Let's Take This Outside

Thank goodness our marriage has not followed our RV cycle. The relationship lasts four to five years. It starts gooey with excitement—the possibilities, the plans, oh the places we’ll go. We laugh about the small annoyances (ha ha—how hilarious that we almost ripped off the back of the RV in that severe dip in the road). Over time, the small annoyances magnify into cataracts that completely change our perspective. And by the end of the cycle, we’re so fed up we don’t even want to get in the damn thing to unpack it. By that point, a simple upgrade won’t do. We crave drastic change. 

That’s how we found ourselves in the winter of 2020 after four years with our truck camper. It’d been a blustery, rainy couple of months in Florida. Our campsite at Fort Clinch State Park in Fernandina Beach was completely flooded. Stuck inside our 100 square feet of living space with an anxious dog and an ornery cat with diarrhea, we finally gave up. We cancelled our remaining reservations, packed up our wet gear, and headed back home, preferring the cold, damp Delaware winter to spending one more minute in the camper.

Still, it was a sad day, especially for Mitch, as we watched our truck camper leave our driveway in the back of someone else’s truck bed. A part of Mitch still regrets selling it. (And that part blames me.)

We’d decided that for our next RV, we wanted comfort above all else. I wanted enough floor space to do a reclined pigeon pose and a dedicated office area instead of one space doing triple duty as a desk, dining table, and bed. Mitch wanted enough space for his drones, cameras, and sound equipment, as well as two bikes, a paddleboard, and a kayak. We wanted to be able to spend the entire winter in it without either of us facing homicide charges.

Basically, we wanted a rolling condo.

So in the fall of 2020, right before the RV inventory tanked and prices sky-rocketed, we bought a 2018 Winnebago Vista 28-foot class A with a V10 engine. It has three slides, voluminous storage, a permanent work area built into the passenger side dash board (so I can work while having a 180 degree view of where ever we’re parked), a fantastic bathroom with a corner shower Mitch can stand up in, sizable water tanks, and a spacious kitchen. It is incredibly comfortable. Once we get to a campground, we love it.

But, man, does it suck driving it to the campground.

It’s as aerodynamic as a toaster. Staying in the lane in even the slightest crosswind requires total concentration and a white-knuckle grip. The driver (Mitch, because he doesn’t trust me behind the wheel, which is fine by me!) must anticipate 18-wheeler backwash, red lights, interstate lane merges, aggressive drivers weaving around traffic. It always requires two hands on the wheel and complete attention. Driving it any distance is exhausting. 

Being the navigator isn’t a walk in the park either. I have to check our routes on multiple apps, making sure we’re not directed through tight residential areas or under low overpasses. No twisty-turny back roads (my favorites!). All interstates. If we decide we’d like to stop at Panera for lunch, I check the satellite view. Is the parking lot big enough? Are there many trees or other low obstacles? I check the satellite view of gas stations to make sure there’s ample room, not only to get to the gas pumps but also to get out of the station. Since we’re towing our Jeep, we can’t back up. There’s no adjusting to get closer to the gas hose. If we miss the first time, we’ve got to go around the horn to get a second shot. A tight turn can take out a gas island.

And let’s not even talk about the wallet-emptying mileage.

All of this we knew going in. And I’d say it’s been a pretty fair trade-off (especially since I’m not the one driving!). But it’s been five years now, getting toward the end of this RV life cycle for us. So we’re once again looking towards the horizon. 

This time, though, we might make an even more drastic change. This time we may trade the bathroom for a head, the kitchen for a galley, driver-side and passenger-side for port and starboard. Maybe instead of staying in campgrounds, we’ll be at a dock, or gunkholing instead of boondocking. Maybe we’ll be in the channel instead of on the interstate. And instead of the rubber hitting the road, we’ll hope for wind in our sails. 

Or, who knows? A 4WD camper van might be fun, too. 

Regardless, after over twenty-five years of RVing, the itch to explore still hasn’t been successfully scratched. And to me, that’s the most important thing.