Back in the day, long before my time, there used to be a class of people who proudly called themselves hobos. My granddad used to ride the rails in the days of his youth, hiding in boxcars and moving from town to town, state to state. These people weren’t “homeless” the way we currently use the term, because while they were homeless they chose the lifestyle, and didn’t have it forced upon them. This is a lot of setup for my story, I know, but I feel you needed proper context to understand why I decided to spend a year as a hobo. Each day was a quest for heating, for good food, and for clean water. I didn’t have to worry about student loan payments, utility bills, air filter changes, or dentist appointments. When you are fighting tooth and nail for survival each day, you don’t miss things like air conditioning or soda pop nearly as much. One time we found an old cabin in the woods, that had a fully stocked pantry and a wood burning furnace. My friends and I crashed there for a few days, sitting around the furnace and telling stories and eating beans out of cans. It was tough to leave it behind, especially that furnace because the nights were starting to grow colder. The life I wanted was a life on the move, constantly going to the next place, so I could never stay motionless for too long, even if there was food and heating. When I am ready to settle down, I will get a wood burning furnace.