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In all the mayhem of packing for a camping weekend with a 10-month-old, I forgot the most important thing: a destination.
As a couple-times-a-year dispersed camper, I’m used to locating a patch of public land (ideally, without a fire ban) and pitching a tent with a crew of friends on a whim. But this weekend was different.
My husband and I had rented a Sprinter-style recreational vehicle through Roadsurfer, a German camper van rental startup. The company expanded to the U.S. in 2022 and added four Western outposts, including Denver, this spring. (Rentals start at $99 per day and include unlimited miles; dogs incur a $129 flat fee.) Our friends—traveling with a dog and two young kids—booked one of Roadsurfer’s larger standard RVs, and we planned to take a quick weekend trip to find out if camping in vehicles would be any easier with children than our usual setup. Considering people live in their vans full-time, we figured 48 hours would be a breeze.
But we quickly learned—while frantically calling campsites on a Friday afternoon in early July—that vehicle campers and tent campers are not created equal. When you have a means of transportation that needs to be plugged in, it limits your options. (Roadsurfer’s vehicles do work off-the-grid, but as first-time van campers, we wanted access to all the amenities.) In other words: RV people plan ahead.
As my daughter’s bedtime approached, we were still sitting in our living room trying to nail down a spot, the van parked—and packed—outside our front door.
Have Baby, Will Travel
When we discovered we were pregnant in early 2024, my husband and I made a promise: We’d continue doing the things that bring us joy, taking our baby along for the ride while also adapting to her needs. In the winter, we flew to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with a 3.5-month-old and what felt like her entire nursery in our luggage. In the spring, she earned another stamp on her passport when we traveled to Jasper, Alberta, for a story I was reporting. And I blocked out two summer weekends for camping: late June for some tent time at Wellington Lake and mid-July in a camper van to who-knows-where.
Roadsurfer seemed like a good middle-ground experiment. We could give our daughter some hands-in-the-dirt experiences while also having room for her Pack ’n Play and the benefits of running water and AC or heat. Our Liberty Lodge van (from $115 per night) even had a toilet and minuscule shower, plus a pop-up roof with a bed, which would allow my husband and me to sleep comfortably without disturbing our baby below.
But operating an RV isn’t as intuitive as I had imagined. Roadsurfer prides itself on being relatively turnkey. When you arrive at their Globeville warehouse to pick up your wheels, the scant staff directs you to an online check-in system that’s designed to introduce you to the vehicle’s particulars. Having not used a camper van before, I didn’t know what questions to ask, so I went through the tutorial and learned how to switch on the propane, lights, and water. I didn’t ask how to work the AC or how to adjust the driver’s seat so my feet weren’t floating above the pedals or even confirm that the toilet cassette was empty. I simply took the keys and drove the 21-foot-long van back to my house.
Roadsurfer In the Wild
Although we were meant to be spending our Friday night roasting s’mores beneath the stars, we struggled to track down a pair of available RV sites. My friends finally found a spot at Cherry Creek State Park and set off, while we tucked my daughter into her crib and ate the burrito bowls I’d premade in front of the TV instead of the campfire.
Our belated adventure began the next morning. After connecting for sand and splash time at the park’s swim beach, we caravaned south to Rocking M Ranch, a private, 30-site RV campground in Cripple Creek that had a last-minute cancellation. Each site is equipped with electric and water hookups, a fire pit, and a picnic table. There was also a small playground, a dog run, and a short nature trail.
Our friend’s Family Freedom RV (from $115 per night) had a larger fridge and more space to move around, so we used it as our home base. As the kids snacked on avocado and cheese, I boiled water for pasta and heated up frozen meatballs on the cooktop using the utensils Roadsurfer provided. We squeezed in around the four-person table for family dinner.
While our friends worked on getting a fire started, we took our daughter back to the van for bedtime. We opted not to lower the main table or bed so we could turn the back of the van into a makeshift nursery. We placed a blackout shade over her Pack ’n Play to block the lingering summer sun and a sound machine nearby to drown out ambient noise.
We also prepared our rooftop pop-up bed with sleeping bags, pillows, and books to limit the amount of noise we’d make later. We used the facilities in our friend’s RV and brushed our teeth at the picnic table. (Using the shower would have been impractical and tough for my six-foot-plus husband to manage.) When it was time to retire for the night, we climbed up the ladder to a bed that was more comfortable than a sleeping pad but still relatively thin. Our daughter didn’t make a sound.
The temperature had dipped into the mid-50s, so I switched on the heat before we went to bed—at least, I thought I did. When I woke up shivering in my sleeping bag at 2 a.m., I panicked that my daughter was freezing too. (I checked. She wasn’t.) After hopping out of the van as quietly as possible to check that the propane was, in fact, turned on and watching a video tutorial (thank you, WiFi), I discovered that I had failed to flip one switch. The heat finally kicked on.
I awoke frustrated with the learning curve of #VanLife. But my daughter, as always, woke up smiling and ready for an adventure. She loved looking out the screen windows of our pop-up bed and playing with the van’s steering wheel. We packed up and took her to visit Rita the Rock Planter, one of Thomas Dambo’s charming troll installations, about 10 miles away in Victor.
The short dirt trail was framed by the peaks of Pike National Forest, which stretched from the valley floor to the pillowy clouds above. She kicked her legs and babbled incessantly. I can only imagine that she was recounting our 24-hour expedition—and reminding me, wisely, that the challenges were part of the fun.
