RV Life - Back Issues

When Good Trips Go Bad

All four of us were college-educated men. All of us had jobs—a high school principal, writer, editor, actor. And as far as I know, none of us had ever been dropped on our heads as children or suffered the kinds of post-concussion syndromes that would make people act, well, slightly idiotic. But anyone stumbling onto our campsite to see this sorry quartet, the mangled motorhome parked alongside a row of broken tents, would think the kids from the Lord of the Flies had recently gotten an interest in camping. You see, at least for that weekend, we were a pack of morons.

It was late September and Charles was getting nervous. He hadn’t done any fishing that summer, and the latest cold front reminded him of that fact daily. The man was positively panicked about it. He got to talking with Joby, who echoed his laments. Joby called me, I called Tim, and then some RV manufacturer was foolish enough to loan me an RV for the weekend. The plan seemed simple enough, with a predictable formula. Friends + fishing = good times. Add a 38-foot motorhome and a deserted national forest, and how could you go wrong? Let me show you how.

Slow Start
By the time we got our acts together and our fishing poles out of our collective attics, it was early November. Some of us have jobs and kids and stuff, sapping the vital man-blood from our veins. But I digress. Nightly temperatures were hovering near freezing then, but who cares, right? We’re men. We’re camping!

Charles and Joby insisted on tenting. Tim and I—both avid indoorsman— holed up in the motorhome. Frankly, I hate fishing. The only problem was that this was my first RV trip, taken about seven years ago. I knew enough about the industry to be dangerous, but, well, wasn’t real field-tested. I brought along a couple of how-to books by Joe and Vicki Kieva, just in case.
Was it me or was it the motorhome? I don’t know, but we would have gladly traded in all of our bachelor of arts degrees (did I mention Joby had a Ph.D. from Stanford) to get the heat working. Any heat. The refrigerator didn’t cooperate, either, forcing us to put the groceries in a nearby stream. That wasn’t such a problem, since we had only bought three items: beer, bacon, and several pounds of fresh green beans.

By nightfall, it was 30 degrees outside, and maybe 31 inside my $180,000 motorhome, I figured. And no, I didn’t pack well, just a ratty old blanket and a fireman suit and boots on loan from my paramedic brother. I really was never one for waders.

I fully expected much of my traveling party to be dead in the morning from the elements. When I did finally fall asleep—or did my body just shut down from the cold? —I awoke to the sounds of gunfire. Were they coming to put me out of misery? I surely hoped so.

In the Crossfire
We soon realized that the reason the forest was deserted was because armed mobs were patrolling these woods. I suppose they were hunters, but did we really want to stay around to ask? Another round of gunfire—was it getting closer? —propelled me into the cockpit. I white-knuckled the steering wheel and scanned the woods for assailants. This was the Upper Peninsula of Michigan after all. And frankly, between you, me, and the wall, I’m not positive this lawless land is even part of the United States. Asking for a Starbucks in these parts could catch you a beating. What irony, to survive the frigid night, only to be gunned down in the morning.

Charles and Joby began pounding on the door. They had heard the shots, too. Only after answering a series of questions to verify their identities did I let them in. Since using the RV’s bathroom was off-limits (would it break too?), we each ran serpentine patterns to the outhouse tucked within the forest. Tim reported the bullets whizzing overhead especially motivated him.
We’d heard enough. Not a single fish in two days. We’d run out of menu options, too, after enduring such entrees as green beans and bacon, bacon and green beans, beer and green beans with a side of bacon. We’d frozen to our bunks. But assassination is where we drew the line. We gathered the tents and threw them in the back of the motorhome. Never mind the muddy footprints stamped about the motorhome’s crispy white interior. Never mind the dinette table broken in the excitement.

Charles had hung on the awning long enough last night to pull it down. I hollered at him to reverse the effects and tuck it back in. He looked at me with bewilderment.

“This is war, man,” I barked. “Fix it!” He scurried to the roof with a shovel, as Joby ran about the campsite like a drunken sailor. Meanwhile, Tim huddled on the motorhome floor in the fetal position.

I was both elated and shocked when the engine started on the first try. I was half tempted to gun the accelerator with Charles hanging off the roof. The gunfire persisted. Maybe we’d leave Joby behind as a sacrifice to the forest. He was getting on my nerves anyway. But you never leave a man behind, I guess. Everyone got inside and I floored it out of there. We hit the highway and headed back for the city as fast as our muddied, mangled motorhome would take us. Charles wanted to do it all again. Tim had to be restrained from killing him where he stood.