There’s something out there. In the pitch-black, beyond the glow of our fire, which is burning strong into its 11th hour, I keep hearing leaves crunching. I think back to the nice lady who discovered our encampment not 20 minutes after we pulled our e-brakes. She lives in the area and was looking for firewood. She left us with a friendly warning, “You know it’s bear-hunting season, right?”
We were deep in the Huron National Forest at the end of a two-track service road, far enough off the beaten path that Apple Maps only shows it as green. It’s overgrown after weeks of rainfall, and it’s beautiful, at least during the day. Representing humanity in these woods are senior news editor Caleb Miller, associate news editor Jack Fitzgerald, and myself. The air is still, without even a breeze, yet I hear rustling, and then another branch cracks. This one sounds louder than the others. "Jack, you’re sure it’s just dead sticks falling?"
“It’s just dead sticks,” he reassures me, with a soft cadence as if he’s comforting a child. There’s another crunch from his side of the fire, and he whips his head toward the void. We are so effed.
Tonight, I will be sleeping in the five-foot bed of my 2020 Toyota Tacoma TRD Sport. Draped overtop, and serving as my only protection from whatever lingers in the forest, is a Rightline Gear mid-size truck bed tent from Amazon. This tent comes with a rain fly, and it straps to the box of my truck with the tailgate down. I also have an Anker Solix C300 portable power station for charging my devices, and between me and the composite plastic ridges of the bed is a Nemo Tensor inflatable sleeping pad and an Ohuhu lightweight sleeping bag. It’ll approach 40 degrees tonight, so I will be sleeping in my jeans.
It could be worse. I could be on the ground with the rodents scavenging for scraps of the sausages we just cooked over the fire. That is Jack’s fate. He’s in a tent, with only a waterproof mat between it and the ground, because we forgot to bring a tarp. He has a thin roll-up sleeping pad, a sleeping bag, and nothing else. It’s a night spent with the bare minimum.
On the flip side, his excellency, Sir Caleb Miller, is resting in a box high above nature’s will. This weekend, Caleb is driving and living out of the 2026 Nissan Frontier Pro-4X Ultimate Build, a custom truck built by the Overland Expo Foundation as a demonstration of how to turn a stock truck into a mobile campsite.
Caleb’s digs are in the Tune Outdoor M1Lite camper, which rises above the Nissan’s roof by about three feet and features dimmable LED lighting and a 360-degree view of the world below. He’s sprawled out across a Pittman Outdoors air mattress, custom-fitted to the camper, and his body temperature is regulated by a diesel-powered Eberspäecher Airtronic heating system. He’s got a shower, too, from Rixen’s Enterprises, but we’re not close enough to a significant water source, so His Highness will just have to smell as bad as his two lowly subjects.
Miller is a benevolent despot, though; the Ultimate Build is equal parts communal and manorial, loaded with gear that elevates the campsite for all of us. Our persistent fire, for example, is encapsulated by a Breeo Y Series fire pit. It features a grill, on which we cooked the aforementioned sausages with a side of onions and peppers to near perfection, and a carrying case for stowage. In the morning, I’ll be in charge of the eggs and bacon using the JetBoil Genesis Basecamp, and Jack will wield the axe from Forrest Tool Company to refuel the fire. There’s also the Travoca Rigel Dual Zone eCooler, which slides out from the bed and has been keeping our meats, cheeses, and fruits at the perfect temperature in near silence.
We haven’t switched the Frontier’s engine on since we parked, yet the eCooler has run worry-free. That’s thanks to the Battle Born 100Ah 12V LiFePO4 Deep Cycle battery, which also powers the rest of the truck’s kit, including the LED strip lights embedded in each arm of the Taruca Rouge 270 XC awning that spans around the side of the Frontier. The lights have three modes: red, amber, and white. For now, we’re catching a vibe with the reds in full effect. There are even two solar panels mounted on top of the camper to keep the auxiliary battery topped up. The REDWorks Scout25 Power Panels from REDARC Electronics route into a BCDC Core25 charger and integrated Smart Battery Monitor.
The Ultimate Build’s gear adds up to roughly $15,900. That doesn’t include any of the Frontier’s off-roading equipment, like the ComeUp winch, upgraded Fox suspension with remote reservoirs, or the all-terrain Nokian tires. Just the comfort gear. The sleeping situation in my Tacoma was just $613, and Jack’s setup costs even less. The question we aim to answer, aside from “Where are the bears?” is whether it’s worth dropping 16 bands to have a Manhattan studio apartment on wheels. Will Caleb really have the best time on this camping trip?
To signal the end of social hour, he dumps a cup of water across the glowing red embers of our fire. It exhales in relief after its 15-hour shift. I switch each of the Taruca awning’s lights to white and begin washing the sausage juice off our plates. Jack is collecting trash in a bag that we’ve somehow already filled to the brim. “I’m gonna put this in the back seat.” Damn, that’s right. Because of the bears. That thought is sidelined when I put away the last utensil and unzip my tent to find it full of bugs.
Moths, mosquitoes, and some insects that I’ve never seen before are flying around and crawling across my nylon ceiling. Yours truly is truly a dumbass, because I had left my light on in a tent that wasn’t fully sealed—there’s a gap down below where it stretches over the open tailgate. I hate things that crawl. My perpetual anxiety is making me think that at any moment I’ll be having a 4-D experience of The Revenant, and, to be honest, the onions weren’t perfectly cooked. They were raw. Why did I come out here? Why did I buy all this camping gear? Outside the bug-tent, I hear the sound of a single-cylinder kicking to life. It’s Caleb turning on his heater before he shuts the tailgate.
The next morning I can hear the daybreak before the light enters the tent. The breeze rustles its way through the trees; the birds are singing their greatest hits. It’s calm. I’ve successfully traveled forward in time through my entomological dreams with the help of a little dissociation and about four IPAs. Speaking of, I need water. I open my eyes to a diffuse daylight through my nylon ceiling. There are still a couple of critters up there; I wonder how many I swallowed overnight. I sit up, open the flap of my tent, and there she is, Pure Michigan. Perfectly green, layered in a blanket of dew. The serenity is palpable, and suddenly, I remember exactly why I bought all this camping gear.
It’s not long after when the boys emerge from their shelters. Neither seems worse for wear, which, to me, says a lot about Jack in his barebones setup. Tough lad. That’s not to discredit Caleb, though. I’m sure he suffered a lot of guilt about being so warm and cozy.
It’s Sunday, and we’re in a time crunch to get back to Ann Arbor to catch the NFL’s late-window games, so he’s already started collapsing our setup while I make breakfast. We’re all alive, back at it again for another day. Turns out Jack was right; the crunches in the night weren’t bears after all.
