Why I Camp Alone in the Mojave (And Why You Should Try It Too)

Most of the camping I’ve done over the years has been with somebody else — my wife, a group of friends, whoever was free that weekend. Getting out into the desert became second nature to me that way. But somewhere along the line, solo camping stopped being the exception and started being the thing I actively look for.

Part of it is practical. Sometimes I want a quick overnighter and don’t have time to coordinate a whole group around it. Part of it is that group overlanding, as much as I love it, comes with overhead — you’re on somebody else’s schedule, you have to stay available, you have to check in before you stop, before you eat, before you camp. Solo, none of that applies. You sleep in if you want to. You eat when you’re hungry. You stop when something catches your eye and keep going when it doesn’t. Nobody’s plans have to bend around yours, because there’s nobody else’s plans to bend around.

And then there are the trips that almost didn’t happen — the ones where the group fell apart at the last minute and I just went anyway, because I wanted to be out there badly enough that waiting for the next opportunity wasn’t worth it. That’s really the whole case for solo camping in one sentence: it removes every excuse standing between you and getting out there.

But if I’m honest, the real draw isn’t the scheduling flexibility. It’s the quiet. There’s a kind of remoteness out in the Mojave that you don’t get anywhere else, and being alone in it — genuinely alone, no cell signal, no other headlights on the horizon — clears my head in a way nothing else does. If you’ve never done it, you should. Everybody should experience what the desert sounds like when there’s nobody else around to hear it with you.

Telling Someone Where You’re Going

The tradeoff for all that freedom is that when something goes wrong, it’s on you to handle it — there’s no one else in the rig to help, and often no cell service to call for help either. That changes how seriously I take the notification and communication side of a trip.

On the trail itself, I run two layers of communication. I use T-Mobile’s T-Satellite service, which piggybacks off Starlink, for SMS — it lets me send updates to my wife in real time: made it to camp, everything’s fine, or send help if it’s not. Before that existed, people leaned on satellite messengers like Garmin inReach, and those still work well if that’s your setup.

But my actual preference for solo camping is ham radio. The Mojave region is built for it — a lot of the repeaters sit up on high desert peaks like Potosi and other ranges around Nevada, so the line of sight is excellent. Even a decent handheld can reach a repeater from a long way out, and that gives you a real shot at raising help if you need it.

For a deeper rundown of backcountry comms options and the rest of what we carry for emergencies, see our Desert Survival Skills and Emergency Preparedness guide.

Staying Adaptable When the Weather Doesn’t Cooperate

I’ve been lucky enough to never have a mechanical failure or a flat while solo — knock on wood, twice over. But weather is a different story, and it doesn’t ask permission. What’s changed how I handle it is having a few different plans in mind based on how bad it gets, and being willing to abandon the “ideal” camp setup entirely if conditions call for it.

Sometimes that means skipping the tent altogether — throwing a blanket over my lap, cracking open a couple of USB hand warmers, hunkering down in the front seat, and turning on the radio to listen to the local comms until it passes. I keep ponchos and hand warmers in the rig at all times for exactly that reason. You don’t always get to choose the conditions you’re setting up camp in, but you can choose to be ready for whichever ones show up. Checking a source like the National Weather Service before you leave is a two-minute habit worth keeping for any solo camping trip.

The Real Safety Mindset

People ask about wildlife more than anything else when the topic of solo camping comes up, and honestly, animals have never been the concern. Most desert wildlife wants absolutely nothing to do with you — you won’t see it, you won’t hear it, and the odds of an actual encounter are low. What I’m actually paying attention to is people. Not because everyone out there has bad intentions, but because where I camp, there’s no law enforcement, no cell service, and no one coming to check on you. That means situational awareness — actually paying attention to your surroundings — matters more than any single piece of gear you carry.

Personal Protection — Do It, But Do It Right

Personal protection is a real part of planning a solo camping trip, and I carry a layered setup for it based on what’s realistic to reach quickly in different situations. I keep two canisters of bear spray in the rig — one within reach near the center console, and a second in back, accessible from the driver’s side rear door or the tailgate. Bear spray works the same whether the threat has four legs or two, and having one within arm’s reach no matter where I am in or around the vehicle matters more than having one canister that’s perfectly positioned for only one scenario.

I also carry a firearm when I travel solo — a small, easily concealed EDC gun. It’s not for brandishing, and it’s not something I ever want to need. It’s a last resort for the situation nobody wants to think about: three in the morning, someone approaching who won’t identify themselves and becomes aggressive, and no one else around to help. Personal responsibility is the whole idea — being able to protect yourself when nothing and no one else can.

A firearm isn’t for everybody, and I’m not telling you it should be. But everyone heading out alone into genuinely remote country should think through this seriously rather than skip past it.

Picking a Solo Camping Site

Choosing where to actually camp doesn’t change much between solo and group trips — you’re still looking for level ground above almost everything else, because an unlevel site gets old fast, even after you’ve jammed rocks under the tires to compensate. What does change is how much space you need. You don’t realize how much footprint your rig actually takes up — canopy, tent pitched alongside it, tailgate doubling as a kitchen — until you’re the only vehicle that needs to fit somewhere. Solo, that search gets a lot easier.

I also camp differently in terms of visibility. Solo, I like being tucked out of sight — behind a rock, behind a rise, back in a canyon rather than out in the open. Nobody seeing you from a distance means nobody has a reason to come looking. That said, tucked away doesn’t mean careless about terrain: I camp in a canyon above a wash, never in the wash itself.

Within that, I’m still picking for sightlines — good sunset and sunrise exposure, a clear view of the sky for stargazing, maybe a cliff line nearby that makes the whole site feel like somewhere worth being. In a region that runs hot, I also factor in shade timing: morning sun is welcome when it’s cool, but a site that starts shading out around four or five in the afternoon beats one that bakes until sunset.

Food Doesn’t Have to Be Complicated

Most of the people I wheel with are self-contained when it comes to food — everyone brings their own, and if a group meal happens or someone wants to share, that’s a bonus, not the plan. Solo camping works the same way, just for myself: I’ll usually mix an easy meal, a more involved one, and another easy one across a trip.

Easy sometimes means grabbing food in town before I leave — a bag of chicken fingers and fries from a drive-through — and just reheating it on the grill once camp’s set up for the night. Other times it’s something pre-cooked at home, like chicken legs tossed in buffalo sauce, that just need to hit the heat once I’m out there. And sometimes solo camping is exactly the excuse to do the opposite — a full breakfast spread, bacon, eggs, hash browns, all the fixings, cooked slow because there’s nowhere else to be and no one waiting on you to finish. That’s one of the underrated parts of camping alone: no rush to break down the galley and get the pans cleaned, because chances are you’re not going anywhere for a while.

Mornings on an overnighter are usually simpler — a bowl of cereal while breaking camp, then back on the road, home by noon. Food on a solo trip can go as simple or as involved as you want it to. Just always, always bring beef jerky.

Timing Your Arrival and Lighting Your Camp

How much daylight you have left matters more than people give it credit for. In winter, it can be dark by four or four-thirty in the afternoon, so the bare minimum is getting to camp before sunset — ideally with enough light left to actually find a good, level spot with the view you want, rather than settling for whatever’s in front of you when the light runs out. Summer buys you more time, but the principle doesn’t change: give yourself daylight to find camp, not just daylight to leave home in.

If you do end up setting up after dark anyway, the right lighting on your rig makes a massive difference. Rock lights and under-vehicle lighting turn a headlamp-and-stumbling-over-bushes situation into a fully lit worksite — you can actually see what you’re doing instead of fighting a single beam of light while trying not to trip. It’s one of the best upgrades you can make to any overlanding rig, solo trips or not.

If You’ve Never Gone Alone, Start Here

If you want to try solo camping but the idea of a fully remote overnighter feels like too much, don’t start there. Find a developed BLM site or a state park — something in the ten-to-fifteen-dollar-a-night range that’s still remote enough to feel like camping, but comes with a vault toilet, a leveled spot, and often a camp host keeping an eye on things.

There may be other people around, and that’s fine — it’s training wheels. Do that a few times, get comfortable with being out there on your own, and then start pushing further out as you’re ready for it. Our guide to finding places to camp covers the tools we actually use to track down solo camping spots like this.

The destination isn’t really the point, though. It’s the quiet. Solo camping in the Mojave strips away everything that usually competes for your attention — no schedule, no cell signal, no one else’s plans to work around — and leaves you with just the desert. It’s one of the best things I do, and it’s something I think everyone should experience for themselves at least once.