On September 9, 2019, Grant Petersen, founder of Rivendell Bicycle Works, was standing in front of the company’s beige corrugated garage doors in Walnut Creek, California, talking with Matthew Vernon, an associate professor at UC Davis. Vernon, who teaches medieval and African American literature, had recently had his bike stolen; a friend recommended he check out Rivendell, a boutique bike brand known for its durable steel frames and elegantly welded lugs.

Near the end of their conversation, Petersen bluntly offered an idea he had been workshopping: he could give Vernon a 45 percent discount on a Rivendell, because he was Black. Vernon says he didn’t know how he felt about the gesture, so he didn’t take Petersen up on it immediately.

The U.S. government has paid reparations to Native Americans who had their land forcibly taken and to Japanese Americans who were interned in camps during World War II. In 1865, Major General William Tecumseh Sherman issued , a milestone in reparations for formerly enslaved Black people and their descendants. The orders, made in collaboration with President Abraham Lincoln’s office at the end of the Civil War, confiscated Confederate land and gave 40-acre parcels to thousands of newly freed Black families. Lincoln was assassinated just three months later, the order rescinded, and the land returned to the Confederates.

Recently, a renewed push for reparations has surfaced in Congress. A , according to some of its key champions. It would create a 13-member commission for an in-depth study of reparations.

Ten months after his visit to Rivendell, Vernon reached out to Petersen. He had replaced his stolen bike, but in the wake of the nationwide protests over the murder of George Floyd decided he wanted to support people and brands who were doing reparations work. The two shared a correspondence about the racial reckoning and began planning Vernon’s dream bike build.

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When Airstream announced a trailer with a built-in mobile office earlier this year, it was perfectly positioned to generate buzz. The new model wasn’t aimed at just RV enthusiasts or the active subculture of posters at , but also at the wave of techies trading in their cramped, overpriced condos in SoMa for a life of coding while parked beneath the pines.

As we slowly emerge from a year at home��spent toiling in spare nooks and converted dining rooms, this work-from-anywhere trailer offers an aspirational view of life—one of conference calls in pastures, with rambling hikes waiting outside the riveted office window. It’s fodder for #wanderlust daydreams and , demanding attention from millennials who compulsively browse Redfin wondering if the native grasses really are greener.

After spending a few recent days in July with the in the Santa Monica Mountains, I found the trailer elegant and comfortable, but the office idea proved better in theory than in practice. The behemoth 30-foot, 6,757-pound camper could be a luxurious desk on wheels, but it’s probably best used as a gleaming aluminum spare bedroom, parked somewhere on a spread of land where your daily commute amounts to ambling down a dirt path from your home.

I tested the trailer in its ideal situation: a quiet, wide-open patch of local mountain with electricity and water hookups. The plan was to work by day—making music with my mobile recording rig in the back office—with bike rides and hikes from the front door buffering the day at sunrise and sundown. It was a welcome adventure, though I didn’t end up crossing much off my to-do list.

In stark contrast to my earlier test of the BasecampX, finding a campsite for the Flying Cloud, which is nearly double the length and more than twice the weight, proved particularly difficult. It was too long for nearly every campground in my local Los Padres or Angeles national forests, and I was too unsure of the trailer’s off-road capabilities to access dispersed sites in Sequoia National Forest. (Perhaps this is why Airstream campsites like or have become so popular.) Eventually, I settled on a piece of private property available on Hipcamp in the mountains above Malibu, where I could find ridgeline hikes through rolling hills to sandstone peaks and some of the best road biking in California.

This was my favorite moment with the Flying Cloud—somewhere between unplugged and plugged in, cosplaying rural living but with one bar of LTE and a $110,000 trailer to retreat inside at the end of the day.

The 90-minute drive to the site put the towing to the test in a variety of circumstances: through neighborhood streets, onto one of the busiest highways in the United States, and ultimately up a winding mountain road. I’m not a stranger to towing, having hauled a 22-foot Airstream round-trip from Los Angeles to Telluride and trailers full of music gear across the country numerous times, but the Flying Cloud was a proper challenge, even pulled behind the ridiculously capable and burly Ford F-350. The length wasn’t so daunting as the width, the maneuverability, and the sway. The trailer is about 8’5″ wide, giving less than two feet of wiggle room in either direction when passing, so I found myself largely sticking to the right lane, where I had some bailout shoulder, even if it meant 18-wheelers passing me on the left or cars merging on my right. Managing the trailer’s sway meant carefully avoiding any unnecessary or sudden steering inputs and meticulously holding my line on gentle curves. Though it was a hefty rig, I suspect the ride is something I would get used to if I owned the trailer, as I watched equally wide semis pass me without hesitation. Still, towing this trailer requires more foresight and concentration than something like the BasecampX or the 22-foot , and every gas stop in the 30-footer holds the looming threat of getting stuck in a too-narrow turnaround. If I owned it, I’d want to find a good spot and leave it there for weeks or months at a time.

Towing challenges aside, settling into the Flying Cloud once it was parked was enjoyable and easy. The trailer’s floor plan has the master bedroom at the tow hitch end and the office, with adjacent bathroom and shower, at the rear. Between the two is a living space with a U-shaped dinette on one side and a galley and sofa on the other. Generous storage is spread throughout nearly every usable inch of the interior, with sturdy plywood cabinets built into the trailer’s contoured aluminum walls. I gravitated toward the convenience of the glossy, soft-close overhead cabinets lining the ceiling around the galley and bedroom and the low drawers beneath the sofa and in the office. Loads of closet and storage space remained even after filing away clothing, cooking supplies, music equipment, and camping gear for two. The galley has residential-style fixtures with an aesthetic I’d call “modern luxury condo,” including a stainless-steel stove and oven, microwave, and sink. The fridge, which runs on either propane or electric, cooled down within a few hours of hitching up.

The bedroom is a highlight, with a comfortable queen bed, dimmable lights, two built-in wardrobes, a bedside storage cubby for a phone and tablet, and large oval windows in every direction to offer fresh air at night and sunrise in the morning. There is also a privacy curtain between the bedroom and the rest of the trailer, which would be useful if you have kids sleeping in the converted beds in the galley or back office.

The office is ergonomic and efficient, flooded with light from three windows, and the space feels much bigger than it actually is—a testament to both the expansive views from the desk and good design. The cabinetry is cleverly built, with a bank of drawers and filing cabinets to the left of the desk and a tray table that folds out to make an added workspace. There is also a built-in cubby��above the desk that I found useful for storing cables, headphones, and other odds and ends. A comfortable office chair glides atop a plastic floor mat and nests into a secure recessed groove under the desk when not in use. (A strap keeps the chair in place during transit.) The office also has ample lighting, a pop-up USB/AC outlet powered by the onboard battery (even without hookups), and another sound-deadening privacy curtain that would be useful for video calls.

After settling in and sending some emails from the office, I eventually landed in a blissful, specific lull that only camping can provide—fixing a flat on my bike under the shade of the awning, hemmed in by hills of California sagebrush and coast cholla, playing over the Airstream’s JL Audio five-speaker surround-sound system. This was my favorite moment with the Flying Cloud—somewhere between unplugged and plugged in, cosplaying rural living but with one bar of LTE and a $110,000 trailer to retreat inside at the end of the day. The sun ducked under the hill, and I cooked dinner in the spacious kitchen with the twilight peeking through the open skylight.

There were idyllic moments, but from a practical standpoint, owning a trailer this size and frequently taking it on the road would require a full-time love of tinkering. There is always something to improve, or modify, or fix, or reset. As one Airstream mechanic kindly put it, “It’s like your house going through a 7.0-magnitude earthquake every time you take this trailer down the road.”

In my case, I experienced some trouble with the air conditioning. It was short-cycling—running for about 10 minutes, blowing some cool air, and then switching off, only to switch back on another few minutes later. Both I and the Airstream dealer remained stumped on the cause, but I am open to the possibility that it was unreliable shore power from the campsite or perhaps a malfunctioning converter. The trailer’s AC draws too much power to reliably run on battery, so I settled for fans and open windows. Alas, the 103-degree temperatures outside made the trailer intolerably hot by midday, driving me and my dog down the mountain to the beaches of Malibu. To be sure, fixing your RV is part of owning it, but this did put a dent in the idealized picture I had of working remote from it year-round. The Flying Cloud oozes quality in the finishes and has a hand-built feeling that other trailers lack, but it is not immune to the bumps in the road.

Owning a trailer this size and frequently taking it on the road would require a full-time love of tinkering.

Airstream has a rich history of special editions that turn into collector’s items and inform future designs—like the newly announced , the PanAmerica (, or the original . It’s easy to see the Flying Cloud Office in the same classic vein. There has long been demand for something like this, with dozens of threads on Airstream message boards , and even third-party companies that . The was already among the company’s most popular trailers, and the addition of the back office certainly enhances it for the outdoors-obsessed who work remote full-time.

On the last day of my “work” trip, I woke up early to brew a cup of coffee and watch the first specks of sun color the hills. From the trailer, I pedaled up a quiet two-lane road under sprawling oaks and laurels, then along a ridge until the sun was beating down without mercy. I reached a dead end and pointed my bike back downhill, mashing my pedals and speeding toward the trailer. I capped my morning with a rinse in the outdoor shower: a faucet and hose in a side compartment on the exterior with both hot and cold water. I was buzzing from the early morning adventure, grateful for such direct access to stoke and endorphins that I can’t easily attain from my home in the choked urban core of Los Angeles. I had some work to do, but rather than work from the trailer, I decided to head home to beat the heat. The office is a clever bit of design, and the trailer’s look remains as timeless as ever, but as with each adventure I have in an Airstream, the moments outdoors stuck with me more than anything else.

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After a six-hour drive, we��parked the loaner on a dirt road near Bridgeport, California, but we��knew��it��wasn’t our final stop. Three friends and I��were in the western corner of Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, a haven for dispersed camping, and I was determined to find an isolated patch of land somewhere up the unpaved road, with dreams of hiking trails��and hot springs outside our trailer door. It was Friday afternoon, though, and with the fall sun quickly disappearing below the sawtooth peaks of the eastern Sierra Nevada, the weekend crowds were drifting in—Winnebagos, Jeeps, and Jaycos, all snaking by, searching for their own spot away from everyone else.��

After a few minutes of deliberation overlooking the alpine valley, a friend noticed a trail in the distance. “How about that?” he suggested, pointing at a forest road pockmarked with small boulders and mountain sagebrush.��A narrow passage contoured��a pine-dotted hill, with a tiny turnaround visible about a half-mile ahead. The fifth wheels, toy haulers, and 30-footers could never navigate it, but our��20-foot trailer might have a shot. Underneath the waning sun, we��rolled over rocks and squeezed between trees in our 2020 Ford Expedition Max��4×4 until we��successfully maneuvered the truck and the 3,500-pound trailer into a��dirt clearing, proving that the Basecamp X was far from��a burden��but a gleaming wilderness pass to our own slice of serenity.��

Living the nomadic lifestyle is a growing aspiration for many people, and camper vans are surging in popularity. Moments like the one we experienced in the Sierra��are exactly when you��want to have��a vehicle like the Basecamp X. The trailer is well crafted and nimble both off-road and on, and I’ve found��that it can be used for days away from water, gas, and electricity.��

The Basecamp series contains��Airstream’s smallest models, and the 16-foot version has been the company’s top-selling trailer since it . The edict of the line is to be efficient, towable, and rugged. Or as Justin Humphreys, Airstream’s vice president of sales, put it, “The Basecamp model line was originally built for people looking to experience off-grid life and still have everything within reach.” I tried the 16-foot model in February at��Yosemite, but our adventure to the eastern Sierra��was my first experience with . The X package, which I tested, adds $3,000 to the $45,900 base price and includes increased ground clearance, off-road Goodyear tires, and stainless-steel stone guards on the front end. “The Basecamp 20 encompasses all of the same off-grid capabilities as the 16��but also represents a lot of market and customer feedback,” Humphreys added. The��additional bed and increased water-tank capacity were, to me,��the most notable perks, and I much��preferred this model to the 16-footer.

The interior of the 20-foot Basecamp X��is cleverly designed, with plenty of space for gear and food for the three other��intrepid campers��along for��my test. One example is the dinette table, which swivels to allow��whoever is seated in the middle of the U-shaped booth to get out��without anyone else having to get up. In the smaller model, I had to pack away the bed each day to access��seating space, but not in the 20-footer, which accommodated cooking, storage, bathroom access, and a dining table in the front, even while the convertible king bed lay unfolded in the rear.��

I quickly grew fond of stashing items in the open��overhead compartments that are spread around the interior. These��catch-all spaces are��made of burly��mesh stitched to yellow cargo bars, providing transparent, unfussy storage, ideal for tossing random gear, snacks, and any extras like sunscreen or lanterns that��you may want to grab quickly without bending over and rooting through a lower cabinet. (They��wouldn’t be a good place to keep fragile items while in tow, however.)

The��hanging compartments, along with the underbed storage that’s accessible from the back hatch, are perfect representations of what this��trailer does best—it gives a sense of structure to the camping experience, but with a design that encourages you to spend more time outdoors than in. The Basecamp X��is simple to unpack inside, uncomplicated to run off-grid, and easy to tow. This is not the Airstream that affords��every last comfort of home (for that, try the or the ), but it is the one that will get you on the trail quickest.��

Beyond the cosmetics, Airstream made some intelligent designs in the guts of this trailer that help it thrive while boondocking. The two 12-volt Lifeline GPL-24T AGM Deep Cycle batteries��in the 2021 model, in conjunction with the 180-watt��rooftop solar package, are powerful and efficient. I couldn’t drain them, despite using fans and lights liberally and running the fridge from the moment I picked up the trailer until I got home. There are also separate tanks for gray and black water, which turned out to be necessary, as I filled the gray tank more than halfway��after four days of camp cooking. (The 16-footer has a combination tank, with about half the total capacity of the 20-footer.)

I never did find the limit of the Basecamp X while towing it behind the Ford Expedition.��It was light enough to ascend and descend 6��percent��grades on asphalt without much push or pull, and rugged enough to bounce over sloping, rutted-out dirt paths and bumpy��back-road bridges en route to camp. Its��narrow profile was helpful on forest roads, and shin-high rocks were no obstacle. I will say that, despite the additional three-inch lift and skid-plate protection in the X model, I kept a watchful eye on the underbody while off-road, concerned that one risky move might��catch the exposed plumbing (though this never happened).��

There are a few improvements I could envision. The stovetop, which otherwise works well, proved about two or three inches too small for my uses. While cooking for our group of four, I could fit one ten-inch cast-iron pan on it��but not quite two—meaning the pot or pan on the second burner would hang off the stove and rest on the metal countertop edging. It was doable��for a weekend but not ideal, and it meant the second burner cooked things a little slower. There is also no way to tell when you’re running low on propane (besides the ol’ backyard-BBQ shake-and-feel test), which can lead to your furnace shutting��off in the middle of the night in 20-degree temperatures—that��happened to us. Also, some form of trash receptacle would be welcomed, as we were often stumbling around our bag of trash and sticking it beneath��the dinette table at night to avoid attracting animals.��

Quibbles aside, the Basecamp X is poised to become a bestseller, thanks to��its relative affordability, modest footprint, and ability to get farther off the beaten path, and the 20-foot version is its ideal expression. After weeks largely stuck inside my house, or scouring my local forests for open trails away from smoke and crowds, the space I found in the trailer was life-giving. Still, it’s a competitive time in the RV industry, and it’s impossible to ignore the steep price tag. If you were playing with $50,000, would you opt to put it toward��a Mercedes Sprinter or a Dodge ProMaster? Maybe instead you’d buy an old van, gut it, spend months of sweat equity building it back to your specs, and pocket the rest as savings for your adventures to come.��Or would you want this ready-made trailer, with classic looks, off-road chops, and a premium pedigree? There are pros and cons on each side and no perfect answer. But I do know that it’s been a few days since I’ve returned��to sprawling, hazy Los Angeles, and I’m still dreaming of nosing the trailer up a forested dirt road, parking between junipers and aspens, and swinging the back door wide open��for a midday nap with an infinite view.��

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