AM I CRAZY FOR OVERLANDING ACROSS THE COUNTRY?
By Jarrod Nobbe
The trip started feeling real when I began mentally packing while I was supposed to be focused on something else.
I’d be at the grocery store and remember I still needed to check the camp stove. I’d be trying to fall asleep when I suddenly wondered whether I had downloaded the right offline maps, packed enough water, or left one essential tool sitting on the workbench. The closer the departure date got, the more every normal day came with a quiet checklist running in the background.
A cross-country overland trip sounds simple when you say it fast. I’m taking the 4Runner from North Carolina to Colorado, camping along the way, riding bikes, testing gear, and taking the long route whenever it makes sense. Easy enough.
Then the plan starts turning into a pile of smaller questions. Is the truck actually ready for that many miles? Did I pack too much? Did I somehow pack too little? Is the route solid, or have I opened too many tabs and convinced myself I have a route? And why does every piece of gear suddenly feel like the one thing that could ruin the trip if it stays home?
That pre-trip anxiety is probably familiar to anyone who has planned something bigger than a weekend away. You can make lists, check forecasts, organize bins, and tell yourself you’re prepared. Once the wheels start moving, there’s always a small part of your brain convinced you forgot something important.
THE DRIVEWAY BECOMES A STAGING AREA
Once the countdown began, the driveway turned into a staging area for camping gear, bike gear, recovery equipment, tools, camera gear, spare layers, and the growing category of things I’ve decided are “probably important.” Every item has a reasonable case for making the trip. The trouble is that every reasonable case also adds one more thing to install, test, or pack before I leave.
The drawer system from Solid Wood Worx was one of the bigger projects in that process. I was still figuring out what needed quick access, what could live deeper in the truck, and what had no business coming with me at all. It’s easy to call something a system when it’s sitting in a clean garage. It takes a little more thought when you’re trying to picture finding a headlamp, a tool, or a stove after a long day on the road.
Then, for a while, it felt like Larry, our FedEx guy, was pulling up every other day with another package. Some boxes held gear I’d been researching for weeks. Others contained things I had apparently decided were essential at 11:30 p.m. after spending too much time researching them online. Installing the rooftop tent became one of those projects. Getting it mounted alongside the new awning took more time and patience than I expected, plus a handful of small adjustments to get the fit and clearances right. Efficiency is the name of the game on a trip like this, so I wanted the tent and awning to work together cleanly from setup through breakdown instead of turning camp into a puzzle every time I stopped for the night. Before long, the garage was full of boxes, loose gear, and half-finished piles. It looked like I had opened a small overland outfitter that was already behind on inventory.
HOW A DRIVE TO COLORADO TURNED INTO A WHOLE THING
The original plan was straightforward enough. I was already headed to Colorado for USA Weightlifting Nationals, so I figured I’d take the 4Runner, stretch out the drive, camp along the way, and make a few bike stops before settling into Colorado Springs. That sounded like a pretty normal idea for about five minutes.
Then Pisgah became the starting point. I started adding mountain bike trails, dispersed camping areas, scenic detours, gear-testing opportunities, and a few places that seemed worth chasing once I got west. The more I looked at the map, the more the trip became an east-to-west overland route with far more moving parts than I had originally planned.
That shift made the planning feel bigger, too. I wanted enough room in the schedule to follow a good trail recommendation, settle into a spot worth staying an extra night, ride when the opportunity showed up, and make adjustments without feeling like every hour had already been spoken for. The route still has structure. I also want to leave enough room for the road to get a small vote in the day.
THE FALSE COMFORT OF HAVING A PLAN
I’ve spent plenty of time learning my way around onX Offroad, saving possible dispersed spots, checking forest roads, and convincing myself that a few pins on a map qualify as a solid plan. It gives me a much better starting point once the road leads beyond reliable cell service. It also makes it very easy to keep adding “one more option” until the map starts looking more ambitious than the calendar.
But off-grid camping has a way of making a plan feel theoretical fast. A pin can get you close, but it can’t tell you whether another rig beat you there, whether the road has changed since the last satellite image, or whether the spot is somewhere you’ll actually want to spend the night once you roll in. A forest road can turn rougher than expected, wash out, narrow down to something that feels questionable with a loaded truck, or lead to a place that simply doesn’t feel right in person.
WHY THIS ONE FEELS DIFFERENT
USA Weightlifting Nationals gave me a reason to be in Colorado. The rest of the trip grew from a question I’d been carrying around since I started building the 4Runner: What would this setup feel like once it had to support a real adventure?
I’ve taken weekend trips, camped out of the truck, and spent plenty of time testing gear close to home. This one asks more. It’s the longest and most involved trip I’ve ever planned, with long travel days, mountain bikes, dispersed camps, changing terrain, and plenty of decisions that won’t have an easy answer once I’m out on the road.
That carries some weight. I want to see how the truck works when I’m actually living out of it for more than a few days. I want to find out which parts of the setup earn their place, which pieces of gear were mostly the result of late-night purchase decisions, and how well I handle the parts of the plan that change once I’m already moving.
A three-and-a-half-hour flight would’ve put me in Colorado Springs much faster. It also would’ve skipped the forest roads, camp mornings, mountain bike stops, and slow change from familiar Appalachian terrain to the open West. The destination matters. The route is part of the reason I’m going.
"THE DESTINATION MATTERS. THE ROUTE IS PART OF THE REASON I’M GOING.”
A three-and-a-half-hour flight would’ve put me in Colorado Springs much faster. It also would’ve skipped the forest roads, camp mornings, mountain bike stops, and slow change from familiar Appalachian terrain to the open West. The destination matters. The route is part of the reason I’m going.
WHEN THE PLANNING ENDS
At some point, prep stops creating certainty. The route is mapped well enough. The truck is loaded well enough. The gear is charged, the food is packed, and there’s probably still one item sitting in the garage that’ll make me turn around 10 minutes down the road.
That’s what has made this trip feel equal parts exciting and intimidating. It’s the biggest one I’ve planned, and a few questions will stay unanswered until I’m several states from home, dusty from a forest road, and looking for a place to spend the night.
The truck is ready. The road is waiting. The only way to find out whether I prepared for the trip ahead is to start the engine and head west.