At camp that night, Henry and I are joined by one of his neighbors,

 At camp that night, Henry and I are joined by one of his neighbors, 

Jay, who lugs over a huge propane tank, sparks up the fire pit, and cranks up the Bluetooth. He’s soon joined by his wife, Jenny. Both, I learn, are ex-military. 

They met in basic training in Washington State, then were stationed together in Korea. Jay turns out to be a certified pyro guy—he runs his hometown’s firework show, the biggest in the state, he tells me. The main purpose of their Sprinter van, which has a bathroom and shower, is for Jay to follow Jenny as she competes in ultramarathons. She just completed one, in fact: a 225-mile race that ended in Flagstaff.

Sitting in their company, admiring their van, I’m overcome by a familiar feeling. Maybe overlanding is just camping. If you’ve got more money, you can get better gear. You can be more prepared. But you can never be fully prepared. Nature always wins. That, above all, is the value of camping. To humble yourself. There’s no such thing as complete self-reliance. You go on these adventures to loosen your grip, to let go of whatever you’ve been holding onto too tightly.