I’m standing in the parking lot of a large RV dealership south of Boston, notebook in hand, scribbling furiously as our rental agent points out every button and lever on the 33-foot Winnebago we’ve rented for a weekend of October leaf-peeping up the Maine coast. I have a bad feeling. Two hours in, and we’ve […]
By Amy Traverso
Aug 08 2007
I’m standing in the parking lot of a large RV dealership south of Boston, notebook in hand, scribbling furiously as our rental agent points out every button and lever on the 33-foot Winnebago we’ve rented for a weekend of October leaf-peeping up the Maine coast. I have a bad feeling.
Two hours in, and we’ve learned how to run the water pump, check the batteries, slide and retract the expandable living room and bedroom, charge the walkie-talkies, level the rig on uneven ground, run the electrical system, fire up the rear-view video camera, take a hot shower, and properly dispose of what our rental agent politely calls “the, uh, black water.”
What we haven’t discussed is how to drive the thing. This RV is big — a very large, very wide, very brand-new vehicle. But when I point out that neither I nor my husband, Scott, has ever driven anything larger than a haul-it-yourself moving van, the agent gives me a no-big-deal shrug. “Just take wide turns,” he says.
Somewhere, down in some primitive corner of my brain, a red flag tries, and fails, to catch my attention. Instead, I soldier on. Scott and I have long had a romantic notion about RV vacations: hitting the open road, parking by the beach, roasting s’mores under the stars, sleeping on high-thread-count sheets. Our kind of roughing it! A second honeymoon, really, since we got married just a month ago. And since we’re in a celebratory mood, I want a luxury RV. It’s 33 feet long, you say? Sign me up.
And so here we are, with our brand-new marriage, in a gleaming Winnebago Voyage so fresh from the assembly line that we have to pull the plastic off the seats. In a few minutes, we’re expected to fire up this monster and drive it to Bar Harbor. And back. I let Scott take the first shift.
We soon learn what the agent meant by “taking wide turns.” To keep our rear end from sideswiping the neighboring lane, we learn to drive halfway across the intersection before cutting the wheel. It’s our first major RV lesson, of many to come. After two successful rights and one left, Scott resumes breathing.
As copilot, I do my best to anticipate lane changes, check the mirrors, and watch for traffic. I try to massage his shoulders, but our throne-sized front seats are set so far apart that we can’t touch, even with arms outstretched. One thing is clear: It’ll take two of us to pull this trip off. Looking over at Scott, who’s holding so steady behind the wheel in rush-hour traffic, I realize that never — not even as we said our vows — have I felt so very married.
It’s dark by the time we get to the Point Sebago Resort on the northern shore of Sebago Lake. With Halloween only two weeks away, the place is done up with pumpkin-topped streetlamps and spooky skeleton tableaux. Even though we’re riding our brakes down the narrow dirt road that leads to our campsite, we still manage to miss the turn. That’s when we learn our second RV lesson: Braking takes awhile. By the time we come to a stop, we’re a good two blocks past the turnoff. But we’re equipped! We have our handy rear-view camera, its monitor mounted in the center of the dashboard. We turn it on and lean into the ghostly gray glow as Scott slowly, slowly backs up to the …
Cruuuunnnch. A terrible sound. A grinding, gritty, shuddering sound. We freeze, lean into the picture, searching. There’s nothing behind us. What is it? I run around to the back and stop dead. We’re perched on a large rock, a mini-boulder really. The rock’s pale color makes it indistinguishable from the road on the black-and-white screen. We didn’t see it coming. It’s invisible, but solid. There’s an ugly crack running up the back of our fiberglass frame. Scott looks horrified; I feel faint.
Chastened, we ease off the rock and drive slowly to our campsite. We hook up the lines, balance the rig, and soberly unpack our things. At the flick of a lever, the port-side bedroom wall slides out just enough to make the room feel downright spacious. The bed is so comfortable. We fall asleep within minutes and dream guilty dreams.
Morning, and my optimism returns. The sun is shining, the forest is quiet, the air smells of leaves and woodsmoke, and we can heat our coffee in a microwave. Sure, last night was a bit of a setback, but the damage is purely cosmetic. We begin to think that the crack might not be such a bad repair after all. I call the dealership to report the damage, and the agent kindly downplays his dismay. “Well,” he sighs, “I suppose that’s why they invented insurance.”
We walk around the clear lake for a while, collecting leaves and skipping stones. I manage to skip one of my rocks five times: plink! plink! plink! plink! plink! In a rush of confidence I make an announcement: Today, I’m going to drive.
Two hours later, I’m lying on the couch, elbows crooked over my eyes, felled by a tension headache so powerful that I had to pull over on a road outside Camden. It’s not that the driving was so difficult. It’s that my shoulders were up to my ears all the way from Sebago. “I tried, I really did,” I whimper. And that’s the end of my driving. Lesson number three: To drive a 33-foot RV, it helps to have nerves of steel.
We stop for ice cream in Camden, stroll the shops — and I can’t help but think how much more fun this trip would be if we could just, well, stay at a nice inn. Scott cheers me up with more talk of the open road, and we head out of town with just enough time to get to Belfast before dark. We’ve booked a site at the Moorings Oceanfront RV Resort, a friendly campground with a private beach and sweeping views of Penobscot Bay. We’ll spend two nights there, take a side trip over to Bar Harbor for a day of hiking, then head down through Freeport, and home.
But first we need provisions. Just north of town, a big-box grocery store welcomes us to its massive bosom. Such ease of parking! Such complementary scale! We stock up for a simple meal: shrimp, pasta, salad greens. You can eat very well from a half-size kitchen, but it’s silly to fuss. I think of the leftover bottle of wedding Champagne chilling in the refrigerator and toss some chocolate into our cart.
It’s dusk when we reach the campground, a cool evening, with the islands and the bay melding in shades of slate and blue. We circle the RV, checklists in hand, slowly hooking up water and power lines. We spend a cozy evening alone, watching DVDs on the center-mounted TV. Halfway through the show, Scott disappears for 15 minutes. When I step out to look for him, he’s standing proudly next to a blazing fire pit, marshmallows in hand. We wash down our s’mores with the rest of the Champagne, toasting the RV life.
Daylight reveals the sort of flinty October day that makes you want to get out and seize the last of the good weather. The bay is framed by flaming-orange trees, and the air is fresh and nippy. Scott makes quick work of the drive to Acadia, and as we pass into the park, it occurs to me that a detailed map might be a good idea. But our plan is so simple: park at the base of Cadillac Mountain and hike up, take in the views of hills and ocean, come back down for lunch. I can even see the mountain from the road.
“Do we know where we’re going?” Scott asks. “Over there,” I say, pointing. “Just look for signs.” Sure enough, a mile or so down the road, I see it: a brown sign with white letters reading “Cadillac Mountain,” and an arrow pointing left. So simple. “Here!” I say. “Go here.” Scott turns and I scan for the parking lot, wanting to give him plenty of time to brake and turn. I scan some more. Must be just around the next bend. Maybe the next bend? The road is gaining elevation, and the turns are getting tighter. The realization hits us simultaneously …
“We’re on the auto road,” Scott says. “We’re on the auto road to the top of a mountain in an RV.”
With every tight, groaning turn, every near-miss of an oncoming car in a blind switchback, I see his jaw clench tighter. There’s nowhere to stop and turn around. Our only choice is to keep crawling to the top.
Scott doesn’t say a word when we reach the summit. But he does slam the door behind him as he stomps off into the woods. Left behind in the thick, adrenalized air of the cabin, I’m beginning to feel sorry for myself — even indignant. Would it have been too much for the park to put up clear signs? I step out and stare miserably at the view. After 10 minutes, Scott returns. Without comment or incident, we make it back down the mountain. I realize that today’s lesson isn’t driving-related, but marital: Sometimes it’s best not to talk about it. Craving lobster rolls, we stop at a shack just outside the park. A cold front has settled in, and the restaurant’s only seating is on a semiheated side porch. We look around, shivering, until we remember our house on wheels. Feeling very smart and cozy, we take our lobster rolls back to our kitchen table and put the day’s fiasco behind us. “I think I’m really getting this RV thing,” Scott says happily.
We make it back to camp in Belfast, hook up in the fading light, and turn on the TV. There’s a Red Sox game to watch and a pizza to eat. But when we scan the channels, all we get is static. A dilemma: Do we unhook and drive to a bar? And then rehook later, in the dark? And so we find ourselves trudging a quarter-mile down Route 1 to the local Comfort Inn, where we expect to find a bar with a TV tuned to the game. Only there is no bar at this hotel, just a semi-fancy restaurant. The desk clerk takes pity on us and lets us into an unused conference room with a TV. “But I should warn you,” he says. “Some firemen have reserved the room for later, so you’re gonna have to leave.”
Two hours later, we’re honorary members of the Woburn, Massachusetts, fire department, adopted by guys named Mikey and Sully who offer us beer, crack jokes, and high-five us when the Sox win. On the cold walk home, ankles damp from the wet grass on the side of the road, I have to admit the obvious: If this were just another inn-to-inn car trip, we might not be having this much fun.
Our final day: Rather than stick to narrow Route 1, we head straight to the interstate; stretching and breathing deeply, we hum down the wide highway. In Freeport, as we pull into a jumbo parking space, we realize we’ve landed in the RV capital of New England. Entire lots just for us. Broad streets, easy-to-spot turns. We can park, walk to the shops, overspend, and have plenty of storage space for our loot.
Flush with success, we embrace the final lesson of our trip: If you’re going to rent a 33-foot RV with no prior big-rig experience, stick to the places where the other RVers go. And be brave. Or, better yet, rent a smaller rig. Which is exactly what we’re planning to do this summer. Only now, we’re going cross-country.
Amy Traverso is the senior food editor at Yankee magazine and co-host of the public television series Weekends with Yankee, a coproduction with WGBH. Previously, she was food editor at Boston magazine and an associate food editor at Sunset magazine. Her work has also been published in The Boston Globe, Saveur, and Travel & Leisure, and she has appeared on Hallmark Home & Family, The Martha Stewart Show, Throwdown with Bobby Flay, and Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. Amy is the author of The Apple Lover’s Cookbook, which was a finalist for the Julia Child Award for best first-time author and won an IACP Cookbook Award in the “American” category.
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