It’s now been almost two months into my camper van journey and I feel fairly confident negotiating my way around the campgrounds, and national parks, in general. There are spoken (and infuriatingly unheard) rules, as well as a  hierarchy of badassery, which is largely unspoken.

My first weeks were a comical journey of trial and error. At first, I sheepishly entered each campground, trying to maintain a low profile, which is very hard to do in a green van with mushrooms painted on it. I was immediately an object of curiosity, and some subsequent snickering I’m sure, as they watched me back into my spot, which usually took about seven attempts. Once situated with the best view, I would find that the van was perched at about a 15-degree angle, making sleeping akin to riding a roller coaster. (Lesson #23: It’s less about the view than being parallel to the ground.)

After parking, I would offload my chairs, the table, the mats, the bike, always in the wrong order, forcing me to start over. Lesson #12: Setting everything up, and then trying to roll out the mats just does not work. And then there’s Lesson #19: Getting the stove set up, with the lid open, prevents access to the pots behind the lid. Whatever.

In the evenings, I would marvel at the brilliant campfires people had started, while I was dousing mine with lighter fluid just so I could roast a marshmallow. And so it goes.

After fits and starts, I was finally able to slide in, sit back and observe. I would, and still do, compare my ninja vehicle to the behemoths that are Class A RVs and think, sure, anyone can camp if they are in a moving home with cable TV, kitchen and bathroom. And then there are those tow-behind, homes-on-wheels. They can detach and go explore at will, coming back to a veritable palace at the end of the day, but, still, is that the true spirit of camping? And that brings me to my tribe, who split the difference: In a van, we can go places RVs can’t, but we cart everything with us and have to re-set up every night. Just above us (I’m debating whether they are above or below) are those with cars, who drive in and set up tents every evening—yet, I could still feel an element of camaraderie. But, hike-in, bike-in campers? I’ve got nothing. They are pretty close to the top of the badass chain (the fact that they are in a campground knocks them down a few notches). Rain or shine, they roll, or stride, in with nothing but what their backs or bikes can carry, and set up camp. In my eagerness to swap war stories among my fellow campers, I quickly figured out that complaining about eleven-thread-count contour sheets from Walmart would fall on deaf ears with this crowd, so I steer clear.

In order to find something beneath me on the food chain, I turn to tourists, from which I also steer clear for a good reason—they fall on the very bottom of the totem pole and any association with them is a black mark on my adventure resumé. But, why? Am I not camping in the same places for the same reasons? They want to see a geyser as much as I do and what makes me superior to them because I camped out in the woods instead of, perhaps, wisely, seeking out a nice hotel with an indoor pool and hot tub? I try and reconcile this and give the busloads a break at each stopping point, but—I. Just. Can’t. There are signs, pictograms and live human rangers yelling at all of us to respect the rules and they (yes, tourists) tromp all over everything, selfie sticks in hand, only to gather proof that they were there—they do not appreciate their surroundings; instead, they shove each other aside for a photo op and jockey for position when Old Faithful is about to blow. I could go on about “they,” but it would be disingenuous because I am the first one to slam on the brakes when there’s a moose by the side of the road. Still, I obey the rules and I am saddened by the lack of respect for our stunning landscape. I am, proudly, a tourist marveling at our wonders, but I will refuse to be “they,” the ones who feel it necessary to carve their names into a mountainside or geyser, or carry a selfie-stick. I am now stepping off my soapbox…and here are some photos.