Packing for Long-term Travel and Seasonal Work

Everything I need, I own. Everything I own fits in a 40-liter travel bag. And everything I (don't) want sits on a shelf, or hangs on a hanger, in a store.

I've lived this way for most of my adult life, ever since I worked as a deckhand. It not only makes traveling easy (less to pack, easier to carry, fewer airline fees, etc.) but, I must admit, it's kind of liberating to not tether myself to a car, house, or personal belongings.

That doesn't mean I advocate for minimalism. I don't. I disagree with it on principle. If someone gets aroused every time they take out the trash, or they get rid of something, well then, good for them. I, however, believe minimalism and consumerism are both flawed for the same reason. While consumerism seeks gratification through accumulation, minimalists believe elimination will lead to greater satisfaction. They're just on opposite ends of the same spectrum; they're both possessed by how much (or how little) they own.

For me, working seasonally and traveling with one bag just makes sense. It's not about how much or how little I have. It's about living intentionally without the hassle of ownership. I don't want to have to haul a bunch of shit around everywhere I go. I can't backpack pulling two large suitcases on rollers across the Atacama Desert or Salar de Uyuni.

If I didn't live nomadically, I would most likely own a lot of stuff, including a car and a house. However, I like to think that I would own things I value, rather than following fads or trying to keep up appearances.

Traveling for extended periods of time has forced me to become resourceful. I purchased the clothes I own deliberately to build an interchangeable wardrobe. With a few shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, and two pairs of shoes, I can wear multiple outfits each day for a couple of weeks without having to dress like Mark Zuckerberg every day.

But I also hate doing laundry almost as much as I hate overwearing dirty, smelly shirts. So I have more clothes than I need.

I own six collared shirts (including short- and long-sleeved), one pair of dark jeans, two pairs of chinos (gray and beige), two dri-fit t-shirts, a pair of workout shorts, two pairs of shoes, a sweater, sweatshirt, ten pairs of socks and underwear, a packable jacket, a reversible belt, a wallet, passport, smartphone, tablet, 11.6-inch laptop, charger, some toiletries, a pen, and a 40-liter bag.

That's it.

As a rule, if don't use something frequently enough, then I give it away. And if I ever need to replace an item or on the rare occasion that there is something I want, then I'll go to the store and buy it—so long as it fits in my 40-liter bag, of course.

Becoming a Seasonal Escapist

I started working seasonally fifteen years ago. I didn't intend to, at least not initially. I was young, a few years from having graduated university, and worked a short time for corporate America. Then, I got fired. The economy had plunged into a recession. Finding another full-time job proved futile.

In my desperate search for work, I stumbled across an online job site that featured seasonal jobs. Many of the jobs posted required relocating to a ski resort or national park. Fortunately, most of the employers offered affordable employee housing as part of their incentive package. Having few options left, I applied to a ski resort in Colorado and got hired as a guest service driver.

I spent that winter driving 60 hours a week, white-knuckling a steering wheel, chauffeuring guests through inclement weather to their chalets. While I earned far more money than I ever imagined, the season only lasted four months. When it was over, the resort shutdown, and I had to vacate employee housing.

Once again, I found myself with no job and no place to live. This time, however, I had more cash than I could spend, and big plans to travel the world.