Our Great and Terrible Maiden Voyage – Testing Out ‘Being Homeless’

Are we ready to do this thing?

Stuffing the last pile of blankets and bedding into the camper shell on the bed of our Ford F250, I chuckle.

We're supposed to 'live' in there? There's not even enough room to climb in, let alone 'live' in.

I mean, that is what we're doing, right? Undertaking a trek across two continents that will span two years or more.

Basically, we're planning on being 'homeless' and living in our truck for the next two plus years.

Are we crazy?

Home sweet home?

I question our sanity eyeing the back of our truck overflowing with every last blanket we own, five sleeping bags, a small suitcase of clothing, our 'kitchen' box, fuel (used vegetable oil), camping chairs, and who knows what else.

This isn't even all the stuff we plan on bringing - it's a test voyage, so we're leaving a lot at home. How will we ever fit?

Packing up the kids, we drive out of town singing our recommended theme song - "On the road again. Just can't wait to get on the road again..."

The sun shines brightly in a cloudless sky as we head north toward the city of Soldotna, about an hour and a half away from Homer.

The kids travel well, writing in their notebooks, practicing their spelling. They request a few rounds of I've Been Working on the Railroad and She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain.

In town we pick up tonight's meal - hot dogs and chips by majority vote.

Weanie anyone?

Later we'll get a friend who will join us, but for now we might as well set up camp.

Following the advice of a local resident, we try three recommended campsites on the outskirts of town, amidst cries of "I'm hungry! When are we going to go camping?"

One, two and three strikes, we're out. Closed until May 1st.

Ohhh, the unpredictability of travel. I tell my husband of the story I recently read about getting 'lost' in India (despite the title, it's not vulgar), and we laugh knowing full well the misadventures of voyaging.

We better get re-used to it.

Well, we do the only thing you can do when you are traveling with hungry children and your trying to 'go with the flow'.

Parking in front of the gate barring our entrance to picnic benches that beckon below, we pull out our camp stove and roast a few hot dogs.

With full bellies and a chance to run around, the kids are much more content. So is mommy. It's great to be out here where they can run and yell without my constant interruption of 'Shhh, be quiet,' 'Sit still,' Stop running.'

Kenai River

We pick up our friend Chris, find a home for the night on the banks of Skilak Lake, and set up camp in the dark, a reminder of the late hour, since 'dark' doesn't happen in Alaska this time of year until about 10:30 pm.

Comforting cold and tired children in the cab, I wonder how we'll manage when Chris isn't with us. Will Greg set up the tent alone? Will I have to let the kids cry?

I attempt changing a diaper on the back seat. Aaliyah spills a bag of chips on the floor. What do I do with all this garbage now?

Sigh. I guess this is what I need to get used to and figure out.

The tent's up and a fire is roaring. Baby Atlas sits on my lap, mesmerized by the flames. The moon shines down on us from it's place in the heavens. Ahhh, contentment.

But soon little one's yawn, the fire dwindles, the cold is cloaking us on all sides.

Baby, Aaliyah, Kyah and I attempt to get situated in the back of the truck. The boys will be sleeping in the tent.

Without enough clearance to sit upright, I hit my head again and again and again while I try to tuck my two youngest children in - adjusting blankets, tucking, snuggling, readjusting, pulling them off to put on a diaper, then retucking, readjusting, trying to comfort and calm their crying.

This is ridiculous. My back is hurting, my body is shivering, I can hardly move around. Do I really want to do this for the next two years?

That seems like an overwhelming proposition.

I don't have to do it for the next two years, I only have to do it now. There's only this moment to deal with, I can handle that.

Kids now sleeping, snuggled under the covers I look at the full moon shining brightly out the window to my left. Isn't this what it's about? Isn't this what we're after, being closer to nature? To be able to lie in my bed and look out at the stars and the moon?

I close my eyes and drift into sleep, thinking maybe the 'hardship' has it's payoffs.

Awaking hours later, the moon has moved across the horizon and is now to the far right.

All sleep soundly, but the baby's face and his little hand are like ice, the only parts of his body that are exposed to the arctic night air.

I pull him closer and put the blankets over our heads, ensuring that he doesn't suffocate.

Tossing, turning, trying to relieve pressure from my hips, trying to stretch out but my 'bed' is not long enough, wondering how in heaven Greg is supposed to fit on this 'bed' with me when this is our home.

My toes are round little icicles. I try to cover them. Now my back is exposed. I pull the blanket up.

Aaliyah falls off of her elevated bed on top of me. I brave the cold and push her back up, then dive back under my warm covers.

As I drift off to sleep, the blanket falls on the baby's face and he stirs, cries out. I wake up to hold the blanket up with my arm again, so he can stay covered and warm.

I peek out occasionally and watch the frost slowly start to accumulate on the windows, wondering when the sun will come out and it will be warm enough to escape this frozen hell.

Will this night ever end?

Read about why it was worth it...

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