Autism-Friendly RV Camping: Why Parks Don't Work for Us

We don't stay in mainstream RV parks. Not because we're purists or minimalists or trying to prove something about how we travel. We don't stay in them because they don't work for our son.

Hyrum has autism and PDA, and the things that make a typical RV park appealing to most families, playgrounds, clubhouses, pools, neighbors close enough to borrow a cup of sugar from, are the very things that make them impossible for him.

He needs space. He needs quiet. He needs the freedom to walk out our door and roam without feeling like he's invading someone else's territory or being watched by strangers. He needs water and trees and rocks to climb on, not concrete pads and gift shops full of candy he can't have.

So we've learned to look for something different. Not better. Not more adventurous. Just different.

The kind of places where Hyrum can be himself. Where we can leave our door open in the morning without worrying about who's parked ten feet away. Where the rhythm of our days can unfold without the constant hum of generators or the pressure to fit into someone else's idea of what family camping should look like. We look for autism-friendly RV camping spots.

What Doesn't Work and Why

Most mainstream RV parks pack people in close. Even the well-spaced ones, when they're full, don't leave much room to breathe.

For Hyrum, that proximity is the problem. He loves to walk straight out our door and roam. Not far necessarily. Just far enough to feel like he has his own space. His own territory.

He doesn't like being close to strangers. Even with us, he needs distance. About thirty feet or so. On hikes or walks, sometimes he'll stay close. Other times he'll drift off to stim, talk to himself, and process the world in the way that works for him.

That autonomy matters. Crowded RV parks don't give it to him.

When he roams, he's drawn to water and trees. Not concrete. Not buildings. We've never seen him wander a parking lot or playground for long. If he can't be by water, he'll find trees. If he can't find trees, he'll look for something natural. A creek bed. Tall grass. Rocks to climb.

There's something grounding about it. We don't fully understand it, but we've learned to trust it.

Most RV parks don't offer that. They offer amenities. Activities. Other families everywhere. That sounds great in theory. In practice, it means Hyrum can't find a corner to himself.

Then there's the attention.

Hyrum doesn't wear shoes. He stims visibly. When he gets dysregulated, he has meltdowns. Loud, physical, impossible-to-control meltdowns.

He's not throwing a tantrum. He's not being defiant. He's overwhelmed, and his body takes over.

We've learned to recognize the shame in his eyes when it happens. He hates that he can't stop himself.

The more people around, the worse it gets. The more eyes on him, the more the meltdown feeds itself because he feels so bad about it.

We don't shame him. We love him through it. We distract him. We let him chase us. We run. Literally run. It gives him an outlet that isn't destructive.

But if we don't have space or privacy, those moments become much harder to manage.

We've stayed in a few RV parks over the years. One that worked surprisingly well was Hidden Springs in Evanston, Wyoming. It was newer, with real spacing between sites. There was a large pond and natural areas where Hyrum could wander while staying within visual range.

It worked.

Then there was a Yogi Bear park in our experience in Hurricane, Utah.

For most kids, it was paradise. Water park. Toys. Kids everywhere. Our daughter Eden loved it.

For Hyrum, it was sensory overload.

Too loud. Too many people. Too many interactions he didn't want.

He learned to go early in the morning or late at night when the inflatable jump area was empty so he could stim alone. If other kids showed up, he'd move to the far end.

On busy days, he couldn't handle it. He'd sit by a decorative waterfall that wasn't meant for people, and staff would ask him to leave. Or he'd find quiet construction zones because no one was there. Then he'd be told he couldn't be there either.

We didn't have anywhere else for him to go.

The gift shop and clubhouse were another issue. Candy and treats he can't have are immediate triggers. There's no clean way to say no that doesn't end in full dysregulation.

So RV parks with stocked gift shops at the entrance become a problem before we've even parked.

What We Look For Instead

Our non-negotiables are always the same. Distance from people. Access to water. Natural surroundings. Visual separation from roads.

If we can find a secluded RV park site away from the main cluster, sometimes that works. Off-season stays help too.

If it's busy or peak season, we don't try. We've learned it doesn't work.

So we look for BLM land, state parks, dispersed camping, or small rural RV parks most people pass by.

With a rig as big as ours, it takes effort. But we can always find something.

We look for what we call defensible space. Room where Hyrum can roam without pressure.

Water is the big one.

For stays longer than a month, water is non-negotiable. A creek. A river. A lake. The ocean. It doesn't matter.

Short stays are more flexible. Long stays are not.

Quiet doesn't mean silence for Hyrum. He isn't bothered by distant traffic.

What he loves is water. The sound of it moving. Lapping against rocks.

On the Strait of Juan de Fuca, we found a primitive spot tucked against the edge of a fishing resort. Dense trees on one side. Water on the other. Gentle waves rolling against boulders.

He spent entire days there. Jumping boulders. Exploring tide pools. Searching for crabs when the tide went out.

That kind of quiet works for him.

The Logistics and What You Give Up

Boondocking means no hookups. No pedestal power. No sewer. No water.

We haul water. We haul waste. We plan everything.

We use large water bags and transfer pumps. We dump black tanks with a macerator and haul to dump stations.

Trash goes to landfills. Sometimes thirty minutes away.

It's tedious. It's also manageable.

We carry extra propane. We stock up before settling in. We don't move the trailer once we're parked.

Small rural RV parks often have minimal facilities. Rough showers. Expensive laundry. Weak Wi-Fi.

We're used to it.

Being fully hooked up now feels like luxury living.

What This Has Given Us

The privacy has changed our mornings.

Open doors. Kids outside. Breakfast slow and unrushed. Morning devotionals. Yoga. Walks.

We walk along the shore or trails. It sets the tone for the day.

For Hyrum, it's given him autonomy.

We show him the boundaries once. Then he's free.

He spends most days outside. Exploring. Studying creatures. Watching quietly.

When he's done, he comes back. Eats. Showers. Goes back out.

When he's stuck inside, anxiety builds. Outside, he's calm.

Because of that, he loves traveling.

He knows there will be space for him.

That freedom has helped all of us. Our marriage. Our rhythms. Our peace.

Closing Thoughts

This isn't for everyone.

It's work. It's intentional. It's driven by our son's needs, not a romantic idea of off-grid living.

But we're grateful.

We would have missed so much if we'd chosen convenience over environment.

If you're considering boondocking, it may be worth exploring. It's often cheaper. More flexible. More connected to nature.

For us, flexibility matters more than memberships. More than amenities. More than routine.

Parts of our story have also been shared publicly in a KSL News interview, but this post reflects the day-to-day reality behind those headlines.

We're not doing this for the travel.

We're doing it for our son.

The travel is a gift that came with it.

May there be a road.