At the End of Courage: Recovering and Learning from a Life on the Road

By ANDREW R. SLATON

Red River Paper Pro

“I thought of our life out there as music: vigorous but contained, resplendent but played as an adagio.” Gretel Ehrlich

Ellen and I are officially off the road. The last 8 years of our life have been completely consumed by our identity as modern nomads. And I’ve grown to hate that term.

Not that I hate the travel or even life in a trailer, but the term “nomad” in the modern context has become (in some ways) synonymous with rich white kids traveling to assuage their societal discontent. That was only partially us. Take out the rich and add in a faith that guided every moment, some traditional conservative values, libertarian leanings, an abnormal need to be enveloped in natural beauty, and you have a little bit better picture of us. Even here, I feel further nuance is required. But I digress deep into my craw.

Gertie, our lean, mean, ugly traveling machine (the shabby sheet metal tube on wheels we called home for almost 7 years) began breaking down quite regularly only a few years in. But it took quite some time before we figured out how to make a living wage with this lifestyle. So when the income grew more steady, and our tolerance of the degrading cheap trailer cratered, we decided to upgrade rigs. We projected that we would keep doing this for at least another five years, so, why not? We moved from our “starter home” to something a little nicer. I thought it might solve the growing exhaustion we were both experiencing.

Sometime shortly after buying Piper in the spring of 2023, our new, fancy trailer, we realized that the weariness we were experiencing was only exacerbated by adding in new complications to our mobile lifestyle with a big, comfortable rig. Add on top of that the excruciatingly painful death of our beloved travel mascot and constant-companion adventure dog, Islay, and we reached the point of being “done”. Islay’s death devastated us. It also marked an important point on the life map for us. The beginning of the end of this particular season.

We waffled back and forth for months. For me, letting go of this identity, in which I found much pride and self possession in, has been hard. I didn’t realize it, but I fed on the palatable envy I felt from others when I told them we summered in Wyoming and wintered in South Florida. Rarely did I meet anyone with as interesting or a fairytale-like life as ours. I spent my days how I pleased, fishing, or hiking, or photographing beauty, backpacking for weeks on end, kayaking the keys, bass fishing the Everglades. Beach days came gratuitously midweek in Naples. The gentle lap of the gulf, books, and seabirds caw. And there was real healing and joy in those years.

In the summers, we parked the trailer steps away from blue ribbon western rivers where I could fish in between emails and blog posts. I was in the Tetons every May for the grizzly bear emergence from hibernation. I taught photography workshops in the most beautiful locations. We soaked up the peace and grandeur of our surroundings.

Honestly, I could not have dreamt a life more perfectly tailored to my raw desires. I wouldn’t change a minute of any of it. And yet.

Emptiness crept back in, slowly. The melancholy like a slow motion uppercut. Discontent with where we were financially, and the hard life of the road was a soundtrack that always played faintly in the background. Islay’s death was the final straw. The weight of our grief and isolation was too much to bear. I could no longer medicate with adventure and beauty. I had to look pain and loss in the mouth. We were weary. It was too hard to go on. We needed mercy. We needed grounding.

It took a measure of courage to do what we did, certainly. Both when leaping off the cliff to a life on the road, and the recent decision to leave the road and settle down in Tennessee. But courage only gets us so far. If, after all, we believe that our lives are at the wild mercy of something greater. And I believe at the end of courage, is the beginning of surrender.

About The Author

Andrew R. Slaton is a Red River Paper Pro and describes himself as a recovering nomad, current writer/photographer, aspiring follower of Christ and angler who shares stories of the past and thoughts of the future. Visit his website and view his work at www.andrewslaton.com.

Andrew is offering all Red River Blog readers a 7-day free trial to sample more of his musings at “Wild Mercy.” Click on https://andrewslaton.substack.com/redriver to access the insightful work of this 21st Century Thoreau.

Original Publication Date: August 18, 2024

Article Last updated: August 19, 2024

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