RV Roadies

Three days on the road and my backside is screaming, get off!  I have new respect for truckers. A person can't travel any further north in the almighty state of Washington without jumping in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and directly into the arms of the Canadian Royal Mounties.  We made it.  Alive. Here's our survival story,  just about the honest truth … 

We ventured out in predawn darkness that first day, still fresh, anxious to put miles behind us, well stocked with podcasts, maps and Nutty Bars.  Groggy at first, but coming to life as luminous giants emerge on the horizon, massive windmills of central Iowa stretch almost 400 feet into the cloudless sky.  Sleek, milky white pinwheels gather in farms, the slow, methodic rotations mezmerize the idle mind.  Oddly out of place, planted amid Iowa's signature corn fields and rich black earth, these sophisticated mammoths are unrecognizable to their age old ancestors. I'm awake.

Around hour eleven of our trek just west of Chamberlain, South Dakota the wind began swirling, rocking the Dodge and RV not necessarily in unison.  In the distance we spotted a strange sandy colored mass ahead.  Approaching cautiously, realized we were blasting through a howling, vicious sand storm, an eerie sick yellow aura surrounded us, pelts pounded like sleet against the truck.   We crawled past an overturned camper on the side of the Interstate, a twisted mangle, broken lawn chairs, shredded blankets, a menagerie of camping life strewn across the countryside.  Incredibly, the tow vehicle was upright and the travelers understandably shaken but unharmed inside.  We called it a day, pulled into the nearest campground. Paul poured a bourbon and said a Thank You Lord.

Rolling along the next day, suddenly embraced  by the largest, bluest, most astonishing sky in the USA, Montana earns its impressive "Big Sky Country" reputation. It is an understatement really, miles and miles of pure blue, errant clouds cast shadows across the plush green landscape, stretching as far as my eyes can see ahead, behind, all around we are enveloped in a sea of wonder.  Passing by a gathering of grazing pronghorn sheep mixed with a few black Angus, oblivious and peaceful together under this soothing blanket of blue.

Nearing Bozeman, Montana temperature plummets from 60 to 32 in an instant.  Is that sleet?  Yes, sleet smashing against the windshield, it's a full-blown blizzard. Within moments snow and slush covers the Interstate, a complete white out, inches of icy snow already piling heavy on the roadway, the truck labors through the slick mess.  We trudge along the next hundred miles in and out of snow squalls with intervals of calm, rays of bright sunshine.  Paul's planning another bourbon night.

  
Thirty-six hours behind the wheel, another two thousand miles racked up on the old Dodge, we've arrived.  Empty food wrappers litter the back seat, bottles and cans roll on the floor, the wiper squeaks against a dirty windshield. The camper swerves then rests cockeyed against the mangy pine adorning our home for the next few days.  We stumble out of the truck and smile, oh what a wonderful ride.