Dirtbag Summer
Living the climber’s life.
There’s a specific kind of optimism that only exists between May and September, the kind that convinces you that sleeping in your car is a lifestyle choice, not a cry for help. Dirtbag Summer isn’t just a season; it’s a philosophy built on following good weather windows, stretching a tank of gas past its emotional limits, and pretending that instant ramen is a reward rather than a necessity.
At its core, the dirtbag outdoor lifestyle is about prioritizing freedom over comfort, but mostly it’s about creatively redefining what “comfort” even means. The back seat of your car with a crash pad, just long enough to support your upper body and a bit of your lower back, becomes a luxury suite at the Hilton, and a crumpled hoodie doubles as a pillow.
Camp setups range from impressively dialed to borderline concerning. Some people roll up with perfectly organized bins, solar lights, and a Jetboil that fires up like a NASA launch. Others, most others, open their trunks and unleash what can only be described as gear chaos: tangled ropes, half-empty chalk bags, mismatched shoes, and a fork that hasn’t been washed since last June. Somewhere in there is everything you need.
Food becomes less about nutrition and more about efficiency. Ramen is a staple, obviously, but it evolves. Add a gas-station hard-boiled egg? Gourmet! Toss in crushed chips? Texture. Your gut will be at its all-time best. On second thought, maybe cut out the egg if you’re planning on sharing your space with any guests. Forget the utensils? No problem! Sticks are nature’s sporks, and after a few weeks, you start to prefer them. They give your food a nice umami taste that metal just doesn't deliver. You also start to forget what a vegetable tastes like, but that feels like a future problem.
Hygiene is… flexible. There’s a sliding scale between “creek rinse” and “gym day pass,” depending on how feral you’ve become and how close you are to civilization. The gym shower hits differently. It’s less about getting clean and more about briefly re-entering society. You stand there a little too long, staring at the tile, remembering what it feels like to be a person with routines and responsibilities. Then you go back to your car and eat tuna out of the can.
Money, ironically, is both scarce and constantly being spent. You’ll think twice about buying a $5 sandwich but won’t hesitate to drop hundreds on gear or gas without blinking. Priorities are clear: you may be hungry and have only eaten beef jerky and fruit bars for the past week, but hey, at least your climbing shoes are dialed. More likely they’re also beaten to absolute hell, with holes worn through the toes and a smell that could clear a campsite.
Speaking of campsites, good luck getting one. Full campgrounds are less an obstacle and more an opportunity for negotiation. Beer becomes currency. A couple of lukewarm ones can magically create space where there was none, turning strangers into neighbors and neighbors into friends. By morning, you might not remember their names, but you’ll remember that someone made questionable food on a camp stove at sunrise, and that counts for something.
For a second, it feels like you’ve cracked the code on how to live.
Sleeping arrangements are where things get truly inventive. There’s always one setup that makes everyone else feel better about their own. Like Owen’s minivan bed. Fondly remembered for being aggressively narrow. So narrow, in fact, that his girlfriend slept on top of him. Which somehow worked, or at least was accepted as a reasonable solution given the circumstances. What’s more impressive than these two fitting in his minivan bed is that Owen actually found a girl who was willing to join him in such a sleeping endeavor.
And then there are the evenings. The golden-hour moments that make the whole thing make sense. Sunset beers after a long day of climbing, sitting on crash pads or camp chairs that have seen better days. You’re so tired you can't think about all the other problems in your life, all you have time for is right here right now. Everything is dusty, everyone is tired, and no one would trade it. The sky does something dramatic, the air cools just enough, and for a second, it feels like you’ve cracked the code on how to live.
Of course, there are lows. Nights that are too cold, mornings that are too hot, the constant low-level stress of, “Where am I sleeping tonight?” But even those become part of the story. Dirtbag Summer thrives on inconvenience. It turns into small victories. Finding a flat spot, a clean bathroom, and green food to eat, are triumphs.
By the time it ends, you’re sunburned, underfed, slightly uncivilized, and somehow completely convinced it was the best idea you’ve ever had. You’ll swear you’ll do it again next year, maybe with a better setup, maybe with more money, definitely with more snacks, but then next year rolls around and you do it pretty much the same because you realize that the struggle is half the adventure.
