The Year Time Slowed Down — Our National Park Journey So Far
There’s a moment I keep thinking about when this all began.
I was standing in a bookstore, drifting through the travel section the way you do when you’re half browsing and half dreaming. I picked up a biography of someone who had visited every national park in a single year.
I don’t even remember the title.
I didn’t make it far into the book before I put it down—but something in me didn’t leave it there.
That idea stayed.
Not because I wanted to replicate it, but because it opened a door I didn’t realize I was looking for.
Not long after, we made a decision that wasn’t really a decision at all—it was more like finally listening to something that had been quietly present for a long time.
We set out on the road.
No big guarantees. No perfect plan. Just a pull toward what felt right.
Time Changed Out Here
One of the most surprising things about traveling has been this:
Time slowed down.
For years I kept asking the same question—why is time going so fast?
Then we left.
And suddenly, it wasn’t.
We’d look at the calendar and realize a month had passed and feel genuinely surprised. Not because nothing happened—but because everything did.
We weren’t bored for a second. We were constantly engaged—moving, exploring, learning, adjusting, observing.
But the pace of life shifted in a way I didn’t expect.
There’s something about being outside of routine that reshapes time itself.
Silence, Conversation, and Everything In Between
Traveling together constantly also revealed something I didn’t anticipate.
When you’re with someone 24/7, you learn quickly that silence isn’t empty—it’s just space.
At first, we filled that space the way most people do—talking, joking, telling stories, filling in every quiet gap with words that didn’t always need to be there.
Eventually, something shifted.
We started noticing how much of what we were saying wasn’t actually necessary.
And how much more powerful the quieter moments were.
The conversations that mattered most didn’t take long. A few words. A shared observation. A realization spoken simply and left to settle.
Everything else became softer.
More intentional.
Less noise, more meaning.
Life on the Road Is Not Always Romantic
There’s a version of van life that looks effortless from the outside.
And then there’s the actual experience.
I’ve loved this lifestyle more than I can explain. Truly. There is nothing like waking up in a place you’ve never been, driving into mountains, setting up camp in the dark, and falling asleep under vast skies.
We’ve camped in places that felt unreal.
But it also comes with constant effort in ways people don’t always talk about.
There’s no “home reset” at the end of the day.
Every day is logistics.
Showers are not guaranteed. Restrooms are planned. Water is carried, refilled, managed. Comfort becomes something you actively create instead of something you return to.
Even the smallest things—dry towels, clean clothes, a warm shower—start to feel like luxuries again.
I wouldn’t trade the experience, but I’ve also learned it’s not effortless freedom.
It’s intentional living in the most literal sense.
What I Didn’t Expect About Survival
One of the hardest parts of this journey hasn’t been the travel itself—it’s been the reality of sustaining it.
Meristic has been my creative work for a long time, and I’ve poured everything into it.
But out here, I’ve also had to face something difficult and very real:
It hasn’t been enough to carry things forward on its own.
There’s a weight in that realization that’s hard to describe.
Not because it removes meaning from the work—but because it forces a shift. A pivot. A reconsideration of what comes next, and how creativity and survival need to coexist in a sustainable way.
I’ve learned a lot about what it means to live with very little. And also what it costs to keep going when resources are limited.
And still, there is gratitude.
Because even in simplicity, there is freedom.
The Parks That Have Stayed With Us
Each place we’ve visited has left something behind in us.
It’s hard to rank them because they all hold their own kind of magic.
But some moments stand out vividly.
Standing inside the vastness of the landscape at Grand Canyon National Park at sunset—quiet in a way that makes you feel small and somehow more connected at the same time.
Walking through the surreal formations of Bryce Canyon National Park, where the world feels carved by something ancient and patient.
Getting lost in the maze-like wonder of Arches National Park, where every turn feels like a new world entirely.
Feeling the deep stillness and challenge of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park—where we took on one of the most physically demanding hikes I’ve ever done, where every step required presence and respect.
Watching light move across the desert in Big Bend National Park, where everything feels wide open and ancient.
Exploring the iconic landscapes of Mesa Verde National Park, where history is layered directly into the cliffs.
Walking through the shifting landscapes of Death Valley National Park, where extremes become normal.
Experiencing the life and energy of Joshua Tree National Park, where the desert feels both quiet and alive.
And standing among giants in Yosemite National Park, where scale becomes almost impossible to comprehend.
There were also moments of timing that felt almost impossible.
Driving into the east entrance of Yosemite National Park just as it opened for the season—earlier than expected, and completely unplanned.
Or arriving at Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park just days after a trail reopened, becoming part of a very limited group allowed to descend that route after closure.
Moments like that make you pause and wonder about timing, chance, and alignment.
The Unexpected Moments
Some of the most meaningful experiences haven’t been the big landmarks—but the unexpected human ones.
Being invited to spend time with a Native American Mescalero community during a coming-of-age ceremony, helping prepare food for a gathering of 200 people, learning and participating in something so rooted in tradition and care.
Or the quiet moments in a hammock between two trees when we could find them.
Or watching Aurora earn junior ranger badges at each park, fully immersed in curiosity and learning.
Or simply sitting still long enough to notice how many animals we share this land with —bison, mule deer, prairie dogs, marmots, birds, even the smallest movement of life that often goes unseen.
These moments don’t always fit into a “highlight reel,” but they are the ones that stay.
What This Has Changed in Me
I feel more grounded than I have in a long time.
More present.
More aware of what actually matters and what doesn’t.
There’s a kind of clarity that comes from being immersed in nature and simplicity for long enough that everything else fades into the background.
This journey has taught me patience. Adaptability. Trust. Courage. And how much of life is really just a series of choices made moment to moment.
It hasn’t always been relaxing.
But it has been deeply alive.
Where We’re Heading Next
We’re not entirely sure where everything is going yet.
There are places still ahead that I’m excited for, like Voyageurs National Park, Acadia National Park, and the upcoming journey through the High Sierra Trail spanning Sequoia National Park and Kings Canyon National Park.
There’s a loose direction, but not a rigid plan.
And that feels right.
What Comes Next for Meristic
This journey has also reshaped how I see my work.
Meristic has been evolving alongside everything else.
And while I don’t have all the answers yet, I do know this:
It may not always look the way it once did.
There may be new directions, new expressions, and new ways of sharing creativity beyond what exists now.
For now, it’s about listening.
Final Reflection
If there’s one thing I’ve taken from this journey so far, it’s this:
Life feels different out here.
Not easier. Not perfect. Not always comfortable.
But more honest.
More present.
More alive.
And maybe that’s what I was looking for all along.