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Travel is fundamentally satisfying. Each day anticipates the preparation or acquisition of food, washing clothes, packing for transition to the next hostel, and ultimately embarking on an adventure. The overarching goal is simple and clear: explore, engage, learn.

Coming home can be confusing—a return to the familiar, yet a return to the norm. Projects left unfinished when bags were packed now echo their reminder of the work that remains. While logistically challenging, living on the road demands simplicity—as few shirts as possible, two pairs of pants, socks underwear to wash, dry, and wear; a sweater and rain shell, and one or two pairs of shoes. That’s it! There is no ridicule, no internal voice that says “Didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday?”

I struggle now, as I have so many times before, to rebuild momentum, to find daily joy at home as comes naturally on the road. I tell myself, “Today is for catching up with my team. Tonight I’ll watch a movie. Tomorrow I’ll refill the bird feederes and clean the watering hole.” One day at a time … as it should be, living on the road, at home.

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It has been two years since my last road trip, a flight to Chicago, visit at Northwestern, and then more than two weeks coming back to Arizona with a massive telescope in the back of a rented van. Starting in Racine Wisconsin, I visited my grandmother in Iowa and friends in Colorado before making my way home to Arizona. Dan Heim was kind enough to receive the telescope, and later that fall work with me every weekend to refurbish and upgrade the beautiful instrument for the Mt. Meru Astronomical Observatory.

Now, I have lived out of my car for two weeks and three days, having left Cascabel, Arizona Thursday, July 30. I drove to the Alvord Desert of southeastern Oregon where the Pacific Spaceflight team attempted a manned hydrogen balloon launch. From there I enjoyed a night at the Crystal Cane hot springs, then two nights and a day in Bend where I pulled on rock and landed on a bouldering crashpad for the first time in months. A few days with Cascabel neighbors and good friends David and Pearl outside of Philomath, then to the Pacific Coast, lush forests and the splendid views along the 101.

Being on the road, the namesake of this entire collection of essays, is not what it used to be for me. For several years, from 2010 through 2018 it was my norm. I was never in one place for more than a few weeks (aside from my apartment in South Africa 2014-15), constantly packing and unpacking, hand-washing clothes, buying just enough food to fill a cooler. That routine with which I moved through world was not readily available to me at the start of this journey. I had lost the rhythm, the comfort of the day to day.

I am regaining comfort with me, away from home. Day by day, week by week I am regaining the freedom of living without attachment to so many material things. In so doing, I am once again able to reflect upon what I have learned from the road.

While COVID has restricted our movement, and made social interaction strained, nearly impossible in certain situations, overall we remain a social species, eager to engage. Smiles behind the masks of gas station attendants, well wishing issued from the far side of plexiglass at checkout counters, and campground stories yet told from across open fires.

I found focus again. Mornings spent fixing oatmeal over my Coleman stove, reading, and stirring the coals of the campfire from the night before. I sat upon my bouldering crashpad with laptop and hot tea, checking email when I had a signal. When my brain scattered, and checking email became an autonomous response to feeling alone in the world, I went for a swim or a hike. Two, sometimes three days in one place and then I’d move on. No real time frame. No sense of urgency to get home. The longer I was away, the more comfortable I felt, and the more I found balance in my days.

Cascabel to Tucson, Arizona … Las Vegas to Tonopah, Battle Mountain, and Winnemucca, Nevada … The Fields Station at the Alvord Desert to Burns, Oregon and then Bend, Corvallis, and Philomath. Down the coast for a few days of hiking on the dunes, then back inland through Eugene to Hills Creek Lake for three days and two nights on the backside of a massive reservoir. Swimming three times a day to cool off from the nearly 100F temperatures, moving my car and mobile office to remain in the shade of the pine and fir. Further along Oregon 58, South on 97 to Crater Lake for a rainy afternoon. At Klamath Falls I turned West along HW140 and enjoyed one of the most splendid sections of road in my journey, a narrow blacktop that wove its way over pine topped hills into cultivated valleys, through towns only visible in the fine print of the map. I spent one night at Hunters Hot Spring Lodge, a place whose more glamorous history is maintained only in the black and white photos on the failing walls. Whisky drinking, bikini-clad locals and friends of the manager gathered without concern for COVID at one end of the naturally heated pool while I remained at the other. I engaged in a conversation with a massage therapist whose story of managing a thousand head of cattle on horseback over a hundred thousand acres, a broken back, and healing through non-traditional means captivated me for a half hour. Her husband and son now run an alternative healing clinic out of the Lodge with intent to expand, and purchase their own land soon. Through unexpected hard times often come the most unexpected triumphs, again and again.

I continued on Oregon 140 across one of the most magical stretches of highway I have ever driven. No power lines. No towns. No trees. Just wide open vistas that would give one the belief they lived on an uninhabited planet were it not for a vehicle coming the other direction once every thirty to forty five minutes. Full circle, drove again through Winnemucca and took the interstate into the heart of Utah, then south to Moab and my land. At 8000 feet elevation, the temperature was yet too hot for comfortable work by day, and so I drove higher to a campsite in the La Sal National Forest, at roughly 9500 feet elevation. I spent a week there, heading into town every other day for ice, food, and to get on-line for a few hours. I had rediscovered the kind of efficiency that comes with being on-line for just a few hours per day, downloading email and answering only those of import immediately, the rest from my campsite into the evening, sending the next day.

For the first time in eight years I climbed on top a mountain bike and tackled The Whole Enchilada, a 32 miles ride of extraordinary challenge compounded by temperatures in the high 90s, over 100 by early afternoon.

Home through the Navajo Nation, visiting Colleen’s parents, and finally, Cascabel.

How many years will it be before I live from the road again? How will COVID affect the way we travel, explore, and interact?

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This week my film LIGO Detection took second place at the Raw Science Film Festival, in the category of Professional Documentaries. It was a truly enjoyable experience, a show well run.

After two days with my family friend and mentor Carl Berglund in Pasadena, the rains came and the road I had traveled from Santa Barbara to Pasadena was closed. People lost their lives to the fire, and then the mud slides that came with the rain. It seems so much is happening on such a frequent, large scale. Sometimes it feels as though we are living in the doomsday science fiction movies I watched at a teenager. Do zombies come next?

Tuesday night I arrived to a cool, wet Joshua Tree National Park. I slept in the passenger seat of my car, sharing a camping spot with a former stranger as we almost always do this time of year, This park is one of the most popular rock climbing destinations in North America, the camping spots doubled-up November through March. But climbers are generous that way, sharing space, food, a campfire and stories.

For five days I enjoyed the frigid nights, cool mornings, and warm afternoons. The rapid change of temperature reminds one of how a desert is intended to feel, the heat of the day rapidly giving way to the chill of the night once the sun has set.

It was a time for climbing, running, writing, cooking, living out-of-doors, and spending time with new friends. It was a time of renewed focus and reduced anxiety, a time for living simply, or perhaps, simply living.

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My work in storytelling and documentary film this past year, in Palestine, Tanzania, and South Africa has shown me the incredible capacity for humans to do amazing things and at the same time, to conduct the most horrendous acts—based upon the stories we carry in our individual and collective histories.

We use stories as guides through our lives. Stories we tell ourselves, stories we tell others, stories we are and are not aware of which guide our success, our failures, our beliefs about who we are and how we are similar or terribly different from the “others”.

When we change the stories we tell ourselves, we change how we perceive history and shape the stories to come.

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One year ago this month I posted “What I Learned From the Road” as a tribute to all that had come and gone for me in the prior nine months of transition and growth. This past year has also been a time for tremendous change and opportunity to learn.

I moved frequently between Phoenix, Colorado, Idaho, and Seattle. I completed more than two dozen short films and shot a sci-fi based on short stories I had written more than twenty years prior. I ventured to Hawaii to help a friend work on his house and witness the transit of Venus across the face of the Sun. I walked across fields of flowing lava and filmed one of the most spectacular events I have ever witnessed–the unfolding beauty of new earth given form.

When the intoxicating sulfur and tremendous heat moved me to run but at the same time begged me to remain in order that I would be consumed, I was more alive then than at most any other time in my life.

I sold my house and lived for six weeks on a remote ranch in Colorado. I ran through the mountains without concern for trails, every day swam naked in the pond, and fell to sleep to the howl of the coyotes and bugle of the elk.

In September I moved to East Jerusalem where I rebuilt a website and produced short documentary and educational films. When the rockets came down on both Israel and Palestine, I wept for the pain of knowing people were dying not far from where I stood. In those hours, I found comfort in the hot tea and warm embrace of a Muslim shop keeper who didn’t judge those who hurt others, rather, he simply prayed they find peace.

I moved to Holland for full-time work but found myself again in motion when my job was abruptly terminated. I recovered in the warm embrace of family friends in Germany. Just two weeks later I was robbed while switching trains in Paris and arrived to Barcelona with but the clothes on my back, cell phone, some cash, and my camera bag. This year has repeatedly confronted me with the challenge of finding grounding in ungrounding times.

I was for the first time in my adult life fully accepted for all that I am without request that I change, only to be asked to let go of the expectation for that love, in the end. I am reminded that nothing truly beautiful remains the same for long.

Sometimes I desire nothing more than a normal life. Sometimes I cherish experiencing this world in a way that is impossible if I were to remain still. From this place of constant transition, I again offer what I have learned from the road.

Trust in who I know I am.
Always challenge myself to improve, but do not second guess my motivation.

I am a whole person even when I lose everything.
For as vulnerable as I may feel when I lose my material possessions, by happenstance or through direct confrontation—for as empty as I may be when I lose love, time has a way of rebuilding, of reminding what we yet retain.

Emotions are a filter to reality.
Despair and fear are but chemical responses designed to keep us from making the same mistakes over and over again. Joy is not a destination but also a temporary, passing filter to the same situation. In the sometimes nonsensical manner in which we have evolved, the signatures that flood our synaptic pathways also cause us to fall into patterns of behavior which are self-defeating.

The power of saying nothing is often greater than explanation.
Be comfortable in my own decisions and the path I create every day. I do not need to explain my actions in every situation.

Recognize the patterns of history then move ahead to an improved future.
Learn from what I have done in the past, from what those around me have done too. There are good patterns to copy and those which we should avoid. Only through looking back can we move ahead with opportunity to improve.

Don’t be attached to outcome.
Recognize what I did well and what I could have done better. Learn from my mistakes. Above all, believe I did the best I could, in the moment, given what I had to work with.

Last year a friend asked “What would you do if you had all the money in the world?” My answer came to me quickly, “I would do exactly what I am doing now. I would not change a thing no matter how much money I was given.” I am seeking a place on this planet (or the next) in which my skills and experience and passion find opportunity to serve others while at the same time encouraging me to be my best.

No amount of money can purchase a sense of direction. No bank account balance can provide true satisfaction. No amount of love from anyone can cause me to love myself. I have all that I need, right here, right now.

Maybe now is the time to do nothing. Maybe now is the time to do everything at once. Maybe now, finally, is the time to just move step by step in order that I am living in the moment and not afraid of what unfolds next. The world is open to me when I let go of fear

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Six months ago, I ran away from home after thirteen years in Loveland, Colorado. This was a reaction more than a decision as I needed to climb up and out of a dark, scary place. An exercise in self-awareness and self-control, I learned to let go.
 

I landed in Squamish, B.C. where I lived in a tent, climbed, and worked from local cafes. I attended the Supercomputing trade show in Seattle and worked as a volunteer staff member at the isolated Holden Village in the Washington Cascades. Since the beginning of 2012, I have lived every other few weeks in Phoenix, Arizona and Boise, Idaho with family and with friends. I met amazing people and experienced a challenging mix of pleasure and pain through new friendships. I rediscovered total, full mind and body peace at Joshua Tree and wonderful isolation in the Superstition Wilderness yet wrestle with anxiety still.

The contrasts are intense but the experience rich. Where I once saw my journey as an exercise in recovery, I now see that I learned to flow from place to place, to find “home” no matter where I set my bags. Where I am now is neither behind nor beyond where I started, but on a different path altogether.

What I learned in this process is not only a means to work through challenging times, but how one may live every day, for a lifetime. I found freedom in mobility which I will continue to employ, no matter how stationary I may someday live.

Live in the moment.
Engage the future but only a few days at a time. Intend for things to unfold but with limited attachment to outcome. If you find yourself in that place which is out of reach and full of fear, pull back, let go, and trust that it will come to you when the time is right.

Live for people, not things.
Spend less time in relationship with things and more time in relationship with people. Reduce the clutter of ownership in order to make time for you and for other people in your life. Practice minimalism every day. Become self-reliant not through the acquisition of more, but through the desire for less such that you are comfortable without concern for what you left behind.

Live in a mobile home …
Find “home” within yourself so that no matter where you go, no matter where you end up, no matter what is given to you or taken away, you will be grounded and able to give freely of yourself to others.

… and care for it too.
This is the only body you will have, in this lifetime. Treat is as the finely tuned machine it is. We have changed what we put into our bodies more in the past 40 years than in the past 40,000 (“Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser). If it wasn’t available in markets just four or five decades ago, it’s not real food and should not pass between your lips. Exercise each and every day because your body is designed to walk, run, jump, and climb. As the longest distance running animals on this planet (“Born to Run” by Christopher McDougall), sitting in a chair all day will, slowly, kill you.

Give freely.
The greatest freedom we employ is not the freedom to do what we want (for that is in fact a burden in disguise) but the freedom to give of ourselves without concern for what we gain in return.

Choose your friends wisely.
Who we choose to accompany us on our journey both reflects and amplifies who we are. Welcome those who encourage your best habits, who cause you to laugh, who support you in reaching your goals.

Listen.
Trust those who ask questions more than they do speak. In return, ask questions and share only when asked for your experience or opinion. If you spend an entire day not speaking, that is a day well spent.

Do it wrong.
If everyone says you are doing it wrong, you may be doing it right. Pay attention to the context, listen carefully, and you’ll hear the difference between someone who shares their opinion out of fear and someone who expresses concern through love. In the end, however, the ones who likely have the “correct answer” are the ones who ask you what you need, and simply return your words to you.

Try … or walk away.
Work hard to achieve what you believe but do not be afraid to stop, step back, and try again from a new angle. Do not be afraid to walk away completely, for often is the case that those things we pursue without reward are the ones that come back to us when we no longer give chase.

Trust.
When fear drives you to make decisions, stop, back up, slow down —don’t jump! Instead, look at the situation from other points of view until you find a means of moving from a place of trust. Wait, it will unfold. You’ll feel the difference when you get there, you’ll just know.

Think.
Make time to just think, every day. Disconnect from the Internet. Turn off the TV. Walk away from the cell phone and just be. Close your eyes and enjoy your brain’s capacity to take you to places your body may never go. Inside the nucleus of an atom or to the distant reaches of a binary star. You may find reason to gasp or smile or simply breathe. Discover the joy which may be reached only through contemplation.

Never stop learning.
All research shows that the very act of learning a new language, a new activity (ie: juggling, climbing, dancing), or reading new subjects changes the wiring of your brain. Open new pathways before the old ones become frozen and resistant to change.

Make love to the setting sun.
Get outside early. Stay outside late. Feel the rays of the sun warm your entire body, not just your bare face, arms, or hands. Share yourself with someone you love as the shadows grow long.

Other essays in What I learned from the Road