After two terrifying months at home in the spring of 2020, we decided to take a trip. This trip was undertaken with an acknowledgment of the risks and all plans were made to mitigate those risks. Taking our own food. Only stopping for gas when absolutely necessary. Within a day's drive so no hotel was needed. Having our own portable toilet so bathroom stops could be by the side of the road where the air was fresh(ish) and virus could easily blow by us. The rental of a VRBO that hadn't been occupied in months.

We headed to a place on our to-travel list, highly recommended and in the mountains. At that point I would have taken a farmhouse in Kansas just for a change of scenery even if that meant fields of wheat and the curve of the earth.

We arrived safely. It was splendid and spring and had more hiking trails than I could do in the week. A robust mountain biking trail network that we happened upon when a small child needed to pee. A stream ran next to a trail downtown. In the desert no less - the universe was handing us one. Every day we put on our hiking shoes, pedaled our bikes, and donned bathing suits to build dams in the wash when the afternoon warmed up.

This was the trip that convinced me that traveling and being outside could be a way of life during these isolationist times. There was at least a 40% chance to survive with the majority of my sanity intact. The philosophy was simple; move our bodies in the outside air as much as possible. But we needed to go places where moving our bodies outside was interesting and there were new things to see.

So we began Away We Go. We purchased a travel trailer and a vehicle to take us on our way. We booked campgrounds, at first with the kind of overplanning that comes from trepidation. We researched gear and we practiced packing.

A year passed. Then a little more. A rhythm appeared. I worried less about seeing absolutely everything at any particular stop. Not because it was less important but schoolwork and office work returned to previous levels. Even if we didn't do all of a particular trail there would be another one at our next stop. I got spoiled in the riches of what was on offer in the American wild.

Then we decided that living somewhere closer to those spectacular natural places was preferable to staying where we lived for the last decade. We had been scouting all along but engaged the use of a real estate agent and installed the app on our phones. We compared house prices with available trail systems. A planned trip took a few detours to locations high on moving wish list. Showings occured, bidding wars ensued and a mountain of (thankfully, electronic) paperwork was initiated.

Living on the road has tremendous perks. It is also not always easy. Weather and water are central. We think a few campgrounds ahead to what is available supply-wise. Solar panels must be properly positioned throughout the day so a cold night isn't an exercise in misery. Parenting is now in public since, let's face it, we're living in a glorified tent and there is no appreciable sound dampening offered by a layer of canvas.

Multiplying the difficulties of living on the road with the difficulties of living in the real world made for a trip where everything was in-between. It was a purgatory of to-dos. This paddle on the lake during a so-so afternoon, or get an hour's worth of work done? Find bank statements for proof of financing or go on a hike I know my children will do nothing but complain during the entirety of?

Then the decision was final. A house was purchased, most belongings given away or sold. After living without for so long it was easier to part with.

And now, at the end of a trip where one foot was in the world of staged house showings and the other was in a trailer in a campground, we find ourselves on the other side of the valley from where we took that very first test trip. It was in that rental house we tested this life to see if it would work. We watched tremendous desert sunsets from a patio that faced the direction we are right now. We have gone so far - tens of thousands of miles - since then. We've crossed the valley and we are permanently changed for it.

Now I'm looking back to where we were and seeing the sun rise. New starts come from there. The earth evidently agrees.

I'm not sure what's over this next set of mountains. For certain, there will be prickly times and spectacular ones. The desert will grab us with its teeth. The wind will talk to us through the pine trees. The sun will set with firey spectacle if we watch closely enough.

And we will be able to look back across the valley to where we've been, smile, and cross the next range.

This story inspired by events at Bandelier National Monument, New Mexico.