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“RV There Yet?” – Two Weeks, One RV, and a Lifetime of Stories
“RV There Yet?” – Two Weeks, One RV, and a Lifetime of Stories
Foot #0: The Suitcase Incident
Soon after getting the kids hyped up—and I mean hyped up—I climbed into the RV, fired it up, and gave it some gas. Immediately, the front of the RV shuddered violently up and down. I slammed the brakes.
Being judged, my wife asked, “Is the emergency brake still on?”
I double-checked everything, regrouped, and set the stage for round two. The kids (10 and 12) were bouncing with excitement. I eased into the gas again, determined to make a smooth getaway. Instead, I heard a loud crunch.
Frustrated, I threw it in park and stormed out toward the check-in station, just 20 feet away. The front of the building was all glass, and I could practically feel the staff watching me like we were their personal reality show.
And that’s when it happened.
For whatever reason—and I mean whatever—I looked back over my shoulder and froze. My heart dropped. I sprinted back to the front of the RV, looked at my wife through the windshield, then disappeared from view.
There it was. My suitcase. Or at least what was left of it—flattened, broken, and very much underneath the RV. I inadvertently left in front of the rig during the staff orientation of the RV. It was mangled, unrecognizable, and no match for 15,000 pounds of forward momentum.
I hopped back in the driver’s seat, threw it into reverse, and rushed out to salvage what I could. All I could do was hold it up like a trophy of defeat. The kids were howling with laughter. My wife was speechless. And I swear, inside the check-in building, someone was probably popping popcorn, enjoying the live entertainment.
The Great Milk Tsunami
About a day into the trip, one of the kids casually grabbed some milk from the fridge—totally fine, nothing out of the ordinary. A few minutes later, my wife suddenly shouted an audible from the passenger seat: “We’re supposed to be on the other side of the road!”
Without a second thought, I yanked the wheel into a hard left turn—across the double yellow lines on a winding mountain road.
Cue the slow-motion horror: the fridge door flung open mid-turn, and a full gallon of milk launched into the air like it had something to prove. It exploded on the floor with a vengeance, instantly transforming the RV into a dairy disaster zone. The kids screamed. I might’ve screamed louder.
I pulled over just as fast as I’d turned, and we all bailed out of the RV to assess the scene. The milk had actually seeped through the floor and started leaking onto the pavement outside. It looked like the RV was crying lactose.
We used every towel we had—beach, bath, hand, and even a sock or two—to mop it up. And despite our best efforts, the smell clung to us for the next 12 days like the ghost of breakfast past.
The Wrong RV Debacle
After a long, sun-drunk hike, sweaty and exhausted, we finally returned to our RV home. I slid in through the driver’s door, my wife through the passenger side, and the kids through the side door. We all settled into our spots, ready to embark on a grueling 10-hour drive.
Then, out of nowhere, someone—probably one of the kids—asked, “I didn’t know we brought binoculars?”
We all froze.
And just like that, without a single word spoken, not one syllable, we knew. We were in someone else’s RV.
What followed was a silent, lightning-fast evacuation. We bolted out faster than the speed of sound.
Turns out, our actual RV was two spots up ahead. We sprinted over, jumped in, and gave each other the “Are you sure this is ours?” look. Confirmed, it was.
We executed a swift K-turn out of the parking lot, heads down, trying to look invisible. And as if the universe wasn’t done messing with us, we spotted the rightful owners of the RV we’d just fled climbing into their rig.
We didn’t look back. Not once.
Go to Your Room (Ten Feet That Way)
At one point during the trip, tempers flared when my son got upset at Gabby for partially sitting on the table while looking over my shoulder as I drove. Gabby and I were bonding in that moment, but for some reason, just seeing her back upset Adam.
He kept yelling at her to sit properly, making a bigger fuss than anyone expected.
For dramatic effect—and maybe to make a point—I gave the RV a slight swirl. That ‘accidental’ movement shifted Gabby even more onto the table. She laughed. Adam did not.
Maybe as the parent, I shouldn’t have done it, but honestly? I couldn’t resist.
Eventually, I stepped in and tried to reason with Adam. The back-and-forth went on longer than it should have, and in a moment of exasperation, I blurted out, “Go to your room!”—forgetting, for a second, that we weren’t at home.
Now, in RV terms, “your room” meant sulking just ten feet away behind a thin curtain. But hey, discipline’s discipline—even if the room is the size of a closet.
The Table
The morning of our last day, I was gathering my clothes and towel for a quick shower. Turning to my wife, I said, “Well, this is our last day—let’s try not to damage anything.”
With that, I left the RV.
When I returned, my wife was acting strangely. No matter which way I walked inside the RV, she moved in the opposite direction, like a quirky game of tag.
“Okay, okay… what are you doing?” I asked.
She raised one arm while the other clutched the end of the dining table.
“Don’t be upset,” she warned.
I waited.
“I broke the table.”
The dining table—crafted from the finest particleboard—had collapsed under her during breakfast.
With no hardware store in sight, I “borrowed” a couple of screws from a wall fixture we didn’t really need (sorry, towel hook) and jury-rigged the table back together.
It held. Barely.
After that, we all agreed to eat off our laps.
The Final Sprint... and the Fence
On the final day, we had just minutes to spare before the RV return deadline. If we were late—even by a minute—we’d be charged for another full day. I drove like a dad possessed, skidding into the lot at 4:58 p.m. Victory!
Most of the employees had already left, but a few lingered. Luckily for us, they were just as eager to leave as we were to return the RV. They skipped the full check-in and waved us through with a quick “You’re good!” Thank goodness—because that RV still smelled like spoiled milk and the table was hanging on by a thread (literally).
We called an Uber and waited just outside the RV office, relieved.
What we didn’t know? The last remaining staff had locked the lot and left.
We realized something was off when we saw our Uber driver on the other side of a tall, barbed-wire gate—waving at us. We locked eyes. I jogged over, tried every gate latch I could find, and eventually just stood there, shaking my head, questioning every life decision that had brought me to this moment.
Eventually, a lone employee emerged from the shadows and let us out.
And that’s how our RV trip ended: not with a scenic sunset, but with barbed wire, locked gates, and a deeply existential moment in a gravel parking lot.
Final Thoughts from the Captain’s Chair
Would I recommend an RV trip to other dads? Absolutely. But go into it knowing that everything—everything—will go sideways at least once (or twenty times). You’ll spill milk. You’ll break furniture. You’ll get locked in. And somehow, you’ll still laugh about it for years.
It’s not the perfect moments that make the best memories. It’s the chaos, the weirdness, the getting-lost-and-figuring-it-out moments that bring you closer together. I truly can’t recall the sights, but I’ll never forget these, less-than-perfect moments.
So if you’re thinking about hitting the road, do it. Just maybe double-check your fridge… and for the love of all things good, don’t drive over your suitcase.
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