Camping isn't particularly complicated. Getting ready to go camping can be.

The big things usually aren't the problem. Most people remember the tent. They remember a sleeping bag, a chair, and probably the cooler. It's all the little shit that starts adding friction.

Where are the cooking utensils? Did we pack a lighter? Do we have trash bags? Camp soap? Something to cut food on? Toilet paper? Cups? A way to wash dishes? The stove is easy to remember. The twenty smaller things that make the stove useful are another story.

Do that every time you want to get away for a weekend and eventually preparation becomes part of the decision about whether you're going at all.

There is a very simple solution.

Build a box.

I Stole the Idea From Leonard

I can't take credit for the camping box. I stole the idea from my longtime camping partner, Leonard.

Leonard and I camped together for a long ass time. He was usually driving the red truck, and apparently at least once he was standing shirtless in the fog holding a chunk of wood over his head.

More importantly for this story, Leonard had a camping box.

I couldn't tell you exactly what was in his anymore. I don't remember the brand of the box, how he organized it, or whether our contents ever looked particularly similar. What stuck with me was the idea.

A bunch of the stuff you need every single time you camp doesn't need to be gathered every single time you camp.

Give it a home.

So sometime around 2014, that's what I did.

My first camping box was a big closing chest/box from Walmart. I couldn't tell you who made it. I never cared. It was probably somewhere around three feet long, a couple feet wide, and a couple feet tall. It held camping gear, the lid closed, and that was enough.

That generic plastic box lasted somewhere around ten or twelve years before I finally replaced it with the larger Plano box I use now.

The box was never the important part.

Don't Copy My Box

This is where articles like this have a tendency to become a checklist.

We're not doing that.

I'm going to tell you what's in my camping box because examples are useful. What I am not going to tell you is that these are the 17 ESSENTIAL ITEMS EVERY CAMPER MUST HAVE or whatever other bullshit happens to fit nicely into a search result.

My box works because it was built around the way I camp.

Yours shouldn't look exactly like mine.

The skeleton is simple: put the smaller pieces of equipment you repeatedly use at camp into one dedicated place and leave them there. Cooking equipment. Cleaning stuff. Lighting. Fire-starting supplies. Whatever regularly creates that irritating moment where you're standing around before a trip asking yourself, "Where the hell did I put that?"

Start there.

Then go camping.

The rest of the box will figure itself out.

The Box That Grew Itself

I wish I could tell you I carefully refined my camping box over the years through some disciplined process of post-trip evaluation and gear optimization.

That's not what happened.

The box grew.

Things went camping and never left. Something would prove useful, get tossed into the box afterward, and eventually become part of the permanent inventory. People who came camping with us would buy something specifically for one trip, leave it behind, and effectively donate it to the box.

And I have a tendency to not completely clean the damn thing out when I get home.

Apparently things can wander the other direction too.

One of the spatulas came inside to get washed after a trip and never made it back. It was sitting on the kitchen counter, and because it was already there, I kept using it instead of getting another one dirty. I didn't really think anything of it. Eventually it dawned on me that I had been using this unfamiliar spatula for quite a while and had no idea where the hell it came from.

Then I remembered.

Camping box.

Somewhere along the way I also realized I actually like the thing, so it's still in the kitchen.

The camping box has at least two more spatulas. We'll be fine.

It isn't even the first piece of gear to make that migration. A pour-over coffee maker that a friend's girlfriend literally donated to the camping box on a trip years ago eventually wandered into my kitchen too. I don't remember when or why, but it's been there for at least four years and has completely replaced my French press.

During years when I was camping particularly heavily, I'd occasionally dig through the box and find something I'd completely forgotten was in there.

There was, for example, a big can of charcoal lighter fluid that somebody donated to the box at some point. I couldn't tell you who.

I'm talking about the kind of lighter fluid you picture sitting next to a backyard barbecue right before somebody's dad uses three times too much and nearly lights himself on fire.

It didn't just sit there forgotten. We used the thing plenty. It became part of the box and went along trip after trip until, after who knows how many years, it was finally emptied recently.

Then there's the knife.

At some point, I found an old kitchen knife in the desert. I have absolutely no idea what its life looked like before that moment, but somebody had clearly used the hell out of it. The blade had been ground, reground, sharpened, and resharpened so many times that you can see the history in it.

For whatever reason, it ended up in the camping box.

It's literally still in there.

Nobody putting together a pristine camping checklist would have told me to pack a mystery kitchen knife I hadn't found in the desert yet.

That's sort of the point.

A useful camping box develops through use. You don't need to sit at home and perfectly predict everything your future camping self will ever need. Build a reasonable starting point and let actual trips edit it.

You'll add things. You'll remove things. Some stuff will earn a permanent spot. Some weird shit may apparently live there forever.

What Actually Lives in Mine

The current camping box is a larger Plano box that replaced that original Walmart tote after a decade or so of service.

The contents aren't particularly glamorous, but they cover a lot of the basic infrastructure of camp.

The cooking side includes a propane stove, pots and pans, collapsible bowls and plates, cups, utensils, a thin cutting board, and a collapsible wash basin. Then there are all the supporting things that don't get much attention until you don't have them: trash bags, biodegradable camp soap, toilet paper, dehydrated single-use towels, matches and lighters, solar lights, a water filter, and a small shovel or trowel.

Fire-starting supplies live in there. So does a light hammock and its straps. There's a solar shower. Over the years, other things have wandered in and out as the way I camp has changed.

There isn't a magic rule determining whether something belongs.

Oversized or ungainly equipment generally doesn't. Something that isn't useful obviously doesn't. Beyond that, the line is subjective.

The box is a skeleton. Your own wants, habits, and experience fill in the rest.

That's why I don't particularly care for universal camping lists. The things I consider indispensable may be completely irrelevant to you, and something you've learned to carry on every trip might never occur to me.

Trial and error isn't a failure of the system. It's how you build the system.

Then There Were Two

Eventually food-related camp supplies got their own box.

My dry box is smaller than the main camping box and, unlike the original generic-tote approach, the container itself has one feature I specifically care about: it seals.

It's a Husky box with a clear lid and a proper seal because food lives inside it.

The contents are basically a small camp pantry: instant coffee, powdered creamer, generic seasonings, canned food, foil, paper plates, and paper towels.

And dehydrated ice cream sandwiches.

Obviously.

The dry box isn't intended to contain everything we're going to eat for a weekend. Fresh food and perishables still get packed for the individual trip. Its job is to keep the recurring dry stuff together and give us a baseline pantry that's already there.

Just like the camping box, it removes decisions.

The Box Isn't the System

At some point it's tempting to keep throwing things into the box until you've created a plastic coffin that weighs 200 pounds.

That's not the goal either.

Some equipment simply belongs somewhere else.

I keep a separate camp backpack with extra clothing, headlamps, a blanket, tools, a power bank, charging cables, water-treatment backups, gloves, dry bags, and other personal or utility gear. Recovery equipment has its own place on the truck. Water and fuel containers don't need to be jammed into the camping box. Neither do folding chairs, shelter, the tire inflator, jump starter, vehicle tools, or the first-aid kit.

What does and doesn't go into the box is ultimately subjective. Size matters. Something oversized or awkward probably makes more sense somewhere else. Something you don't actually use doesn't deserve the space.

But there isn't one correct dividing line.

The point isn't to own one enormous box containing every object required to survive a weekend outdoors.

The point is for your equipment to have a home.

Once things have a home, you stop making the same decisions every time you leave.

The System Isn't Perfect

Having a camping box does not magically make me good at inventory management.

Most of the time, consumables take care of themselves. You notice something getting low during a trip, replace it, and you're ready again. Four trips out of five, that's basically what happens.

Then there's the fifth trip.

Things like toilet paper and paper towels are consumable enough that I never completely trust what's left in the box. Extras come along regardless.

Trash bags recently got me.

We ran out during a trip, and I hated it. I don't like not being able to clean up camp properly, and trash bags are exactly the kind of stupid little item that seems insignificant until you don't have one.

So yes, staying on top of consumables is a good idea.

I'm just not going to pretend I'm always good at it.

Replace the important things when you notice they're getting low. Deal with anything wet or dirty. Make sure the stuff you actually depend on will be there next time.

Beyond that, don't become precious about the box.

It's camping gear.

Use it.

Camp Ready Before Deciding to Go

I've been using some version of this system since around 2014.

The original cheap Walmart tote eventually gave way to a larger Plano box. A dry box joined it. Gear came and went. Other people contributed things. A random knife found in the desert somehow became a permanent resident.

The contents changed because the camping changed.

The idea didn't.

When someone asks if you want to go camping tomorrow, you shouldn't have to start building a campsite from nothing.

The big trip-specific pieces will always need attention. You'll still need food. You'll still need clothes. You'll choose the shelter and sleeping gear that make sense for where you're going. You'll check water, fuel, and whatever else that particular weekend requires.

But the hundred little decisions?

Most of those can already be made.

Build a box. Give the recurring stuff a home. Don't worry about making it perfect. Go camping, find out what you're missing, and let the system grow around the way you actually use it.

Then put the lid back on and leave it ready for next time.

Camp ready before deciding to go.

Buy less. Go more.

— Dane Justus
Founder, Weekend Route

What are you waiting for? Build a box. →