It’s early autumn in the Eastern Sierras and the aspen groves of California are already lighting up the wilderness in shades of gold. Their branches wrap around the dusty trail, forming a gilded guideline towards the 12,000-foot crest of Bishop Pass. To my right, anglers toting rods, hooks and lines follow runs of trout through cascading, silver streams. Beyond the pass, the back door of Kings Canyon National Park beckons backpackers towards the Pacific Crest Trail.
This is the edge of California’s John Muir Wilderness, but it’s not far from civilization.
I am full day’s drive from any major metropolitan area, but I am also just a few minutes from developed campgrounds with running water. And I am less than an hour from the town of Bishop (population 3,819), where avocado toast and an iced latte await at The Looney Bean. This area feels like the sweet spot, then, to experience what I’ve been watching on social media for more than a decade—van life.
I want to be in the wilderness, out of pocket but not out of reach. I want to spend a day hiking beneath mysterious mountain peaks and the night wrapped like a breakfast burrito in a warm, dry bed. I want to pack up and move at a moment’s notice; motoring on to the next coffee shop where a laptop and a Google Calendar full of Microsoft Teams invitations covers the tab for food and fuel. In a word, I want freedom. And in the United States of America, freedom has historically been synonymous with the open road.
Van life is not a new concept. The idea of living vagabond-style out of a specialized van has experienced a recent boom, but for nearly as long as there have been highways criss-crossing America, there have been vagabond travelers yearning to live alongside them.
The precursors to modern camper vans date back to as early as 1914, when Ford began manufacturing a Model T Motor Caravan. By the 1960s, Westfalia and Volkswagen were teaming up to sell official VW camper conversions that remain popular today. Those early conversions were joined by domestic offerings from Ford, Dodge and Chevrolet during the “van craze” of the 1970s and 80s that fueled Uncle Rico’s football flashbacks in “Napoleon Dynamite” and the wanderlust of millennials in the 2010s.
According to an RV Industry Association study conducted by Ipsos, only about 5% of the 8.1 million RV-owning households in the U.S. today own a camper van. That’s about 405,000 vans, a pittance compared to the millions of massive motorhomes occupying the lion’s share of the market. But sales figures don’t tell the complete story.
Vans may not carry the weight of the RV industry on their shoulders, but they do function as a phenomenal marketing department. On TikTok #vanlife has more than 30 billion views worldwide. On Instagram, the topic has grown from around one million posts in 2017 to more than 15 million posts in 2025. And on YouTube, the top four van life accounts have more than three million subscribers with more than 400 million views.
Motorhomes might be filling up RV parks, but camper vans are filling up timelines.
All of that attention makes an impact. In 2024, the National Park Service reported a record 331.9 million recreational visits. Their most recent overnight data reveals more than 13 million overnight visitors in 2023, among them more than 2.6 million RVs.
Clearly, people are hitting the highway from sea to shining sea in huge numbers. But as the early age of social media fades, is van life fading with it? This fall, I set out on a quintessential California road trip to find out.
The plan was this: I would rent a camper van from Traveller’s Autobarn near Oakland, California. Then, I would bee-line it to Yosemite National Park, cross over the Sierra Nevada to Mammoth Lakes and trace my way down the eastern edge of the continent’s most insta-famous mountain range before dropping the van off in Los Angeles. Along the way, I’d camp in both Yosemite and in the Alabama Hills—both iconic locations for viral van life content that helped raised the profile of the lifestyle in the 2010s.
After a decade of dreaming about van life, I would attempt to find out first-hand what all of the hype was about.
My thoughts drifted back to the rental van as I plopped down on a granite boulder at 11,190 feet. Feet dangling over Bishop Lake, I thought about the old meme, “Instagram vs. Reality.” In truth, I’d been thinking about the meme for days, since I first picked up the modified Ford Transit about 320 miles away. Social media can’t show you what it feels like to drive a “Pimp My Ride” version of a delivery van through Bay Area traffic or down winding, mountain roads with hairpin turns. This takes some getting used to.
Glossy videos of the rustic toilets at Porcupine Flat Campground are rare. The awkward process of crawling over a backseat into a bed loft like an inebriated iguana also seems to miss the highlight reels. So does searching for a place to dump the grey water tank. Those are the hidden joys of van life, though.
True to expectations, however, van life does provide the chance to watch the sun cast burgundy and lilac hues over Yosemite Valley—without the pressure of hustling back to a hotel. It does offer the unmitigated freedom to guzzle iced lattes and build road trip playlists and fire up the gas burners of a pint-sized kitchen with the doors flung open in the autumn air. It does provide you the chance to look at a map and wonder, “What’s down that road?” then find yourself sitting on a boulder beside a gin-clear lake; watching a wandering, misty rain cloud.
I’m cramming down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my perch and watching the clouds pass. I’m pointing my camera at the occasional trout that pops up near the surface to inhale invisible bugs. I’m thinking about the hike down, thinking about the feeling of filling my lungs with air that somehow feels…new. And I’m already dreaming of driving to the next stop—the Alabama Hills.
After about 2,000 feet of quick, downhill hiking and a long night’s rest, I have the hills in sight.
About two hours south of my campsite near Bishop Lake, the Martian landscape of the Alabama Hills unfurls. Some of the boulders here beneath Mount Whitney—the tallest peak in the contiguous United States—have been worn smooth through 100 million years of water and wind. In that time, they’ve seen megafauna like mammoths, dire wolves and giant ground sloths morph into motorhomes, day hikers and movie sets.
These smooth, sticky granite faces are perfect for climbing, camping and cinematography. This landscape is famous, but content creators weren’t even close to the first filmmakers to take advantage of these views. More than a century ago, some of the world’s first viral videos were shot right here by companies like Warner Brothers, Universal and Columbia Pictures. A-list stars like Gene Autry, John Wayne and Steve McQueen filmed here. As did modern notables like Brad Pitt, Nicolas Cage and Russell Crowe.
The Alabama Hills are a living museum to Hollywood. In the 2010s, they were also van life heaven.
Imagine a field of stoic boulders outstretched over a deep valley—like a natural, North American version of Rapanui—where fighter jets scramble through sunsets over ribbons of asphalt and sunrise illuminates Mount Whitney like a granite lighthouse. In this landscape, stone rings dot scattered, sandy campsites that are first-come, first-serve but completely free to all. A few hours with the wheel pointed in any direction leads to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Joshua Tree and Yosemite.
The Alabama Hills Recreation Area is managed by the Bureau of Land Management. Looser camping regulations apply on BLM land, and until recently, few restrictions limited where an aspiring van lifer could pull up the parking brake and set up shop.
These days, dozens of primitive campsites in between the boulders have been cordoned off by the Bureau of Land Management, greatly limiting the number of free campsites while pushing campers towards a paid campground on the outskirts of the boulder field.
Late for the party but determined to sleep beneath the mountain, I begrudgingly pay the BLM’s iron ranger $10. I back into a spot just in time to watch a blood moon rise over the desert as the last slivers of daylight dissipate.
As dawn breaks over Mount Whitney, the real world calls. A vibrating cell phone brings tragedy from home: a family member has died. My cousin. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. He was way too young to go.
Over a cold cup of black coffee, I’m reminded that no vehicle can carry me completely away from the troubles of home. Escape—even in a vehicle built for escapism—is a temporary refuge.
I close the door, turn the key and head into the vast emptiness of the Mojave Desert. I’m bound for Los Angeles in the mirage of nature’s sand swept reflecting pool. But as I turn the van away from Mount Whitney, I’m reminded of a final message in the rearview.
Manzanar National Historic Site lies just a few miles away from the Alabama Hills. This is the location of a World War II interment camp where more than 11,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated by the federal government from 1942-1945. The citizens there lost almost all of their material possessions. They endured 110-degree summers and windy, snow-covered winters in cramped housing. They farmed, ranched and built infrastructure for meager wages during the height of the war. For them, freedom was both a memory and a dream.
Some still remains of Manzanar. A few derelict barracks serve as a museum. Guard towers and a baseball diamond linger in the sage brush, sobering reminders of malice wrapped in barbed wire.
Today, a modern federal government is impacting the freedom some travelers feel on America’s highways. In November, the Trump administration announced plans to require international visitors to pay an additional $100 access fee to certain national parks, including Yosemite, Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. The administration also increased the cost of an annual parks pass from $80 to $250 for non-u.s. residents.
The Eastern Sierras and Mojave Desert are peppered with rental vans and owner-driven vans alike. But the seasoning is lighter than in recent years. Companies offering camper van rentals and businesses manufacturing vans are both feeling the sting of a challenging economy and growing hesitancy to travel into the United States.
Earlier in the year, Cascade Camper Vans, an Oregon-based builder and renter, announced its intention to liquidate inventory and shutter its doors by New Years Eve. In November, Escape Camper Vans listed its fleet of more than 600 vans for sale on eBay, raising eyebrows in the RV industry.
July through October are busy months for the camper van industry. New rigs are hitting the highway with new owners. Rental vans are zipping to-and-from national parks. But the roads are less crowded of late. As I roll my rental into a return facility near LAX, I see that evidence up close.
Of the 300 vans operated by Traveller’s Autobarn, 61% are rented by international travelers. In their Los Angeles facility, I spy dozens of stagnant vans like mine. These are vans that might normally be on the road during peak season. To counteract the downturn, Traveller’s Autobarn is running specials like free, unlimited mileage and promoting the cost savings of camper van rentals, which start at under $100 per night, over traditional hotels.
Time will tell if those tactics move the needle.
When I set out from Oakland, I was eager to live a dream. For more than a decade, I’d followed alongside #vanlife in Instagram posts, stories and vlogs. I familiarized myself with geotagged camping and hiking locations, and I mastered the best camera settings to take advantage of natural light. I purchased a sleeping bag and learned how to cook meals on a propane stove. Now that I’ve tasted vanlife (essence of burnt fajitas and IPAs), I admit it seems equal parts up and down.
I’ll never be a full-time vanlifer, but I do see the appeal.
Van life was a focal point in the early days of Instagram, introducing new corners of America’s public lands to a generation of millennials that now comprise the largest percentage of RV owners in America. Van life created new stars out of the content creators capturing the moment and reignited the stars of some of America’s most beautiful public lands. As social media enters a new act, the appetite for freedom on the nation’s open roads still seems strong.
Is van life dying? Doubtful. But tougher times could continue for the near future.
The United States is becoming less popular as an international travel destination. The U.S. Travel Association expects the final number of international visitors in 2025 to be just 85% of 2019 levels. On the home front, groups like the Sierra Club say public lands like the Alabama Hills are under assault.
If future attempts to sell public lands succeed, there may simply be fewer places to camp.
Vans aren’t cheap. Camper van prices range widely from $25,000 to more than $150,000. According to RV Industry Association figures, most RV purchases (88%) are made with cash by homeowners. Redfin statistics indicate homeownership rates among millennials (55%) and Gen Z (25%) lag behind previous generations.
Optimal conditions for van life are not in the forecast.
If there is hope, it’s this—the vans themselves aren’t really the draw. That would be nature. Public land preservation has proven to be a rare, bi-partisan issue in American politics. And for travelers with the will to find a way, America’s wild, scenic places are still waiting to inspire, for now.