I dreamt of adventure as a child. Every canyon, every rock face we passed on the way to Rocky Mountain National Park sparked my imagination. "Can you ski that?" "Do people climb that?" My curiosity was endless. I was drawn to the outdoors, yet I became acutely aware of the ways our world confined so many from experiencing its vastness. Growing up in Longmont, Colorado, I had extraordinary access to nature, but I soon realized that wasn't the case for everyone. This realization planted a seed—a vision of a world where access to adventure wasn't a privilege but a right.
Attending the University of Colorado Boulder, I expected to find a community of like-minded individuals—people eager to shape the world in meaningful ways. Instead, I found many caught up in coursework, others more interested in the social scene. I immersed myself in Environmental Design, studying architecture, landscape, and product design. But the teachings on climate change alarmed me, and the rigid traditions of architecture frustrated me. Could we really keep building, knowing the environmental cost? Where was the conversation about designing for a world in flux?
I found solace in the words of thinkers like Buckminster Fuller, Dieter Rams, and Wendell Berry, and in the mentorship of professors who believed in design as a tool for good. Their influence shaped my conviction: we should design for practical function first, aesthetics second, and above all, with an awareness of our impact.
At 19, I adopted a dog named Izzy and bought a van. That van taught me countless lessons, and for a moment, I thought I had found my answer: a simple, mobile life connected to nature. I was ready to leave school behind, to travel and embrace the world outside academia. But I returned, not with renewed faith, but with a rebellious spirit. I challenged every assumption, rejected the norms of LEED certification, and used my projects as statements against the status quo. By my senior year, my capstone project wasn’t just a thesis—it was a manifesto.
I built a teardrop trailer. More than an object, it was a philosophy in form—a radical idea that a small, towable home could offer autonomy, resilience, and freedom. Yet, I knew it wasn’t scalable. It was too difficult to build, too fragile for long-term use. Still, the idea stuck. The potential was there, and I left school convinced that adventure, mobility, and self-sufficiency were more than personal passions—they were solutions to modern problems.
My first attempt at a trailer business failed. Too much skiing, not enough working. Reality caught up, and I had to find a job. That led me to EarthRoamer, a place that was equal parts education and heartbreak. Under the guidance of master craftspeople, I saw what true quality looked like. We weren’t just building vehicles; we were crafting adventure tools with soul. But when leadership shifted, priorities changed. Quality took a back seat to efficiency, and the culture eroded. The breaking point? A coworker—an excellent human, under immense stress—took his own life. That loss shook me deeply. It reminded me that work, no matter how purposeful, should never come at the expense of well-being.
In 2019, I started Campworks. We were building trailers—functional, durable, electric. But the early days were dark. Tragedy and financial strain loomed. I poured everything into the work, often alone, designing and building late into the night. Then COVID hit. While established RV brands thrived, we were invisible. I kept grinding, and finally, a breakthrough: our first rental. A single moment of validation after months of doubt. That led to more rentals, then sales, then investment. By late 2020, we had momentum. We gathered in the woods for Thanksgiving, cooked a meal for ten, powered entirely by an NS-1. It was proof of concept. It was hope.
Success came fast. We had a team of 12, a buzzing shop, a product people believed in. And then, the cracks appeared. Supply chain delays, financial missteps, cash flow nightmares. By 2022, we were barely holding on. Team members left. I carried the weight of every departure. Had I made different choices, we might have survived intact. Instead, I found myself at the bottom again—debt, lawsuits, no clear path forward.
Yet, I refused to quit. My partner, Mary Catherine, saw what I was too tired to see: Campworks was more than a product. It was my purpose. A friend invited me on a hike. I met Mason Elliott. He shared my vision, my passion for engineering, for adventure. Mason saw what I saw—the NS-1 as a tool for a new way of living. Together, we restructured, sought manufacturing partners, and clawed our way back.
We rebuilt. With Mat Hager joining as COO, we laid the foundation for something stronger, something built to last. It was no longer about just surviving—it was about thriving. We structured our business for stability, redefined our mission, and began delivering on the promises we made. For the first time in years, I felt optimistic. Not blindly so, but with hard-earned wisdom.
The NS-1 is not just a camper. It’s a mobile power station, an enabler of modern nomadic life, a tool for adventure with purpose. It’s designed for regenerative farming, disaster response, field research, and reconnecting people with the land. It is the answer to the overlooked places, the new frontiers. It is the manifestation of a belief I’ve held onto for years—that the best adventure is one that carries meaning.
I believe in the NS-1 because I believe in the people who will use it. Those who seek more than comfort; those who want resilience, freedom, and purpose. My journey to build Campworks has been anything but easy, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the most worthwhile paths are rarely the easiest.
We keep building. We keep pushing. And no matter what comes next, I remain steadfast in my belief that the NS-1—and the spirit of adventure it represents—is worth fighting for.
