The Overlanding Trip Where the Rooftop Tent Became a Kite

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The prompt was simple: “Best dispersed camping near Moab with great views and no crowds.” The AI gave me GPS coordinates to a bluff I’d never heard of, with a confident paragraph about “sweeping vistas” and “solitude.”

I want to say up front: the vistas were sweeping. Deeply sweeping. Everything swept.

Arrival

We rolled in around 4 p.m. on a bluebird afternoon. No other trucks. A view of the La Sals you’d put on a calendar. I popped the rooftop tent, set up chairs, and felt like a genius. The dog agreed.

This is technically true in the same way that “the ocean is generally wet” is true.

2 a.m.

I woke up because the tent was moving. Not swaying. Moving, like a boat, like the whole truck was leaning into a turn. The fabric was doing a sound I can only describe as applause.

I checked my phone. The forecast I hadn’t looked at said: “Wind advisory. Gusts to 50 mph.” It had said this, apparently, since Tuesday.

Here’s what you need to know about a rooftop tent in 50 mph wind: it is a sail. The truck is the mast. You are the ballast, and you are not heavy enough.

The descent

Getting out of a rooftop tent in a gale is a procedure. You unzip the door (it tries to leave), you find the ladder with your foot (it is swinging), you climb down into a sandstorm wearing socks, and then you have to close the tent, which requires reaching up and pulling the shell down against a wind that very much wants it open.

I got it halfway. The wind got it the rest of the way, back up. We did this four times. The dog watched from the cab with the expression of a creature who had chosen the correct sleeping location.

Eventually I got it latched by lying across the top of it. Lying across the top of my truck. At 2 a.m. In socks.

The rest of the night

We slept in the cab. The dog got the back seat; I got the driver’s seat, reclined to the exact angle where the seatbelt buckle finds your kidney. The truck rocked all night like a boat in a harbor, and sand came through gaps I didn’t know a truck had.

At dawn, the wind stopped like someone flipped a switch. The sunrise was, I’m forced to admit, incredible. Sweeping, even.

What I do differently now

• Check the actual forecast. Not “general conditions.” The hourly, with wind gusts, the morning of.
• Camp low, not high. The “sweeping vista” bluff is sweeping because nothing blocks the wind. Camp behind something.
• Close the tent before bed if there’s any doubt. Sleep in the cab one night; it won’t kill you. The alternative might.
• Bring the little wind meter. It’s a $20 toy, but “the app says 35” hits different when the toy says 41.

The AI, to its credit, found a spectacular spot. It just didn’t know what “no crowds” actually meant. Now I do.