Columbus, Ohio USA
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On the Road Again
Tales from the trailer
By Joel Knepp
November/December 2019 Issue
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© Photo | Lynda McClanahan .
Recently, my wife and I took the plunge and hitched up our tiny, ancient camping trailer for a week-long, late-summer expedition to our lovely neighboring state of Michigan. We had a fine trip among the many tall trees and sparkling waters of the Wolverine State.In addition to natural wonders, we experienced, up-close, some mind-boggling views of RVs on a triple dose of steroids as well as an interesting look at the differences in various commercial campgrounds; more on this later. We hung out in hip Ann Arbor, hiked the Sleeping Bear Dunes, cruised the sparsely populated Upper Peninsula, checked out the amazing monster locks at Sault St. Marie, and ended our trip by accidentally hitting Octoberfest in the pseudo-Bavarian capital of America, Frankenmuth. This last stop was replete with polka music, beer, brats, dirndls, lederhosen, and gobs of blooming flowers.
After years of tent camping and backpacking in the Smokies, Sierras, Rockies, various deserts, and even Ohio, we have reached that age at which sleeping on the ground is no longer an attractive option. Rather than camping with a larger tent and buying cots or air mattresses, we opted for a small step up to what amounts to little more than a mobile bedroom. To characterize our trailer as modest would be giving it a major complement; it’s a mere 13 feet long, including the tongue, which for the uninitiated is the metal part that sticks out the front and attaches to the trailer hitch on the towing vehicle. The actual living space inside the unit is about 6.5’ x 10’, and much of that is taken up by the dinette/bed and a closet. Dancing is not an option.
We purchased this fine piece of equipment, a 1982 Casita made in Texas, nearly 20 years ago from a guy in Grandview who had stripped it down into a mobile office and stuck an AC (house current) air conditioner in one of the windows. For his computer stuff, he installed a curved counter top where the front bench, stove, and sink had been and used the trailer for the onsite production of videos for businesses. Unlike many camping trailers with straight sides, it is shaped somewhat like a roach egg or walnut shell, with a curved fiberglass top and bottom sealed together with a metal strip around the middle. Soon after acquiring it, I removed the propane heater, unneeded wiring, and direct current lighting. We were left with a dinette which converted into a 3/4 bed with some storage underneath, a tiny closet, a few little cabinets, and the counter top. For food storage, I bolted an old Coleman upright cooler (remember the ones with the fake wood-paneled door?) to the countertop. To meet certain middle-of-the-night needs, we have a small porta-potty. Oh yes, lest I forget, the interior walls came from the factory covered in sculpted shag carpet, originally blue but faded over the decades to various ugly shades of tan and brown.
I doubt the video man did much traveling in the camper, because when we took it on the road just about everything possible either came loose or fell off, including a nearly lost license plate. The primitive suspension doesn’t prevent the thing from shaking like crazy on the crappy roads now typical across America, especially since much of the original weight has been removed and there is no water in the under-the-floor storage tank. Over the years I have replaced the closet door, several mirrors on that door, some exterior lights, and various cupboard hinges. Early on came a new crank-up roof vent, the original of which disappeared somewhere between here and Augusta, Georgia. Soon to follow were the dinette/bed cushion upholstery, the fold-up table/bed platform, and various other disintegrating pieces and parts. In the weeks prior to the Michigan jaunt, I spent many hours fixing a leaky window, replacing the plywood subfloor, and de-rusting and painting the steel frame underneath the Casita. I tell folks only half-jokingly that I spend more time working on the trailer in the driveway than we spend with it on the road. Hey, everyone needs a hobby, right?
A few words on modern “camping.” Many commercial campgrounds which provide toilets, showers, electricity, water, sewer, Wi-Fi, and occasionally cable TV and miniature golf, are no longer really for people who camp. Some even call themselves RV resorts. Rather than campgrounds, they are more like parking lots for gargantuan trailers and motorized recreational vehicles. Many of these monsters are bigger than some apartments; try 50” long with two slide-out sections on either side, bathtubs, ovens, microwaves, washers & dryers, Bluetooth stereo systems, and large flat-screen TVs. They can run into several hundreds of thousands of dollars, which would buy a heck of a lot of nice hotel rooms and a world cruise or two to boot. One place into which we hauled our cute little Casita had a large deluxe section apart from the unwashed proletariat masses which required a passkey to open the gate. As we tooled through on our bicycles, we were stunned to discover that this section featured, no joke, huge beautifully tiled pads, permanent high-end outdoor furniture, and a party house and shower facility suited for corporate elite and Saudi princes.
Over the years, the trailers and RVs have gotten bigger and bigger and the tents have gotten fewer. In the four Michigan campgrounds we visited, we saw only one tent. In fact, one so-called campground gave us a rule sheet specifying “no tents allowed.” This particular facility, in addition to the many rules on the sheet, had signs everywhere telling us in great detail about the things we were to do and not to do. In contrast, another campground host just showed us to our site and told us to enjoy our stay. We sat by our little campfires at night, sometimes singing and playing guitar and accordion, and often saw no people and no other campfires, only the glow of TVs. These so-called campers weren’t experiencing any more of Michigan’s lush nature than they could have done in their backyards at home.
It’s a mystery why people would want to spend thousands of dollars and roll through gallons upon gallons of gas to park their humongous RVs and live just like they do at home. For old-school tent camping, I suspect most folks now go to state or national park campgrounds. Being wimps, we like our electricity, which is available in some non-commercial sites but not others, which is why we often perch as a midget among the giants.
To save the best for last, let me describe the Casita’s exterior enhancements provided by my ever-creative artist wife. Moosch, a college buddy of mine, once sold insurance to truckers, and as a sign-up thank-you, he gave them a large roll of heavy-duty reflective silver safety tape. My friend was kind enough to give my wife a roll and she proceeded to festoon the trailer’s plain off-white skin with many pieces of the tape cut into curves, dots, and curlicues inspired by Asian Indian decorative art. At night, when light is shone on the trailer, these artfully installed pieces of tape glow brightly as if lit from within, so late-arriving campers get a stunning show when they drive past our trailer in the dark.
At this point we've dazzled onlookers in probably 35 states, and we’re going to keep at it as long as it’s still fun. So if you see a whacky little trailer bouncing by on the Short North’s brick streets or, Heaven forbid, you see me frantically trying to back it into our narrow driveway while traffic piles up in either direction, you’ll know we’re either heading out or returning from yet another trailer adventure.
Joel Knepp lives in Victorian Village with his wife Lynda McClanahan, an artist.
They performed as the musical duo Nick & Polina for many years in the area.© 2019 Short North Gazette, Columbus, Ohio. All rights reserved.
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