Truck Camping in the Outer Banks

With a handful of less demanding trips behind us, a sense of confidence began to bloom. We felt ready for a genuine off-grid experience. My father, a seasoned adventurer, had long spoken of the quintessential Truck camper expedition: Cape Lookout National Seashore, a jewel in the crown of North Carolina's Outer Banks. Forget the manicured lawns and opulent resorts that often define the OBX; this was to be something altogether different, a plunge into the raw, untamed heart of the coast. This time, our crew included Colt, Mason, and our loyal canine companions, ready to share in the adventure.

Truck is a set and ready to go

Cape Lookout National Seashore, a pristine and undeveloped stretch of North Carolina's Outer Banks, offers a unique coastal experience. This 56-mile stretch of barrier islands, accessible only by boat, includes North Core Banks, South Core Banks, and Shackleford Banks. Visitors can explore a historic village, climb the iconic Cape Lookout Lighthouse with its distinctive black and white diamond pattern, and witness wild horses roaming freely. The seashore is a haven for outdoor enthusiasts, offering exceptional opportunities for fishing, birdwatching, shelling, and camping under starry skies. With its remote and natural setting, Cape Lookout provides a tranquil escape and a chance to connect with the unspoiled beauty of the coast.

We began our trip on a Friday morning, aiming for the 8:15 a.m. ferry on Saturday. We made a steady drive down, camping overnight just outside New Bern, down a sandy two-track road in a secluded, wild camping spot.

Up early getting breakfast at McDonald's and heading for the ferry to cross over to Cape Lookout. The Calo cabins, camps & ferries is in Davis, NC. You can book your ferry trip on their website or by calling. We boarded our 0815 ferry. The ferry is big enough for 4 vehicles. Definitely an interesting experience driving your truck and camper onto a small ferry. It's about an hour trip to the island. You can get out and walk around the ferry. They do have a 2nd floor viewing station. I took the time to air down my tires for the sand driving on the island. Being we had the camper weight on the truck we only aired down to, 30 in the front and 35 in the rear. 

The ferry doors clanged open, and we rolled onto the sandy shores of Cape Lookout. Our first order of business: the ranger station. This unassuming building served as the official welcome point, and more importantly, the distribution center for the essential ORV sticker. This wasn't just a formality; without it, driving on the island's beaches was strictly prohibited.

The process was straightforward, a testament to the park's efficient management. We'd pre-purchased the permit online, and now, we simply needed to collect the physical sticker. And what a sticker it was. A silhouette of the iconic Cape Lookout Lighthouse, etched against a Tar heels blue background. It was more than just a permit; it was a badge of honor, a tangible symbol of our impending adventure. I'd seen my share of off-road vehicle permits, but this one, without a doubt, was the coolest I'd ever laid eyes on.

That cool ORV sticker

With our official ORV sticker proudly displayed, we were now fully sanctioned to explore the island's sandy expanse. We began by meandering through the small, charming village of cabins. Twenty-three rustic wooden structures, each possessing an unassuming elegance, lined the beachfront, offering unobstructed views of the pristine, undeveloped barrier islands stretching out before us.

The cabins, simple yet inviting, seemed to blend seamlessly with the natural surroundings, a testament to the park's commitment to preserving the island's wild beauty. As we drove slowly past, we could almost imagine the tranquil solitude of a stay in one of these remote havens.

The expanse of sandy beaches, stretching in both directions, presented a myriad of possibilities. It was clear why Cape Lookout was a haven for outdoor enthusiasts. The promise of excellent fishing, the allure of finding unique seashells, the invigorating coolness of a swim in the ocean, the spectacle of birdwatching, and the simple, profound pleasure of relaxing in such a natural setting were all palpable. The air was thick with the promise of adventure and the simple joys of coastal living.

Our goal was to camp on the far south side of the island, with a clear view of the lighthouse, about a 10-mile drive. We navigated the interior road, a sandy two-track with angled beach access paths. The sand was deep, and the truck, weighted down by the camper, required steady throttle control. We passed a few rugged Jeeps with rooftop tents and a massive dually truck camper, wondering how it managed in the soft sand. Roped-off areas marked sea turtle nesting sites, a reminder of the island's fragile ecosystem.

After about an hour of driving we made it to a good location to really slow down and start looking for a good place to call home for a few days. We found a place to camp next to one of the last hatching areas before the lighthouse in hopes that we will get to see baby turtles. 

We set up camp, getting chairs out and the boys setting up their tent. When they camp with us we have a Gazelle pop up tent. Set up in under 5 mins.  This tent is well worth the money most times the boys love it, but you will soon hear about a major flaw in the tent design. 

Once camp was set up we all went for a swim. August in the OBX is hot, but the waves were awesome. We Boogie boarded and swam for a while. As the sun set, we built a fire, and the sky exploded with stars, free from light pollution. 

The next morning, a quiet stillness settled over the campsite. I slipped out of the camper, letting the others sleep, and decided to explore the area surrounding the lighthouse. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of salt and damp sand. A short walk brought me to a surprisingly lush, wooded area nestled near the lighthouse's base. It was a neat little pocket of vegetation, a stark contrast to the surrounding dunes. A weathered boardwalk snaked its way through the trees, offering a glimpse into this unexpected oasis.

Further along, I discovered a series of fishing docks jutting out into the water. They looked perfect for casting a line, a quiet spot to whittle away the hours. I regretted not bringing my larger surf fishing poles, but the smaller rods I had tucked away would certainly suffice. The docks whispered promises of future catches.

After my exploration, I returned to camp, the aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air. As I whipped up breakfast for everyone, a simple meal that tasted infinitely better in the open air.

The rest of the day was a lazy rhythm of beach activities. We swam in the invigorating waves, the cool water a welcome respite from the August heat. Books were opened and pages turned, the rustling of paper blending with the sounds of the surf. The boys, initially hesitant about the rigors of beach camping, seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Laughter echoed across the dunes, and sandy footprints traced patterns in the sand. For that day, at least, the island felt like a perfect, sun-drenched paradise.

Water was great relief from the heat

This trip, Stacey had a big project going at work and needed to attend meetings from her beach chair. As windy as it was we were unable to put out our main awning, in fear it would get ripped off. We set up a makeshift rain fly to protect her from the sun.  The boys and I spent the day swimming and just hanging out. Stacey’s make shift sunscreen was not working. Crazy enough Amazon delivers to the island and she ordered a true sun shade that would be out for delivery the following day. We would have to drive to the village and pick it up. 

The next day, with Stacey's package slated for a noon delivery, I grabbed my fishing gear and headed toward the docks near the lighthouse. The morning air, thick with salt and the promise of a catch, was a welcome change. I planned to collect the package, along with the boys and dogs, around midday.

Caught a bunch of these and released them. Lizard Fish

Before leaving, we wrestled with Stacey's makeshift sunshade, a patchwork of fabric and hope, trying to give it some semblance of stability. With a final, dubious pat, we set off for the village. It's worth noting that cell service was a fickle thing on the island—strong near the lighthouse and village, but vanishing in the sandy expanse between.

There is no cell coverage between our camp and the village. As I pulled into the village, my phone erupted with a series of notifications. The first message from Stacey read, "This sunscreen thing is a joke. It's barely blocking anything." A moment later, another ping: "Seriously, I don't think this is going to last. The wind is ripping it apart." Then, the final, urgent plea: "This damn thing won't stay up, and it's sweltering. Please come back fast!" The messages, punctuated with increasing desperation, painted a vivid picture of her predicament.

Grabbing Stacey's package from the delivery point, I knew we had to hustle back. "Hauling ass" was the intention, but in reality, navigating deep sand with a loaded truck camper felt more like a slow, gritty crawl. The engine strained, tires churned, and the island's landscape seemed to stretch endlessly.

Finally, we reached our campsite. What greeted us was a scene of sun-baked disarray. Poor Stacey was huddled under the tattered remnants of her makeshift sunshade, a defeated warrior seeking refuge from the relentless sun. The once-proud fabric now sagged, ripped, and offered minimal protection.

We parked the camper, the engine sighing in relief, and quickly retrieved the new, proper sunshade. Unfurling it, we could immediately see the difference—sturdy construction, ample coverage, a true shield against the elements. But it was too late. Stacey's skin was flushed, a painful crimson testament to the sun's unforgiving power. The damage was done; she was undeniably, painfully sunburned.

 As dusk settled, the wind began to pick up, a low growl that steadily escalated into a full-blown summer storm. The sky, previously a canvas of serene stars, now churned with dark, menacing clouds. Stacey and I, seasoned travelers, found a strange sort of thrill in the approaching storm. The raw power of nature, the sound of the wind whipping against the camper.

The storm rolling in

However, our sense of adventure quickly shifted when my phone buzzed with a text from one of the boys. "The tent is collapsing," the message read, buzzing again. "The wind is pushing the sides in, and we have to hold them up to keep it from flattening." A flurry of follow-up texts detailed their increasingly desperate struggle against the relentless gusts. "It's getting worse," another message relayed. "We can't hold it much longer." Then, the final, decisive plea: "Can you unlock the truck? We're going to sleep in there." The playful excitement of the storm instantly evaporated. We realized the boys, confined to their canvas shelter, were facing a genuine ordeal. The wind, which we had found so captivating from the relative safety of the camper, was a force of chaos for them.

The morning after the sun, now a relentless judge, highlighted the extent of Stacey's sunburn. Her skin, a patchwork of angry red, spoke of the previous day's harsh exposure. The boys, their faces drawn and eyes weary from the night's battle with the wind, moved with a quiet resignation.

A palpable sense of "done-ness" hung in the air. The adventure, which had started with such high hopes, had taken its toll. Stacey's discomfort, coupled with the boys' clear weariness of beach camping, made the decision clear. We were leaving. With a sigh of acceptance, I pulled out my phone and booked a return ferry ticket for noon. The decision was swift and decisive. There was no point in prolonging an experience that had turned sour. As you can see we didn't take any pictures of this time. Lesson learned take pictures even when you don't want to.

We packed up camp, the process now a practiced, almost mechanical routine. The truck, its tires still slightly deflated from the sand, was maneuvered into position. With a final glance at the windswept dunes and the distant lighthouse, we backed up and began the slow, sandy trek back to the ferry landing.

The return journey, while less exciting than the arrival, was filled with a quiet sense of reflection. We were leaving behind the raw beauty of Cape Lookout, a place that had tested our resilience and reminded us of nature's untamed power But our adventure wasn't over. A new chapter, a journey into the verdant embrace of the Smoky Mountains, awaited us. Stay tuned; the road ahead held more stories to tell.