Leaving Portland

It was on this day seven years ago that I left Portland, Oregon, my home of 20 years. I decided to post an excerpt from my book describing that day.

The RV park outside Portland. Freya Too (the Airstream) and Vanna.

I was pushing my weather luck by waiting until mid-November to head south, risking slippery roads from rain or snow as I crossed the Siskiyous at the Oregon/California border. But the morning I left Portland the skies were clear, not even the occasional fair weather cumulus or feathery cirrus. It was as though the Pacific Northwest had given me an all systems go for take off. I set about getting ready to hit the road. Because I was on my own with no one to direct it took about fifteen minutes to line up Vanna’s tow ball to the Airstream’s tongue. I’d back up Vanna, get out and check distance and angle, pull forward, back up, get out. The trailer looked closer to the van than it was. Okay, back up some more. Shit, too far. Finally, it was just right. I lowered the tongue onto the hitch then raised it a little to make sure it was firmly attached.

Next I went down the checklist of “hitting the road chores” like unhooking the television cable and electricity and battening down the hatches. Everything went fairly smoothly but I couldn’t get the chocks out from between the wheels. Just when I needed help, one of the neighbors who had never spoken to me showed up. After a bit of a struggle he managed to wrestle the chocks free from their bed of tires.

It was time to leave Portland.

I pulled out of my space very, very slowly. Remember, I had only towed Freya Too once before. The park was rather maze-like so several turns were necessary to get to the entrance on the top level. The trailer followed like a well-behaved dog on a leash. Good girl. I crept over speed bumps. Finally at the gate I turned onto the frontage road, stopped at the red light at the intersection, waited. At the green light, more creeping. I now knew why old fart RVers drove so slow. I’d probably never flip one off again. I looked in my rearview mirror. It was disconcerting not having a view of the traffic behind me. Seeing the silver trailer caught me off guard, as though some huge semi-truck was tailgating me, riding my ass. I couldn’t see around her. Oh yeah, the side mirrors. On the freeway entrance ramp my foot shook as it hovered over the gas pedal. Jesus, what in the hell had I been thinking? Can I really do this? Fortunately, traffic was light. I felt tremendous relief after merging onto I-84 without merging with another vehicle. I crept over to the middle lane and stayed there, constantly checking the rearview mirror to make sure the trailer was there because I didn’t feel her. There was no pull. Vanna didn’t seem bothered by the additional weight.

….

That first day I didn’t get too far, stopping at an RV park just off the highway a little south of Roseburg, Oregon. I was worried about the drive facing me the next day - the climb over the Siskiyous with the subsequent descent which would drop me into California. How would the van do, towing that trailer up a four thousand foot climb? What scared me more than the idea of going up was the coming down. Van brakes, trailer brakes – would they hold?

A trick I learned crossing the Siskiyous was to stay with the semi-trucks. When they pulled over to the far right truck lane, I followed. That way I could go as slow as I wanted without worrying about holding up traffic. Coming down the mountain, I stayed with the trucks, dropping the van into a lower gear.

Making it over that mountain, not encountering snow or rain, not burning out my brakes or having the trailer come unhitched thus reaching California before I did, I figured the worst was over.

Accidental RV'er - Part One

This photo from Big American Night.

I do not recommend RV'ing if you're afraid of traffic and big vehicles. Which is why I am not an RV'er. I just happen to live in a home which can be moved from place to place. (Well it could be moved if its tires were all in one piece and not spontaneously combusting but that's another story.)

Malia is an RV'er. That woman takes her motor coach all over the damn place - from Alaska to Michigan which is where she is as of this writing. Malia has a passion for exploring new places. Like Michigan. I've not thought much about Michigan but Malia can spark an interest. She's the igniter. However, the likelihood of me ever towing my trailer to Michigan is not slim to none but just plain old none.

A wanderlusting friend who lives in Austin (who's started her own blog) sent an email suggesting I check out Pecan Grove RV Park which is where Malia stays when she's there. Yep, that looks like my kind of place - a trailer park full of eccentric people, a lot of them living in Airstreams. The best part is that the park is in the city, close to music venues and all the stuff a city has to offer. All the stuff I've been missing for six years.

The worst part is it's in the city.

Which means traffic. Traffic and a city I've never been to before are two things that scare me when it comes to driving a normal-sized automobile much less a one-ton van with my home attached to it. But if I really, really wanted to go to Austin, I'd make it happen. I'd take a deep breath, call on my road angels, and head out. From here to Austin I'd have to deal with two cities - El Paso and San Antonio. Okay, I've driven through El Paso before so I think I could do that. Can I skip San Antonio? There's a road from I-10 to Austin through Fredricksburg. I wonder what that road's like. I'd stay outside of Austin in Dripping Springs or some such place, leave the trailer and head to the city on a recon mission. I'd find Pecan Grove, map out my route, go back and get the trailer, leave Dripping Springs before the crack of dawn so as to miss rush hour traffic....

Whew. What a lot of work. The thing is, I've gotten lost on backroads while towing and it wasn't fun. I got lost in some California suburbs the day before Thanksgiving, pulling my trailer through Albertson parking lots and that wasn't fun either. I've had to slam on my brakes in freeway traffic and that was even less fun.

What was fun was towing my trailer on Hwy 82 from Nogales to Tombstone, a two-lane road with minimal traffic. A two-lane road through some of the most beautiful desert country I've ever seen. That was my image of my new life before I left Portland in November 2004. That image of a lonely desert road, sun bouncing off the shiny aluminum trailer (which is no longer shiny but that's another story too).

So in a way I became an accidental RV'er, someone not interested in visiting every state in the U.S. but someone looking for a place to rest - a place that could change every year or two or three when I became bored, when the newness wore off, when my adult ADD kicked in.

There are lots of other reasons why I don't consider myself an RV'er but those will have to wait for another time. Right now I have to rescue the rock guard (the big plexiglass thing that protects the trailer's front window from rocks) which is de-riveting itself from the trailer.

Home - for now

A couple posts back, Pam asked why I stay here. Besides the obvious reasons - the beach, the Mexican people, the culture - there's also this: after six years living in a 25' trailer, I'm not ready to give up my additional space.

What a treat it's been having a nearly screened-in porch and the use of a friend's picnic table. It's great having a work area where things can be left out and not put away each night. However, as you can see, I do need organizers. My work area is a mess.

I don't look forward to the days of having to open and close my awning. There were so many times in southern Arizona when I had to get up in the middle of the night to close the awning because some unexpected windstorm had moved in. If I had a fancy rig with a push-button awning opener, well, that'd be a whole other deal but it takes work to open and close the Airstream awning, especially for one person. Especially when it's windy.

Yes, I used to have a Vespa scooter but that's another story.

Now that my trailer's Dometic refrigerator is dead, I so much appreciate having a giant fridge in my bodega. It takes getting used to having to trek outside to get cooking ingredients, making sure I gather everything I need in one trip, but it beats no fridge at all. When I leave here, getting a refrigerator is the first item on my to-buy list.

The first item on my to-fix list is the stuck black tank valve. Sitting in one spot, it's not a big deal but when it comes to moving around, you want to be able to close the black tank. You certainly can't boondock unless you have a shitter than can be closed.

This year my bougainvillea are doing great. The wind and salt water take their toll on the plants in the park but so far mine are surviving, maybe even thriving. The good news is that when/if I leave, Barbara, who will be taking over my space, is a terrific gardener and she's promised to look after them.

And then there's the financial considerations. When I do leave, it's gonna cost a pretty penny...the fridge, the trailer repairs, the tires, the gasoline. So I hang tight. Even though I'm itching to explore new places - and new saloons - now is not the time to go. Until it is time to go, this is a good place to just be. I ain't complaining (because I gave that up for Lent).

A Load of Crap or Tales from the Shitter

Jose, the tattooist, fixed my toilet. He is multi-talented, inking skin one moment, removing toilets the next, in between building a picket fence. He speaks English. He is invaluable.

During my three-month absence this summer the seals (flange, plumber's wax, whatever) dried out and so the toilet leaked. Some ugly rusty looking substance oozed from the base. I feared it was a dead mouse but hoped it was just the toilet parts rusting away. I couldn't bear to look so I hired Jose to do the dirty work. Then I went to visit with Edgar.

When I returned the job was nearly complete. Jose had so throughly scrubbed all parts of the toilet that it was gleaming white. (I think its true color is cream. Oh well.) Jose said, "I am so happy with this job that I will give you a year's guarantee." Great because he re-seated it at a slight angle and now the linen closet door doesn't have room to open. A minor problem.

But Charlotte's was a major problem.

When Jose poured her concrete patio (see how diverse his skills!) he noticed a foul smell from under her trailer and saw a sewage leak. The day after my job he went to tackle hers.

RV LESSON: The black tank.