine I'd created for securing everything inside.

We'd also figured out a loading routine that worked surprisingly well for all five of us.

The dogs went into the back of my car first, with the air running. Then I'd strap Banks into his car seat while Zach loaded the motorcycle onto the back of the SUV. Once my car was packed and everyone was situated, I'd start driving laps around the campground while Zach finished up the exterior.

Yes. Actual laps.

Because if you've never packed up a camper before, there are certain things that have to happen in a specific order.

By the time I put the steps in, close the door, and pull away, we're still usually a good 15 to 30 minutes from actually rolling down the road.

And that's assuming we don't have to wait at the dump station.

How we dump our tanks when we're not at a full-hookup site could probably be an entire post of its own... lucky you. Ha.

While I'm driving around, Zach removes the wheel chocks, pulls up the jacks, disconnects the water, and finishes everything else outside. If we're on a full-hookup site, that also means dumping and flushing tanks.

Then I circle back around before he hitches up in case he needs another set of hands.

Once he's hitched, we both do a walk-around.

Always.

We learned that lesson after almost driving away once with the railing at the front door still sticking out.

That would've been a sight.

And it definitely would've taken something out on the way down the road.

Finally, We Roll

Once we're completely loaded, we usually meet somewhere near the campground entrance or dump station. This time, we needed to dump our tanks, so while Zach handled that glamorous little piece of RV life, we talked through our route.

We use RV LIFE to plan our route, then double-check it against Google Maps because getting from Point A to Point B isn't quite as simple when you're towing an almost 34-foot camper.

We have to know we'll fit.

Are the overpasses high enough?

Are the roads too narrow?

Are there tight turns or mountain roads we should avoid?

Once we know the route works, we figure out potential pit stops.

After all these years of traveling, we've gotten pretty quick at this part. What sounds like a whole lot of planning actually takes about the perfect amount of time for Zach to dump our three tanks — two gray and one black.

By the time he's finished, we've usually got a route and a rough plan for the drive.

This time, our next campsite was just under 200 miles away, so we figured we'd only need one real stop.

We picked one just on the other side of the mountain range. After all the hills and winding roads, we'd need gas anyway, and it would give us a chance to walk around the camper and make sure everything was still where it belonged.

Then, finally, we hit the road again.

The drive itself was uneventful, and this time I was considerably less stressed than I'd been on our first big haul out of Tennessee.

But I was still keeping a close eye on Banks.

He'd been scratching for most of the trip, and when we stopped, I noticed he'd scratched his neck badly enough that there were tiny spots of blood around the collar of his shirt.

After I noticed that, I was just ready to get there.

Three Nights at Lake Norman

I made it to Lake Norman State Park Campground first while Zach stopped at the entrance to check us in.

So I did what I'd apparently become very good at that day:

I drove around and waited for him.

The campground was small. Just a little loop.

Not much to it.

We couldn't even really get to the lake from where we were.

But we didn't need anything fancy or special.

Home for the next three nights — camper, truck, SUV, motorcycle and all.

We weren't there because it was some bucket-list campground we'd been dying to visit.

We needed somewhere to park our home.

Somewhere to take care of Banks.

Somewhere to catch up on laundry, groceries, and all the ordinary pieces of life we'd been carrying with us since Tennessee.

And somewhere to rest for a few days before we'd pack it all away and do it again.

Three Nights Goes Fast

We got to the campground with enough time to set everything up before dark and even take a walk around the little loop, pushing Banks in his tricycle while we figured out our plan for the next day.

First priority: find a doctor.

When we woke up the next morning, his rash seemed to be coming and going. We hadn't really done anything differently other than our now-daily oatmeal baths and lotions, but something else felt off.

He was acting strange. A little spacey.

It reminded me enough of how he'd acted before his febrile seizure back in February that neither of us felt comfortable brushing it off. So Zach rode in the back with him while I drove us into town, just to keep an eye on him.

We spent most of the day at the doctor's office.

They ran a bunch of tests and ultimately decided he was dealing with an extreme eczema flare, likely triggered by whatever had caused the rash in the first place.

Which left us with the same question we'd been asking all along:

What caused the rash?

Was it something he'd eaten? Something in the environment? After dealing with food allergies and all the other weird things that had happened earlier that year, we weren't really sure of anything anymore.

And neither were the doctors.

Thankfully, by the time we left the doctor’s office, Banks was acting much more like himself. We stopped at Walgreens for his prescriptions and followed the doctor's plan — Zyrtec, steroid medicine, oatmeal baths, and enough oatmeal lotion to practically marinate the kid in it.

And the next morning?

The rash was gone.

Just... gone.

It was the craziest thing.

Even better, Banks was back to his normal, playful little self.

So we rolled with it.

And with only one real day left at this campground, we could finally enjoy where we'd landed.

We relaxed. Explored the campground. Made a grocery run. And that evening, we decided to go out for dinner.

Zach and I have always joked that we're food connoisseurs — although I'm using the term very loosely here. When we were filming our travels during our vanlife days, it seemed like nearly every video included us eating at some local spot. It was one of our favorite ways to experience a new town.

That hasn't changed much.

We just visit fewer breweries these days, and our first question is usually:

Do they have a kids' menu?

Every now and then, we find a really rad place — kid-friendly breweries included — and when we do, we mark it on the map so we can remember it.

This particular hole-in-the-wall marina?

Was not one of those places.

And we're usually all about a hole in the wall.

The waitress seemed considerably more interested in the single men sitting out on the dock than our table, and our food was subpar at best.

Banks's food, ironically, was actually pretty good.

He was happy.

He was healthy.

And after the previous few days, that was really all that mattered.

So we enjoyed the music someone had put on the jukebox, danced with Banks, and made the best of a less-than-stellar dinner.

It wasn't some incredible travel experience we'd tell everyone they absolutely had to recreate.

But we'd gotten out.

We'd seen a little more of where we'd landed.

We'd eaten somewhere we'd never eaten before.

And we'd had a perfectly ordinary night together in a place we'd probably never find ourselves again.

By the time we got back to the camper, though, reality was already waiting for us.

Tomorrow was moving day.

Again.

We Had Just Gotten There

In hindsight, three nights sounded like plenty of time.

It wasn't.

One day had been spent getting there and setting up. Another disappeared almost entirely at the doctor's office. That left us with one day to grocery shop, explore, go out to dinner, and actually enjoy the place we'd temporarily called home.

The laundry?

That would have to wait.

Because somehow, we'd just gotten there — and it was already time to pack up our entire life again.

Morning coffee, dogs in the yard, and home for three nights.

Thankfully, this time there wasn't much to pack.

We'd barely pulled anything out.

There hadn't been enough time to really settle in, so most of the things we'd tucked away in South Carolina had simply stayed tucked away. Even the things we normally pulled out around camp had mostly stayed in the truck.

And, for once, we'd scored a full-hookup site.

Which meant we could dump and flush our tanks right there instead of packing everything up only to sit in line at the dump station on our way out.

After spending the last few days feeling like we were constantly trying to catch up with life, moving day was almost ridiculously easy.

Secure the few things we'd pulled out.

Bring in the slide.

Disconnect.

Hitch up.

And go.

Okay, I still drove around the campground a couple of times while Zach finished hitching up. But there was no waiting at the dump station. No complicated morning trying to get five living things and an entire house pointed in the same direction.

We were getting pretty good at this.

The funny part was that after packing up our home yet again, we weren't even going very far.

Our next campground was only about 150 miles away.

Home Was Always With Us

There was a time when moving our home was incredibly easy.

Back when we lived in the van, we thought nothing of setting up somewhere for a few hours, going out on an adventure, packing everything back up, driving into town, and setting up somewhere completely different that night.

Sometimes we camped right there on the side of the street.

Other times, we'd find some completely remote campsite tucked away in a beautiful National Forest.

But I don't think we moved so much just because we could.

We moved because we were always chasing the next adventure.

And back then, those adventures were big.

We chased bucket-list destinations, National Parks, crazy hikes, and places we'd spent years dreaming about seeing. We once found ourselves attempting — and successfully completing — a summit hike in the Olympic Mountains, after an earlier attempt at summiting Mt. McLoughlin had been stopped short by the snow.

And right at the bottom of the hike was where we'd spend the night, at a free campsite.

One of the things we loved most about living in the van — and later, in the skoolie — was that home came right along with us.

We could spend an entire day hiking, come stumbling back completely exhausted, and everything we needed was sitting right there waiting for us.

Our clothes.

Our food.

Our bed.

Our entire life.

I'd pull out our outdoor shower and rinse off in my bathing suit while Zach started cooking dinner — or vice versa. We'd rinse the dogs off, too, if they'd spent the day getting muddy with us.

Then we'd eat, crawl into bed, and wake up ready to figure out where we were going next.

We never had to go home after the adventure.

Home was always right there.

I think that's part of what made us fall in love with this lifestyle in the first place.

Our home could go wherever the adventure took us.

And I don't think we've lost that part of ourselves.

Our home is considerably bigger now. It takes a whole lot more effort to move. There are more belongings, more logistics, two dogs, a toddler, a motorcycle, and approximately a million more things to consider before we decide to pack up and go somewhere.

But home still comes with us.

The thing that's changed isn't our desire to explore.

It's what we're chasing when we get there.

Maximizing Experience Instead of Miles

One day, we'll chase mountain summits again.

We'll go kayak camping on remote islands again.

Maybe that day will come sooner than we think. But one day, we'll chase those big adventures again.

That's still the goal. We want Banks to explore and experience everything we have — and then some.

But in the meantime, experiences don't have to mean some spectacular hike or bucket-list destination.

Sometimes it's a weird little marina with mediocre food where our toddler is finally feeling better and we're dancing to the jukebox.

Right now, adventure looks a little simpler.

It's pushing Banks around a campground in his tricycle.

It's stopping somewhere we've never been just for Banks to pick a weed and be excited about it.

It's wandering a campground with no real plan.

It's finding some random hole-in-the-wall restaurant, having a terrible meal, and dancing with our kid anyway.

It's giving ourselves enough time to actually experience the places where we park our home instead of always looking toward whatever big adventure comes next.

That doesn't mean we'll always travel 150 miles at a time.

Honestly, sometimes 150 miles is way too short.

There will still be days when we want to cover ground. There will still be Walmart and Cracker Barrel parking lots that are simply a place to sleep between Point A and Point B. And I'm sure there will be plenty of travel days when we'll drive as far as we reasonably can because there's something farther down the road we're excited to get to.

But I think we're learning that the number on the odometer doesn't determine whether it was a good travel day — or a good adventure, for that matter.

We're not trying to maximize miles.

We're trying to maximize the experience.

After all, that is the point of this life we’ve chosen.

And right now, that means giving ourselves permission to stop sooner. To stay an extra night when we can. To explore the campground instead of immediately searching for the next bucket-list destination.

The big adventures aren't gone.

They're out there waiting for us.

But I'm not in a hurry to get there.

Not anymore.

Because this version of adventure won't last forever either.

So when we packed up our home once again and pointed it toward another campground only 150 miles down the road, it didn't feel like we hadn't gone far enough.

It felt like exactly where we were supposed to go.

For this season, for this family, and for this particular day...

150 miles was absolutely enough.

A New Place to Call Home

Up until this point, North Carolina had still been the plan.

We'd been working our way toward the coast for a potential job for Zach, and that's where we'd told everyone we were headed.

But somewhere along the way, that plan had started looking a lot less promising.

Once again, we couldn't find anywhere to park our home.

So we pivoted.

Instead of continuing toward the job we'd been working our way toward in North Carolina, we reserved a campsite in Virginia Beach, close to family, while we figured out what was happening with work.

After months — really, more like years — of not living near family, we were ready for some much-needed time with the people we loved. Even better, Banks would finally get to really know some of the people he'd only spent a handful of days with in person, but saw almost daily on FaceTime.

Virginia Beach was officially on the map.

But first?

One last stop.

Just 150 miles from where we were sitting.

Our next destination looked much more promising, and we were excited to explore another campground on a lake before our final haul to the Virginia coast.

We were only able to secure another three nights. But we knew we'd make the best of it, especially now that Banks's rash was gone and most of our chores were taken care of.

So after a pretty uneventful 150 miles, we arrived at Crosswinds Campground.

Zach chose the perfect site. Finding it was another story, and we drove past it a few times before finally realizing where it was.

It was tucked between a few trees, just a short walk from a little trail that led down to the lake and beach access.

Zach backed us in.

At this point, one try was all he needed.

I sat in the car with the dogs and Banks while he chocked the wheels, leveled us out, dropped the jacks, and unhitched.

This site wasn't a full hookup, so there wasn't much left to do outside. He pulled some of the dog fencing off the truck, plugged us in, hooked up the water, and just like that, the outside of our house was home again.

Then it was my turn.

I stepped inside, opened the slide, and set Banks down on the floor.

And although we were in a completely new place, all of his favorite things had made it there with him.

He always gets so excited when the slide starts going out and his bedroom magically appears again — his toys suddenly spread across the floor where only moments before there had been a wall.

The smile he gets is truly amazing.

He "helps" me set up most of the camper.

I put the pots and pans back into the cabinets while he pulls out his toys and starts finding their new places for the next few days.

Before long, the inside looks like home again.

Then we meet Zach outside, load Banks into his tricycle, grab the girls, and head off to explore the new place we'll call home for a little while.

It didn't take us long to find the water.

That night, we made dinner and relaxed in our new space.

We were only 150 miles farther east.

But we'd had a whole day full of change.

Full of adventure.

And somewhere ahead of us was the Virginia coast.

We'd get there in a few days.

Just not today.

We used to measure a successful travel day by how much ground we covered — and how many big adventures we could fit into a 24-hour period.

But somewhere along the way, we'd started measuring it by how much life we got to experience within those miles instead.

Two hundred miles was enough.

Turns out, 150 could be enough, too.