Why are van lifers so insufferable?
A response to Outside Magazine’s May 25th Almanac of Ethical Answers column
Last spring I was doom scrolling Instagram when I came upon an Outside Online column. Someone asked Sundog’s Almanac of Ethical Answers if we could ban remote workers in fancy vans from campgrounds. The resounding question was “why are van lifers so insufferable?”
I spent just as long thumbing through the social media comment section as reading the actual article. (Okay, I’ll admit it: longer.) So many thoughts surfaced that I rambled through four single-spaced pages about my own experiences living in a van, the importance of public respect, reductionist claims touted behind keyboards, dwindling access to nature as the environment—and our society—changes…
Here’s my attempt to make those paragraphs coherent.
The most valid critiques of full-time van lifers
Several of the Outside piece’s criticisms against van dwellers were things I’ve thought myself. Sundog suggests the “answer [to why we’re so annoyed] lies in a sprawling Venn diagram of wealth, demographics, access to technology, privilege, and self-congratulation, at whose very center sits the digital nomad.”
Privilege
Living in a van because you want to—the way my partner and I want to—is a privilege that’s often built on other privileges. “The stereotypical digital nomad is white, hetero, college-educated, and child-free. … vanlifers generally do not represent racial or economic diversity,” says Sundog. He’s right. That’s why accounts like Diversify Vanlife are so necessary (though not sufficient) in this space.
In my early childhood, my parents laughed at Matt Foley’s Saturday Night Live sketch about “living in a van down by the river”. (I recall my church’s youth group leaders playing it for us students, too, and not with a message of support.) My mom sent me a meme asking how the arrangement went from comedy bit to life goal shortly after Sean and I told her we’d put down a deposit on a custom conversion in 2021. One of my small answers is that people have always had different dreams; maybe the retro, worn-down bus was the ultimate goal for my forebears. But of course the shift is mostly explained by growing technology.
Full-time van life used to be associated with a sort of free-living sacrifice. You had to take up seasonal work to make ends meet or fund a few months of adventure at a time. Rigs were smaller on average. There were no smartphones, let alone apps like iOverlander and AllStays that tell you where to park, where not to park, where to fill up with water, and anything else you need to know.
In contrast, the life my partner, dog, and I live on the road is cushy. We mounted an internet satellite on our roof that allows Sean to take work calls and me to submit writing assignments from the most remote locations. We have a 30-gallon freshwater reserve. Our interior heating system pulls directly from our gas tank. We make money at home (I haven’t set foot in a traditional office space since pre-pandemic 2020) and had enough money to finance the van in the first place. These are not small things.
Most of the variables enabling us to live comfortably have little to do with earned success. Both our families are upper-middle class. Thanks to them and scholarships (which we largely accessed because of affluent high schools), we have minimal student loan debt. Sean is an engineer—it was easier for him to pursue this career after years in his hometown’s robotics club. I’m a writer—while I love to complain about too-small central Wisconsin, it’s full of people who cheered for me when I was young enough to believe them without question.
I’ll push back on anyone who calls us “freeloaders”. But privileged? Yes. Beneficiaries of a system that has made everything, including the decision to live comfortably in our car, easier for us and harder for others? Absolutely.
Self-aggrandizing
Acknowledging our privilege should be the bare minimum for those of us enjoying freedom and flexibility on the road. Sundog says it’s “unfair to assume that every couple inhabiting an upscale sportstruck is also writing a self-congratulatory blog about it, but it sure seems that way.” Self-congratulatory is the kicker here. This behavior ignores the role of circumstances beyond our control. When van lifers act like anyone could create the same incredible (overhyped on Instagram, make no mistake, but incredible nonetheless) experiences if they just tried hard enough—if they just were good enough—they are indeed insufferable.
I have no respect for people who imply everyone else is failing, believe their lifestyle is the only “right” way, and insist the reason they’re working remotely in Baja is because they are, as individuals, oh-so-great. I never want to be one of them.
Ruining environments for others
Finally, van lifers sometimes do ruin natural spaces for other people. “When [van lifers] overstay or crowd public lands, it gives the sense that the commons are being hogged by an elite swath. … With huge water tanks and solar panels on their vehicles, they can stay as long as they damn well please, absolutely dominating the rivers, beaches, crags, and hot springs; winter, spring, summer, and fall,” writes Sundog.
When we put a deposit down on our custom conversion slot, I started following adventure social media accounts. I was not thrilled with what I saw. Responsible dog ownership is my personal passion, and van lifers intent on living “wild and free” are some of the worst offenders for letting their pets run amok and failing to pick up waste. These sentiments were strengthened after after we hit the road ourselves and encountered trashed campsites, out-of-control dogs, and impossible crowds firsthand.
Caring for shared environments is particularly important when we consider the fact that, again, my partner and I want to be living in this van. Our house is our car on purpose. Not everyone in need of a safe boondocking spot has that luxury. When van lifers crowd areas where people without housing sleep—and force police to assert that no one is allowed to park there overnight—it’s a horrible example of privileged idiots without regard for people outside their own economic class or personal position.
“Save some for the rest of us,” implores someone who doesn’t live in a van. I’m with them.
Adding nuance to other claims
Other critiques in the Outside piece don’t stand up to scrutiny.
Remote workers are not all tech bros
Sundog asks “Is it safe to say that work performed from a camper van does not spread justice, peace, and equity as much as it aids in consolidating wealth and power for billionaires? … We suspect that those van dwellers are Bezos’ henchmen and Zuckerberg’s handmaidens who seem to have exploited a loophole in the social fabric.”
I think there’s some humor in the author’s words here—and he’s talking more about outside perceptions of van life workers than the actual reality. Still, the implication is clear: Digital nomads are often “tech bros”.
Are they tech bros more often than people who live in Brooklyn apartments, though? Than residents in my old suburb of Madison, Wisconsin? I’m not sure we have enough information to tell. Most people I know—travelers and neighborhood fixtures alike—support billionaires more than community-sustaining work in today’s capitalistic system. Plus there are the glaring exceptions, one under my own roof: Sean works for a climate change startup. Every day his job is to reduce needless emissions from oil drilling sites and landfills.
Are sanitary workers, nurses, factory employees, and dozens of other essential positions living in vans? Not as much as marketers and consultants and analysts. We’re remiss not to recognize this when talking about nomadism as an option for the modern masses. But remote work is more accessible than ever across professions. Some teachers and tutors can work from home. Some writers can. Some nonprofit leaders can.
My issue here is that Sundog’s premise applies to a huge swath of the workforce—not just full-time van lifers.
Fancy rigs ≠ automatically equal immense wealth
Sundog also suggests “$100,000 Sprinters show immense wealth.” The word immense gets tricky. (Wealth, too, honestly—semantics are always such a blast.)
I agree that fancy vans boast immense wealth if you purchase them on top of other things, like a stationary house, as an extra toy. Some people do that. But most full-time van lifers don’t maintain permanent addresses while they live on the road, meaning their van payments could be their only sizeable expense. Speaking anecdotally, our converted van (while not actually a Sprinter, it’s comparable) cost $110,000 for everything. That’s significantly cheaper than our old house in Florida, and we sold that home to cover this one. Someone could get a van like ours for less than a fourth of what friends from Wisconsin to Rhode Island have paid for their own properties. What looks fancy in one context becomes not fancy at all compared to a stationary residence: A nomad living in a $100,000 van has a home one-fifth the median house price.
Of course living in a luxury van—even if it does cost less than a modern house—is still, well, luxury. While I’m not sure it’s fair to say a $100,000 van shows immense wealth (that rig could be the single big purchase someone’s funneled all their savings into) it does show wealth. In the United States, a record half of renters spend more than 30% of their income on housing. (Zillow data puts median rent at about $2,000; Apartments.com says average rent is about $1,550; Rent.com notes median asking is $1,600. Numbers vary greatly between states, regions, and cities.) 77% of households can’t afford the median-priced home of roughly $500,000—and 40.5 million, or 29%, can’t go above $150,000 with current mortgage rates. Housing affordability is bleak for members of my generation and below compared to those who came before. $100,000 is a chunk of change many of us don’t have even with financing options. (Financing options, too, vary greatly. While writing this article I got monthly payment quotes ranging from $800 to $2,500 depending on down payment and provider. That’s on par with or less than the average/median US rent—but a down payment is typically much higher than a security deposit.)
Another layer of comparison difficulty is that a van is a depreciating asset, unlike a home on permanent property. In this sense it’s perhaps more comparable to renting (renters don’t build equity on which they can later capitalize). I’d never expect to be able to sell Hermes for what we paid for him, and we’re fortunate—partly due to our decisions, largely due to privilege—to be in a position where we don’t have to worry about recouping his cost.
And as if we need more complexity: Converted vans are also both cars and houses. We can’t compare them purely to housing options, because—especially for the many Americans who don’t live in walkable locations—living in a stationary home is hard without also owning a car. The average new car price was $47,000 last year; the average used was just shy of $30,000. If we subtract that low end from Sundog’s “$100,000 Sprinter” sentence, we find ourselves looking at a “house” part of the rig priced at $60,000. That’s a privilege to afford. (I can’t repeat this point enough.) It’s also cheap for a home.
I ultimately think there’s a fundamental difference between the conspicuous consumption of someone living in a massive house with a boat and a $100,000 Sprinter versus someone who has a $100,000 van as their only residence. I also find it interesting that van lifers face these criticisms more than homeowners. People who purchase property are often simply congratulated… without the same backlash as those who decide to live in a van that costs less. Doesn’t this beg, at least a little, the question of our society’s comfort with folks bucking traditional norms?
Many van lifers advocate for the environment
As previously asserted, some van lifers are downright shitty. Many others care a lot about the natural resources we enjoy. When you spend day in and day out in remote environments—when public land saves you from another loud night in a Walmart parking lot and enables your high energy dog to stretch her legs—it’s easy to fall in love with them even more. Since the 2024 presidential election, I’ve seen a slew of fellow nomads rally around the Alternate National Park Service and similar organizations to protect the spaces we call home. Every time Sean and I stay on public land, we cart out any trash in sight. In some ways living in a “fancy” van enables us to be better environmental stewards because we have a composting toilet on board (never have to worry about cat holes) and plenty of space to store garbage (whether our own or left-behind by fellow campers).
Do we have any data on what percentage of van lifers, compared to weekend warriors, negatively impact the environment? Not that I could find. I get the qualms with privileged, ignorant full-time travelers. (I feel them deeply myself.) I also think we could levy the same criticisms at most groups in the “adventure” space. And within the digital nomad movement, we find different subcultures and varying values.
The core problem? Access to the outdoors
The real tension in the Outside piece was more people wanting to access a recreation area than there was room for. We’re collectively finding shared spaces crowded… and infrastructure lacking.
Government: Prioritize public lands for more people
One partial solution is to invest further in outdoor environments. “Over the last fifteen years, outdoor recreation visits have steadily increased on public lands, but real funding for outdoor recreation has decreased,” notes a fall 2024 Outdoor Alliance article (emphasis my own).
One example: This October the Forest Service announced it would not hire seasonal workers in 2025. “This decision—and to an even greater extent, the funding environment that led to it—will affect the long-term health and well-being of National Forests, as well as recreation and visitation over the next year,” continues Outdoor Alliance. Contributors Jamie Ervin and Tania Lown-Hecht sum it up: “Adequate funding is crucial for things like staffing, processing permits and reservations, opening trailheads and other access points, trail maintenance, restoration, climate resilience, and more. As outdoor recreation participation increases, land managers need more resources—not less—to sustainably care for our public lands.”
Can the National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, Forest Service, and related organizations consider efforts to even the playing field between full-time van lifers and occasional campers? I think so. (I’ve long found it unfair that first-come first-serve sites are basically inaccessible to anyone who has to work late in an office on Friday. This fall we snagged a camp at Canyonlands National Park purely because we were able to park at the nearby trailhead an hour before check out, and that was a huge privilege.) We should think about these details! But they’re moot points without greater public land support overall.
A final anecdote about vans in crowded rec spots: We’ve booked the majority of our designated campground visits at the last minute, when other people cancel. Obviously having a home on wheels enables this flexibility in a way most people don’t have. (Another privilege we haven’t ourselves earned.) Our presence doesn’t negatively impact anyone else when we claim a campsite that would otherwise sit empty, though—and over the years we’ve run into dozens of bare sites either because no one claimed them after a cancellation or because the original reserver didn’t cancel in the first place. Are most van lifers doing this to get their “subsidized rent” (as the original Outside reader called it)? I doubt it. I know several who plot their travels months in advance. But it’s another reminder that we can’t simply look at a stranger in a campground and know what it took for them to get there.
Society: Reduce feelings of competition and zero-sum bias
Sometimes resources are limited. Other times they’re not, and we feel like we’re competing with each other when we aren’t. Amanda Montell discusses zero-sum bias in The Age of Magical Overthinking: the idea that if someone else is successful in a way we’d like to be, it must mean we have a smaller chance of achieving what we want. Our current stage of capitalism encourages us to not just keep up with the Joneses but be better than them. It’s exhausting.
Most of the time we don’t have to compete with each other, though. I mean, we do when it comes to reservation.gov time slots and getting to first-come first-serve campgrounds early. (Again: Changes at the government level could help with this.) But in terms of life enjoyment? In terms of actually getting out and enjoying myriad forms of nature? My experiences don’t have to look like yours—and yours don’t have to look like mine.
Community: Basic respect to avoid giving everyone a bad name
I worry a loud minority has given "digital nomads" a bad name. Some of my fellow van lifers suck. (Please join me in singing Olivia Rodrigo: I wanna meet his mom… just to tell her her son sucks!) This community needs to do a better job insisting on minimum acceptable standards—like packing out trash, emptying tanks in appropriate environments, respecting stay limits, etc—to reduce shitty ripple effects.
Other van lifers obsess about not overstaying our welcome. We support the local communities we pass through. We keep top of mind that not everyone who lives in a vehicle is doing it because they want to and we need to protect access to spaces for them. We actively try not to be assholes.
When my partner and I hiked to Delicate Arch at sunrise a few months ago, we were greeted by a spread of sharp-elbowed photographs. They were booing anyone who approached the arch. (The official Utah tourism website says it is okay to stand beneath the arch for a photo, so long as you take turns like a respectful adult.) Our fellow hikers weren’t doing anything wrong… but the photographers didn’t want any people at all in their time lapse shots. Their mob mentality tarnished our morning. I also couldn’t let it poison my view of all photographers. We encountered one grumpy group taking over a public spot. They weren’t representatives for everyone who’s ever pointed a camera.
I think the same goes for van lifers. Nomads do terrible things. They also do great things. Apartment dwellers do terrible things. They also do great things. Homeowners to terrible things. They also do great things. Do we all do equally terrible and great things? No—and it’s worth considering how our lifestyles contribute to our impacts. But it’s not as simple as “van lifer must be bad”.
Individual: Accept different lifestyles without bitterness
We’ve arrived at the loftiest idea here. It’s hard to accept that others choose different lifestyles from us. It can be threatening. Many people cling to tradition, and living in a van is not traditional.
My parents are jealous of me and my partner. So are his bosses. So are several of my clients. At best? We acknowledge the layers upon layers of privilege at play in all our life trajectories and accept that we’ve made different choices based on what we each value most. At worst? We bristle because someone’s decisions don’t look like ours.
I’m proud to be a full-time van lifer. I’m proud to drive my bright yellow rig in a way that (hopefully) gives my fellow digital nomads a good name. And you have my word that I’ll be the first to knock them off their self-assigned pedestals when they need it.
great read