Pop-Up Dreams and Highway Glue: A Love Letter to the Camper Life I Can’t Afford”


A bunch of years ago, when the kids were little and life felt a little more portable, Jamie and I bought a Coleman Bayside pop-up camper with a slide-out kitchen.

It wasn’t fancy, it had some issues, but it had heart—and room. Two king-size slideouts, a couple of twin-sized kid beds, and a little full tucked inside made it the perfect mobile basecamp for our chaotic crew. It even had a stove that could mount outside for those greasy summer breakfasts or inside if the weather turned. the kitchen that slid out and the little cargo box up front made it all work.


Still proud of how I backed this up under a tree with just enough room to pop .. The shade from the beach sun was well worth Jamie yelling at me to go further right for 20 minutes


Eventually, I scored an awning and poured more money than I’d care to admit into the roof, which was always threatening to shed itself like a sunburnt snake. Those Colemans had a delamination issue, and at highway speed, ours could fling off plastic chunks like confetti at a cheap parade.

Being a body guy, I naturally tried everything. I think I used six different kinds of epoxy at one point. I especially worried about how the awning attached—one strong gust and I pictured it flying off like a wing, taking a hunk of roof with it.

It didn’t have AC either, which in the Carolinas is a special kind of suffering. Up north, we managed fine, but down here? I got crafty. If the site had good electric, I’d rig up a portable AC unit in the doorway. It was loud, drippy, and ugly—but it let us sleep. That pop-up wasn’t perfect, but it let us go, and that’s all we ever wanted.

One of my favorite trips was to Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. Yep, camping in New York City. It’s a real thing. Twenty bucks a night to park in a field near Jamaica Bay while planes screamed overhead from LaGuardia. The good bathroom closed at 7PM, and the “other one” had vibes that said leave your dignity at the door. But it didn’t matter. We were there. We could kayak. I’ve got this great photo below of me holding a dead horseshoe crab the size of a Frying pan while my daughter—future marine biologist—looked on in awe.


We were twenty minutes from Rockaway Beach. I’d sing the Ramones on the way there, the kids would groan and tell me to stop—but those memories are tattooed on my heart. That trip ended on the Brooklyn Promenade, watching fireworks over Manhattan on the Fourth of July. We’d staked out our spot early, and I may or may not have almost body-checked a few people who tried to sneak in late and block our view. Worth it.



That pop-up went everywhere: Myrtle Beach, deep into Pennsylvania, and sometimes just ten feet from the house—giving the kids a space to invite friends and act loud, weird, and totally themselves. We'd throw it up in the yard, and just like that, they'd have their own little fort.

Now the kids are grown or growing, the bills are real, and I’m starting a new job. I don’t have a pot to piss in or a camper to tow—but man, I want one again.

Something easy to set up. Big enough for me, Jamie Lee, the dogs, and maybe the occasional kid. Not a monster with three axles and four rooftop AC units—just something with working air, a comfy bed, and the ability to say, “Get in, Honey. We’re getting out of here.”

I look at used campers the way other people scroll Zillow on vacation—dreaming about something I can't quite afford, mocking the $650,000 “fixer-upper” listings, but not able to look away. I'm in love with the idea of going.

Truth is, I kind of owe my existence to camping. My mom and dad met at a campground my great-uncle Moe built after the family hotel burned down. Legend says another uncle showed up with a pop-up and asked if he could plug in by the pool. Uncle Moe looked at that funny little trailer and asked, “You think that might catch on?” A few days later, he was cutting roads, building bathhouses, and  eventually renting campsites. The hotel was gone, but something new took root.

And that’s where my parents met.

So yeah, maybe that’s why this itch to tow something behind me feels deeper than nostalgia. Maybe it’s in my blood—rolling toward a place we haven’t seen yet, dogs in the back, Jamie up front, me yelling at some guy in the left lane to get over.

I don’t have the cash, the camper, or the time—but I’ve got the itch, the road, and the memory of why this matters. And one day soon, I’ll have the rest.

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