Homeward Bound
By Cammi Norville
I consider myself “homeless.”
The Merriam-Webster definition of the word “home” is “one’s place of residence” or “the social unit formed by a family living together.” Most people define home as a place, somewhere that they've laid down roots, are connected to, and feel safe at. Others describe it as a person, perhaps a significant other or their family. In contrast, Merriam-Webster defines “homeless” as “having no home or permanent place of residence.” This literal definition is what I mean when I refer to myself as homeless. I don’t want to diminish the experiences or hardships of those people who are forced to live on the streets because they cannot find work or a place to live. I recognize that I could live in an actual house or apartment if I chose to, that the “homelessness” I refer to is voluntary.
Calling myself homeless started as a joke, but now I actually find some truth in it. Let me explain...
The author’s Subaru at her Price River field site in southeastern Utah.
I live a very nomadic lifestyle. I haven’t lived in the same place longer than about four months for close to two years now. I work as a seasonal wildlife field technician, which means I never stay in one place for very long. I'm currently working along the Price River in Utah on a beaver translocation project. I live out of my Subaru and a tent held together with duct tape. On workdays, I stay at the rough little field camp we’ve made along the river, and on my days off, I typically drive somewhere else to explore. I'll be here a couple more weeks on this project, but once the season ends, I'll head somewhere new.
For the first 18 years of my life, Lancaster, California, and my family of five were my home. Then, for three and a half years as I attended college, it was Boise, Idaho, and a handful of close friends. Now, for almost the last two years, it's been nowhere and no one.
If you ask me currently how I feel about this state of homelessness, I would tell you that I absolutely adore this lifestyle and have never been happier. But that wasn’t the case at the beginning. I knew since high school that I wanted to work with wildlife, and didn’t have to think very hard before deciding to get my college degree in zoology. You would think, then, that I should have known what was coming post-graduation. I should have anticipated the constant moving and the lack of long-term employment; however, this was not the case. There isn’t a lot of information surrounding entry-level wildlife careers that don’t involve working at a zoo or a veterinary clinic. Most of my professors had made it seem like I would be able to go straight from undergrad into graduate school. I think this is true for lots of different fields, but not so much with wildlife biology. So, based on the information I was hearing from professors, as well as my own ideas conceived from watching my siblings go through graduate school and obtain permanent jobs, I made my way through college blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
Upon graduating in December 2019, I found myself without a permanent full-time job or any prospects of graduate school. Seasonal gigs were all I could find, and I figured seasonal work was better than unemployment. It was only going to be temporary, right? A few months at the most, and then I would finally land a more traditional job. I felt an immense amount of pressure from myself, as well as family members and close friends, to find a permanent, full-time job somewhere, and quickly.
Three months turned into six months, which then turned into eight months.
Suddenly, it was October of 2020. I had graduated from college ten months ago, and I still wasn’t any closer to that “real job” and “true home” I so desperately desired. The seasonal work I was doing did not fit in with the narrative that mainstream society spoon-feeds its members. I was supposed to graduate college, then attend graduate school, earn my master’s, land a stable, 9-5 job in my field, and settle down somewhere, maybe get married.
I fought the seasonal work lifestyle for months and months, resulting in me being grossly unhappy. I cried more in that first year after graduation than I probably had my entire life. There were other factors playing into this lack of contentment, but a large chunk of this unhappiness was stemming from the feeling that I was somehow inadequate because I didn't have a true home. I felt like I didn’t belong because I wasn’t permanently connected to a specific place.
I looked down on myself because I thought that having to start new jobs and move so much made both my work and life less significant than those around me.
I was caught up in a classic case of comparing myself to others.
I thought that in order to be happy, my life trajectory had to reflect that of those around me and that I needed a concrete home. I thought I would only feel at home with a stable, 9-5 job. I thought I would only feel at home by living permanently in one city. I thought I would only feel at home with my weeks and months planned out in advance. I thought I would only feel at home surrounded by friends and loved ones. After about a year, I had a ground-breaking, yet seemingly simple epiphany that my life is my own and I can live it as I please.
Suddenly, everything changed.
With this new mindset, I discovered a freedom that I've never found anywhere else. I can honestly say since I made this realization, the past year of my life has been the absolute happiest. My life is the result of a series of choices I have made, and I decided to choose to shift my perspective. Once I became less focused on my lack of a permanent job or home, I realized how much I love what I do... I get paid to work with wildlife in the outdoors and explore new places for a living. I've grown more mentally and personally in the past few months than the last few years combined. That growth most likely would not have occurred had I taken a more traditional career path. I may have continued to be fixated on thinking I needed to obtain a certain level in my career or live somewhere continuously with a repetitive, daily routine in order to belong somewhere and be happy.
Sure, I still have bad days, but most days I wake up grateful and excited for life. Each day is truly an adventure and I am able to find joy in something every day. The seasonal work I once hated with every fiber of my being has given me so much more than I could have imagined: amazing opportunities, new friends, and a hunger to experience all that life has to offer.
Similar to adrenaline junky skydivers who will hurl themselves out of planes repeatedly in order to get a taste of that heart-pumping high, I've become addicted to the feeling I get when I go somewhere new. I'm sure this sentiment is shared among many other seasonal workers, traveling freelance photographers, journalists, and others. I like not knowing what to expect. I like not knowing a single person in the area. I like the challenge of having to be absolutely self-sufficient. I'm a very independent person, and this lifestyle allows me to shine in that independence.
I do wonder what negative effects will come from this perpetuated state of voluntary homelessness. I've noticed that I start to get antsy if I'm somewhere longer than two to three months. How can I expect to lay down roots in the future when I can't even live somewhere for longer than three months without itching to move on? If I want to start a family someday, will I feel like I have to give up this freedom and independence that makes up a huge part of my identity? Or will I naturally grow out of the desire to be constantly moving and exploring new places and happily pick one location to live out my days? Ironically enough, the idea of “settling down” that I yearned for barely a year ago now scares me. Living in one place and laying down roots is now outside of my comfort zone.
Author Tad Williams wrote, “Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to furnish it - memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey.”
For me, “home” isn't a tangible person or place. Instead, my “home” is made up of experiences, of times in life where I have paused, looked around, and simply thought, “This is exactly where I'm meant to be at this moment.”
I feel at home when it's 1 am, the stars and Milky Way shining above, and I'm sitting in a hot spring in the middle of the Nevada desert with the rest of the “Chicken Skinners” laughing about the random old naked guy who joined us.
I feel at home when I'm walking along a fog-enveloped Oregon beach at 6:00 am looking for seashells and watching the waves chase the gulls away.
I feel at home when I'm on the summit of a mountain in Utah, the wind whipping my hair, 12,000 feet up, with not another human being in sight.
I feel at home when I'm soaked to the bone from jumping into a pool fully clothed after a day spent in Idaho at a friend's wedding.
I feel at home when I'm in California, watching the watercolor sunset, the silhouettes of the Joshua trees standing tall against the paper cut-out mountains.
I find the feeling of “home” through experiences, rather than a certain place or a specific person. I know that this nomadic way of life will most likely come to an end at some point, but until then I'm trying to truly immerse myself into it and accept every chance and opportunity the universe gives me with an open heart. For now, I am not tethered to any particular place or person. To some, that may be a terrifying prospect, but to me, it's a beautiful thing.
I consider myself “homeless.” I choose to live like this and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Cammi Norville is a traveling wildlife technician. She enjoys hiking, camping, climbing, and pretty much any other outdoor activity. This is her first article for Dead Foot Collective. Follow her on Instagram: @_nomadic_cam.
