Of Beanbags and Trailers

What happens when a homebody takes to the road?

home·bod·y

/ˈhōmˌbädē/

noun

INFORMAL•NORTH AMERICAN

a person who likes to stay at home, especially one who is perceived as unadventurous.

"since his marriage, Brett has become a homebody"

What happens when a homebody insists on taking to the road?

Extra stress, it turns out.

On our first two road trips, documented in Open Road: a Midlife Memoir of Travel through the National Parks, I became deeply weary (and existentially anxious) with all of the transitions in and out of tents, lodges, campsites, vans and motels.

I’m a homebody.  Denying it has just made travel harder.

By buying a camper, Mike and I hoped that we could still enjoy road-tripping and avoid the emotionally taxing price tag of being in a state of disequilibrium as we constantly adjusted to new surroundings: a long-winded way of saying that the trailer would become our home, and this homebody could be “home” wherever we went.

And to be comfy in the trailer, I really needed my beanbag.

This should not have been the occasion that it became, but Mike thought the beanbag was ridiculously bulky, not to mention ugly.

“And why did you have to get a blue one?” He surveyed my precious, high-density foam, Kickstarter-funded, ergonomic “Moon Pod” beanbag with disdain.

This was no ordinary beanbag, and it cost me, well… I’m not admitting how much it cost me, although it would have increased Mike’s respect for the “big blue blob.”

“I’m not going without it,” I said with dignity. “It’s an important zero gravity relaxation device that I use every day.”

In a display of passive resistance, Mike neglected to pack the thing into the admittedly completely full truck for our latest practice camping trip, a three-week jaunt to Yellowstone.

The Moon Pod sat forlornly next to the stairs like a hobo’s big blue bag of laundry hoping for a ride on a cold and windy night.

I locked the house and grabbed the beanbag, toting it up the stairs to the truck. “I told you, I’m not leaving without it.”

Mike blew out an aggrieved sigh as I wedged our little dog Koa in at my feet, slid into my seat, belted myself in, then drew in the gigantic beanbag on top of me.

Bulging, squishy blue fabric engulfed me and the entire passenger area, including the windscreen and dashboard, covering me to my knees.

Koa whimpered from the footwell, but there was plenty of air for him down there; I, however, had to roll down my window to breathe.

“I can’t see around that thing,” Mike complained. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m taking it.” I firmed my jaw. My Moon Pod was the equivalent of a comforting rocking chair; I needed it.

Mike got out, walked around, pulled the beanbag off me, carried it to the back of the truck, and jammed it up into the open space under the boat that was already tied onto the roof. “There. It’ll be fine until we get to the trailer.”

We keep the camper parked at a facility fifteen miles or so away, and as we finally rolled out, frazzled from packing, neither of us was feeling vacation-y though we were jazzed to be headed to Yellowstone.

When we start a new trip, Mike has a revving “get ‘er done” internal engine that jacks up my anxiety. In return, I get stubborn, nervous and jumpy, which gets on his last nerve.

Loaded to the axles and all the way to the top of the roof, we rocketed through the forest on a small, windy road, headed toward the RV storage facility.

I began to get car sick. “Can you please slow down?”

Mike looked at my green face and took his foot off the gas. When some other cars piled up behind us, probably commuters, he pulled over to let them pass.

A young man in a purple sports car drew abreast of us. “What does this guy want?” Mike grumped. He rolled down his window.

The dude threw a thumb back over his shoulder. “You lost your giant blue pillow about three miles back down the road.” He didn’t bother to hide his grin and peeled away.

Mike glanced over at me, clearly eager to leave my beanbag behind.

“No. We have to go back and get it!” I exclaimed, horrified.

He spun the truck around, and we drove entirely too fast for my churning stomach back through the woods, scanning the roadside.

Three miles back, the beanbag had rolled to the shoulder and lay sad and dirty in the weeds like a giant’s lost marshmallow.

Mike pulled the truck over, got out, and resumed trying to stuff the beanbag back up under the boat.

Clearly, this method hadn’t worked the first time and wasn’t going to work a second time either.

I got out to intercede.

“Oh no!” The bean bag must have hung down for some distance because one end of it had scorched and melted into a solid plastic blob by resting against the truck’s exhaust pipe. “My poor beanbag!”

“Since you love it so much, you can hold it in your lap after all,” Mike said. “I can’t find any rope to tie it down.”

“Absolutely.” I got into the front seat again. Koa cowered between my feet in the wheel well as I squeezed the maimed beanbag in on top of us.

The thing covered us entirely, but it was quite pleasant to hug even though melted and dirty on one end.

I shut my eyes and relaxed now that it was right where it should be.

We drove all the way to the RV storage, engulfed in the Moon Pod.

I finally ventured, “At some point, we’re going to think this was funny.”

Mike rolled his eyes. They were the same shade as my beanbag, and that’s why I’d ordered it in Nordic Blue. :)

It has become quite clear as we bumbled into the RV lifestyle, that if Mike didn’t facilitate the mechanics of trailer travel, this form of camping would not be possible for us.

Some terrifying arcana, for the uninitiated, include hitching the trailer to the car and connecting relevant items like safety chains, sway bars, locks, and electronics like brakes and lights. Then, safely driving while towing a twenty-one-foot, 5,500-pound trailer in often challenging conditions (like tiny, steep, badly-paved roads, or rough roads filled with whizzing big rigs) backing aforementioned camper into narrow, challenging campsites (sometimes in the dark) unhitching the thing and balancing it “leveling” so that it’s on an even keel to sleep in—oh, and then fixing multitudinous things that can (and do) break on nearly every trip.

If this doesn’t sound fun, you’d be right; sometimes it’s downright scary and dangerous.

But other times, when you’ve pulled up against a break wall in the dark, falling asleep to the sound of waves, then woken to step out of your little house on wheels with a cup of tea in hand, to explore a pristine beach in the lemon-yellow glow of dawn—there is nothing better in the world.

We got our first, small sixteen-foot trailer three years ago, dipping our toes into RVing. We liked it, for the most part, enough to keep going. We upgraded to a twenty-foot, 1970’s era Airstream that Mike restored and rebuilt.

While we loved the Airstream’s aerodynamic ambiance, it was still too small for anything more than a weekend. We traded it in for what we have now: a 21’ Retro camper in white and turquoise, built by the Amish to look like the 1950s campers, but new enough that has all the comforts we need to live in for longer than a weekend.

And now, we’re fulfilling a dream we’ve both had to take a long (very long) trip around the United States in our trailer, taking to the road for up to six months.

Hence, this newsletter, PASSAGES.

I’ll be writing about our adventures as we go, and I’m so glad you’ll be along for the ride!