Where I grew up, my friends and I played in ditches and on concrete. The closest I got to the outdoors was the beach in Galveston, Texas, which meant a day by the polluted, brown bay water. The only parks that I knew had broken swings and basketball goals with no nets. We definitely didn’t go on mountain hikes—let alone take trips to visit national parks. Was it because Black folks just didn’t go outdoors? All of my family and friends didn’t. To us, going outside meant the neighborhood, not the world.
Fast-forward to my second year of college, when I was reluctantly rappelling down the face of a 100-foot mountain during a staff-development camping trip in the Arkansas portion of the Ozarks. We camped in the woods near a river, ate dinner out of foil packets over the campfire, and went on a hike where our guides got us purposely “lost” for “team-building purposes.” I didn’t sign up for any of that; I was just there so I wouldn’t be fired. The only other time I had pitched a tent was as an item display for my previous job at Walmart. But in the mountains, I was crammed with five other people in a four-person tent. I woke up to my coworkers yelling, “Hey Mike, jump in the river to bathe whenever you get up. We’re all doing it!” I took my “bath” out of the sink at the nearby campground restroom.
At the time, I was more focused on finding air conditioning than enjoying myself, but days later it hit me: I was really in the wild. The adrenaline rushes, unpolluted air, knowledge gained, and fears conquered all flashed through my mind as I went back to my normal routine. I felt accomplished knowing I added experience to my life that felt substantial—and fulfilling. Sleeping on the ground, waking up before sunrise, and aimlessly walking through the woods (my first impression of hiking) were draining and frustrating in the moment. Yet, as I went through the pictures developed from my disposable camera, all I saw were smiles and adventures.
I spent the next decade referencing the thrill of that weekend. I rarely made it back into the outdoors, though, because I stayed focused on “real life.” In the grand scheme, that Arkansas trip was just a footnote. My main concern was finishing the next step in my accepted path: school, job, marriage, house, kids, retirement. It wasn’t my preferred way of doing life, just the safest. I went through a mental tug-of-war deciding on the best path to take: the known or the unknown. I was already deep into the known. The unknown, however, entailed dropping everything that felt like a burden and only pursuing passions. Traveling the great outdoors was calling to me.
That’s when I caught wind of millennial YouTubers talking about their adventures around the world all while living in a van. It sounded to me like a life-long Ozarks trip. While I didn’t necessarily have to quit my job and sell all of my possessions to have these types of adventures, I felt that that kind of immersion was necessary for continued progression. If I was going to do it, I was all in. I bought a van.
Now, admittedly, so-called “vanlife” was the whitest thing I could do. I saw no Black people in the YouTube or Instagram communities. My thinking was: if I couldn’t find them on the internet, I definitely wouldn’t see them in the streets. That messed with my head for a bit. Me, the only Black man in America living out of his van? But once I got into the rhythm of building out my van, that concern began to subside. When I finished, and realized I could live in it and just leave to go anywhere, I knew I had made the right move. Without a second thought, I went straight from Texas to South Dakota for three weeks, hiking, exploring, and photographing Custer State Park, Black Hills National Forest, and the Badlands. Those weeks turned into over a year of perpetual travel and adventure.
Just because I had embraced this freedom didn’t mean the rest of the world would be comfortable seeing me out there. That’s the sense I got, at least, after staying in my van at a campground for a few days and having someone call the cops. The police officers admitted I wasn’t in the wrong, but that they were “just checking on me on behalf of a concerned call.” No other details or explanation were given.
No matter how much I embraced this new adventure, there was still a fear factor to venturing out into the unknown. I was still a Black man in these foreign places, surrounded by people who didn’t look like me. It made me uncomfortable how comfortable everyone was in those remote and often dangerous environments. My not knowing showed and I often felt like I was somewhere I didn’t belong.
Rather than stifle me, I turned my fear into encouragement. My South Dakota trip kickstarted this courage, as it began to normalize the outdoors, and introduced adventure photography and travel into my life. From the high-altitude peaks at the end of my hikes to the herds of bison keeping me company, I had experiences in three weeks that rivaled my 30 years. I found what I loved.
I’m now that Black man you see whistling while scrambling down trail along with everyone else, camera in hand. Even though I don’t live in my van full-time anymore, my days continue to be filled with exploration. Living in Seattle, I often drive it to the mountains or the coast to be outdoors. And when it’s time to see my family back in Texas, rather than fly, I opt to drive through the multiple states in-between, stopping for hikes and photo ops. Sometimes, I wonder what life would have been like if this sense of belonging to the outdoors had been instilled when I was younger. But then again, maybe I would’ve taken it for granted instead of pursuing this passion. My gratefulness is for both the missed adventures and the new ones. Where I go from here is because of who I was and who I am now.
