Winter's RV Hijinks

One Last Drive

Every adventure has to find a place to rest.

For the last few months, Hijinks has been more than an RV. He has been our home, our hotel, our emergency shelter during storms, our comedy club, our repair shop, and occasionally our source of colorful language when something decided to quit working five minutes before we needed it most. Together we’ve crossed state lines, chased cooler weather, outrun a few storms, and driven straight into a few we probably should have avoided. Somehow, every mile became another story.

I still remember the excitement of bringing him home. He wasn’t perfect then, and he’s certainly not perfect now. Along the way, we’ve replaced parts, fixed leaks, argued with electrical gremlins, installed enough plumbing to confuse future historians, and somehow managed to convince a washing machine and a dryer to coexist under one roof. Every improvement made him feel a little less like an RV and a little more like family.

Hijinks has seen things most houses never will. He’s watched sunrises over quiet lakes and sunsets behind distant mountains. He’s sat through thunderstorms that rocked him from side to side and winds that made me wonder if flight was secretly included in the owner’s manual. He’s listened to laughter around the dinner table, sleepy conversations after long drives, barking dogs announcing absolutely nothing, and my wife asking, “Now what’s wrong?” often enough that it became part of the soundtrack.

The dogs grew to know every corner of him. The Shih Tzu learned which window offered the best view of squirrels and butterflies. The White Scottish Highland Terrier perfected the art of supervising every repair without actually helping. The Yorkie appointed herself head of security and bravely defended us from leaves, birds, and suspicious-looking shadows. Even Rhino somehow found his favorite place to stretch out, usually on the back ladder.

There were days when I questioned my sanity. I crawled under him in the rain, chasing mysterious leaks. I fought electrical problems that seemed to appear only after every hardware store had closed. I discovered that trailer brakes can quit because a truck thinks it’s carrying too much weight, that dryers can spend an entire afternoon contemplating a pair of socks, and that Walmart adapters occasionally have a shorter career than fresh milk. Looking back now, those frustrations have somehow become my favorite memories.

Now we’ve reached our final trip together, at least for a while.

The destination isn’t another campground or another state park. There won’t be reservations to check into or hookups waiting at the end of the drive. Instead, we’re taking Hijinks to a rental house where he’ll finally get something he’s never really had before.

A yard.

I like to imagine he’ll enjoy it.

He’ll have room to stretch out, trees to provide a little afternoon shade, and enough quiet that he can finally stop worrying about whether I’ll ask him to climb another mountain or fight another crosswind. After everything we’ve put him through, I think he’s earned the chance to relax.

That doesn’t mean the adventures are over.

Far from it.

When the fish start biting, Hijinks will be the first one I hitch up. He’ll still carry us to quiet lakes where the coffee tastes better because it’s made outdoors. He’ll still spend weekends tucked beneath the trees while we tell stories around a campfire and pretend we know what we’re doing with a fishing rod. Retirement, after all, doesn’t mean life is over. It just means you finally get to choose your own schedule.

I’m also pretty sure he’ll become the quietest writing office I’ve ever owned. I can already picture myself sitting inside with a notebook, listening to the rain tap gently on the roof while new stories find their way onto the page. Of course, there’s an equally good chance my teenage daughter will claim him first as the perfect place to escape her parents for a while. I suppose every retired RV deserves a second career.

It’s strange how something made of aluminum, fiberglass, rubber, and plywood can become part of a family. Somewhere between the first campsite and the last repair, Hijinks stopped being just another vehicle. He became a witness to our lives, carrying our victories, our frustrations, our laughter, and more memories than any storage compartment could ever hold.

So, this isn’t really goodbye.

It’s more like telling an old friend to put his feet up for a while.

Thanks for every mile, every breakdown that became a story, every beautiful campsite, every white-knuckled drive through a storm, every squeak, rattle, and mystery that somehow worked itself out in the end.

Rest easy, old friend.

We’ll be back when the fish start calling.