I’ve spent most of my life RVing. My first rig—a 1982, 27-foot Class A Winnebago Warrior—was more a means to an end than a recreational vehicle. I was in my 20s, pursuing my passions and wondering why I was struggling to pay rent when I spent more time traveling to skate tours and contests than I did at home. So, I sold most of my belongings, bought the “Winnie,” and moved in full-time.
At seven miles to the gallon, I didn’t go very far very often, but I was able to live near the beach on the cheap and work my way out of debt. That ugly old beast gave me the gift of financial freedom, and I used it to go back to school.
X-ray school was demanding. I spent 40 hours a week in classes and clinicals while working a full-time job and attending even more classes for my bachelor’s degree—all while commuting four hours a day. To survive, I bought a 21-foot Class B+ Forest River Lexington and moved in. With a home on wheels, I could stop the daily LA commute and stay near campus until I had to return to work in Orange County on the weekends.
By some absolute miracle, I got permission to sleep at work and on campus. I was essentially living in parking lots, but on a rare day off, I could park at my favorite beaches and surf. I studied for my board exams using borrowed Wi-Fi from a state beach cafe. The Lexington gave me the gift of a mobile domicile that facilitated a new career.
After getting licensed, I moved to Oregon and spent several years working in a hospital and backpacking nearly the entire Pacific Northwest. But the call of the road hit hard during COVID. I scored a 19-foot Class C Adventurer named Flo, quit my full-time gig, and hit the road as a traveling X-ray tech. This time, I traveled for fun. I took Flo across the country more times than I can remember, zigzagging wherever I pleased. Flo gave me freedom.
Eventually, using an RV as a daily driver for work got old. It limited where I could apply; hospitals with parking structures were out of the question. I got on the waitlist for a Scamp, and the very next day, I received an email saying a 13-foot model had become available. I put down a deposit and listed the Adventurer immediately. Flo sold a week before I was due to pick up the Scamp. She had given me freedom to let the wind decide where we’d go.
I drove from Portland to the Scamp factory in Backus, Minnesota, and back in a single five-day weekend. Little did I know how deeply I would fall in love with this tiny fiberglass egg. Three years later, we’ve been across the country together more than a handful of times. My Scamp is small enough to escape the crowds but big enough to shelter my newly formed family in bad weather.
The most unexpected gift of the Scamp, however, was the opportunity to share what I’ve learned. On the drive back from Minnesota, I realized how little information existed on how to prepare for a Scamp pickup. I had a phone and a YouTube channel, so at camp that night, I filmed a quick recap of everything I’d learned. I edited it around the campfire and posted it, hoping it might make the way a little smoother for someone else.
That impulsive little edit has now been viewed over 10,000 times. People have reached out to say my content gave them the confidence to try something new. That outpouring of gratitude made me realize that across all these miles and all these rigs, I’ve gathered enough knowledge to help make the road a little smoother for my fellow travelers.
Looking back, I realize that while each rig gave me something I needed—financial stability, an education, or the freedom to roam, the Scamp gave me a community. What started as a way to save on rent has turned into a life defined by the people I meet and the stories we share. So, to everyone who has watched a video, sent a message, or honked and waved on the road: thank you for being part of this journey. I’m grateful to have you in the passenger seat as we see what’s around the next bend.
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