I roamed and rambled and followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts,
And all around me, a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.
Was a high wall there that tried to stop me
A sign was painted said: Private Property,
But on the back side it didn’t say nothing —
This land was made for you and me.
When the sun come shining, then I was strolling
In wheat fields waving and dust clouds rolling;
The voice was chanting as the fog was lifting:
This land was made for you and me.
Woody Guthrie
There’s a tradition to uphold, I’m aware, in writing these how-to posts. I’m supposed to peacock my own expertise, describe how flawlessly I’ve rough camped, in misty glens, on pine-sprinkled clifftops, amid glittering dunes. But then how could you trust the advice? To paraphrase ancient wisdom, we learn through our fuck-ups. And in my experience of rough camping, there has been quite a lot of learning, because there have been an enormous number of fuck-ups.
I’ve catalogued these events in names that invoke time-worn horror movies. There has been The Night of The Fire Ants (El Salvador), The Dawn of the Scorpion under my Thermorest (Argentina). The Midnight of the Flood (Australia). The Raging Gunman (Peru). Almost Crushed to Death by Deadwood (Nicaragua). Citizens have become so concerned about my tent, and the beardy creature lurking within, they have called the police to have me removed from their slice of suburbia. Twice.
Whatever your monikor – rough camping, wild camping, stealth camping – it calls for cunning and initiative. There’s something obviously seductive about sleeping in wild places. Sunrise feels like something you’ve earned. It’s uplifting: the glint of stars, the scent of a wet forest, the cheep and rustle of the natural world. And the next day you just pack up and go, simple as that, uncertain where you’ll sleep the next night, but certain you’ll figure it out. It’s freedom. It’s addictive too.
But there can be something even more exhilarating about rough camping in the edgeland, sneaking beneath the skin of cities and towns, in the waste ground, behind carparks and beside highways, enclosed in half-light and jumbled shrubs, listening to droning traffic, the clank and grumble of industry, the pylons which hiss like vipers, the harangue of farm dogs that have fixed your scent. It’s thrillingly outsiderish. You’re the thief at the window.
Rough camping is, without doubt, one of my very favourite things in the world.
Before I embark on my top tips for rough camping, you should know that there is one important stratagem for rough camping wherever you are. Think of it this way:
Rough camping is a game of hide and seek against the world.
As is often noted by travellers, the world is populated overwhelmingly by benevolent souls unlikely to cause you any concern, even if you’re spotted rough camping in their neighbourhood. However, very little happens in villages around the world. You, my friend, are news. So if one person finds out where you are, it’s not difficult to imagine that word will spread and you will be the topic of conversation, soon 100 people know there’s a gringo, farangi or mzungu down the road. It only takes one bad apple to give you a stressful night: maybe they’re drunk and want a drinking buddy. Maybe they want money, or your bike. Most likely they’re simply curious and would like to watch you sleep for a while. Anyone rough camping in Ethiopia for example will be well used to the feeling of opening your bleary eyes of a morning to discover 37 people crowded around your tent porch, all watching you as if you’re Match of the Day.
Here’s how I approach the job of rough camping. Usually I begin scouring for a place to camp about half an hour before the sun sets. This is because I’d like to use as much of the day as I can to cycle, and once my tent is up I’d like it to get dark fairly quickly (remember: hide and seek against the world). However the half an hour is not fixed, it depends where I am. If you’re on a road carved into a rocky mountainside, a tortuous uphill, the chances of finding a decent rough camping spot in the 3 km you’ll accomplish in half an hour is slim, so maybe I’ll extend my hunting time to an hour. Equally if I’m whistling through an empty desert, turbo charged by a tailwind, then I don’t bother looking at all: as the sun sets, my campsite is guaranteed. I begin only noticing really great spots, but as dusk approaches, my fussiness falls, until in near darkness I’ll take anything I can get. Remember too that night falls fast near the equator, whereas at northern and southern latitudes you have lots more time.
Here’s another important rule, one I have learnt the hard way. If you think you’ve spotted a great rough camping spot from the road, then it’s not a great rough camping spot. You have the same binocular apparatus as everyone else, ideally hiding means no line of sight. I pause when suspicion grows of a decent place (at the risk of sounding wanky, there is a bit of instinct in this), and then lay down my bike and go for a brief foray on foot. Look behind things, on top of things, scour for cover. Follow trails (but always imagine where they might lead). Think about where car headlights will go once the sun sets (I’ve been outed many a time by camping on a corner). No joy? Collect your wheels, pedal on, and ‘sense’ the next opportunity. You’re a Jedi.
A question that stumped me when I presented on this topic at the excellent cycle touring festival recently was that of legality. It stumped me, because it’s not something I care to think about much. Clean up, don’t camp on a farmer’s prize marrow patch (for one thing, it’s won’t be comfortable) and indulge your anarchic side, but do it steathily. If you’re good at rough camping, it doesn’t matter whose property you’re on.
