The frugal traveler looks at a hotel and sees extortion. Even a hostel is unnecessary, and a campground isn’t much of an improvement. Twenty dollars a night to sleep on the ground? The frugal traveler knows better.
The frugal traveler turns to stealth camping. Any place can be a campsite, if you lower your standards enough. Enter the rest stop, the semi-flat mountaintop, the park bench in the middle of a city. It might be inconvenient, and it might be illegal, but the frugal traveler knows a free night is worth it.
Stealth camping comes in three flavors:
The Miserable
The Dangerous
Mike and I elected for a more luxurious camping spot the second night. Poor sleep and rock climbing do not mix well.
We drove halfway around Skaha Lake and a good six kilometers down promising roads, hunting for open and accessible public land. Two cars parked overnight on Crown land would not draw much attention. Unfortunately, however, the area around Skaha Bluffs consists primarily of vineyards and ranches and NO TRESPASSING signs, and two cars parked overnight on private property would almost certainly draw the ire of an upset landowner
Without a vehicle, stealth camping is simple. The frugal traveler finds a few a bushes, throws down his sleeping bag, and leaves before sunrise. He will have enjoyed a refreshing night spent almost completely invisible to the common passerby. By using this technique, the ambitious frugal traveler can sleep in an empty field, a city park, or even a stranger’s yard.
Mike and I finally found an unmarked dirt road. The imminent sunset had made us optimists, and we assumed that the houses scattered beside it were anomalies. Holdouts, perhaps, from a time before the government bought this land and made it public property.
When it comes to legality, the frugal traveler has mastered the art of self-delusion. An authority figure is more likely to forgive a bout of polite trespassing when the perpetrator honestly believes he or she has committed no crime.
If the frugal traveler cannot muster genuine, pure-hearted innocence, contrived innocence will work as a close second.
Half a mile into the woods, our dirt road split. We took the fork less traveled, and soon, all signs of civilization disappeared. Only trees and dirt surrounded our two vehicles. We parked. Mike and I left our tents in the trunk and laid our sleeping pads and sleeping bags straight on the ground; if we needed to leave in a hurry, neither of us wanted to spend five minutes struggling with stakes and poles. We cooked dinner over a camp stove as the sun slipped below the horizon, and we congratulated each other. We had the forest to ourselves, and we had it for free. Whisky seemed like an appropriate celebration.
But after our first drink, a pair of headlights bounced down our dirt road. A minivan stopped, and the driver rolled down her window.
“Are you guys lost?”
“A little,” I lied. “We were looking for a place to sleep, but it got dark before we could find anything. We thought we’d sleep here and leave as soon as it got light.”
“This is actually my property. I own these ten acres.”
“I’m so sorry—we thought it was public land.”
“We didn’t see any signs,” Mike added.
“There used to be signs,” she said, “but people keep taking them down.”
“We can leave if you want us to…” Mike looked forlorn.
“There’s some people around here who wouldn’t like that.” The woman sighed. “I’d say go ahead and stay, but… ”
“Where do you think we should go?” I asked. “We don’t need anything fancy—just a place to sleep.”
“I’m trying to think of somewhere… Maybe by the water tower?”
“We’d leave by six in the morning,” Mike said. “Seven at the latest.”
“You know what?” The woman was nodding to herself. “If anyone says something, you tell them Gladys Kroger said you could camp here.”
“We don’t—are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She was nodding again, this time with conviction. “It’ll be okay.”
“Thank you.” I gave her my best smile. “Thank you very much. You don’t know how much we appreciate this.”
Gladys Kroger smiled, too. She rolled up her window and drove off, feeling, I hoped, like a very generous woman. A savior for two lost and helpless travelers.
The sin of trespassing diminishes drastically if in the process, the trespassing victim accepts the frugal traveler’s offer to join the kingdom of Good Samaritans. In such cases, the frugal traveler acts not so much as a minor criminal, but rather, as a catalyst for good deeds.
Another requirement for the frugal traveler: the ability to justify his or her illegalities.
I awoke sometime during the night to a pair of headlights. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, but the brightness kept me half-blind. It was a Mustang. It lacked a muffler, and it was idling just behind my car.
I waved.
The Mustang shifted into gear and reversed. It turned down the dirt road and plunged into the darkness, and I listened to it for a long time. It drove to the edge of my hearing, where its roar reduced to a hum. I heard a car door slam, and then another, and another.
Mike was still asleep. I considered waking him, piling in our cars, and racing away before the night turned ugly. But Gladys Kroger had stamped us with her approval. And I was tired.
Exhaustion is one of the most common side effects of stealth camping, yet it is also one of the most dangerous. The intoxication of sleeplessness can be every bit as debilitating as wine or whisky. The frugal camper must possess self-discipline, and he or she must learn to recognize and combat the addled thinking of sleep-deprivation.
The Mustang returned. Its headlights flashed across our cars, and then it drove off-road and pointed itself directly at us, angled perpendicular to our cars and roaring like a battering ram.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag and approached the Mustang, my hands raised in surrender. No weapons. No threats. I passed through the headlights’ glare and saw three men sitting in the car. All were big in the Mike Tyson way, and all three looked angry.
I talked my ass off.
If caught in a spot of local trouble, the frugal traveler will avoid a flat-out conflict at all costs. The frugal traveler does not know the land, does not know the local laws, and does not know any outside resources. All of his or her valuables—wallet, camping gear, vehicle—are at stake, as is his or her physical well-being. Every advantage lies with the local. The frugal traveler’s best weapon is charm.
“I’m really sorry,” I finished, “If I had seen signs, I never would have camped here, but Gladys Kroger said it would be okay.”
The three Mike Tysons glared at me.
“You’re lucky she said something,” the driver said.
And that was it. The Mustang drove away. Back to edge of my hearing, where I heard car doors slam once more, and then the Mustang drove back down the dirt road and past our impromptu camp.
A third vehicle stopped later that night, and again, I thanked God for Gladys Kroger. When Mike and I left at six o’clock in the morning, we agreed: we would spend the next two nights somewhere else.
Stealth Camping: A How-To Guide for the Frugal Traveler will continue on August 6th
NPR called Josh “a modern-day Jack Kerouac” after he wrote about his 7,000-mile, no-money hitchhiking journey through the United States. After hitchhiking, he found homes in the Pacific Northwest, the Episcopal Church, and the post calvin. He now helps authors introduce their books to the world as the marketing manager for HarperCollins Leadership, builds websites as the owner of Branded Look LLC, and makes trail maps as the owner of Where We’ve Been Trail Maps. Josh’s writing has appeared in places such as The Emerson Review, Front Porch Review, and Perspectives.
1 Comment
Submit a Comment
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Those must have been Americans in that Mustang. I can’t imagine Canadians being so obnoxious.