Trailer Travails

Years ago, I briefly owned a decrepit secondhand travel trailer purchased during a rare moment of financial surplus. I had wanted a camper for years after envisioning happy weekends with family and friends gathered around a campfire, biscuits cooking in a reflector oven, the women chatting amiably while men folk discreetly passed a bottle around and swapped lies.

Instead, the trailer turned out to be the clear handiwork of Satan, sent up here with the express purpose of causing either divorce or a nervous breakdown. It succeeded on both points — and more — until I finally pulled the infernal beast into the front yard and sold it for pennies.

Now, before all you “camping people” begin writing nasty letters and canceling subscriptions, let me say that I have nothing against trailers or campgrounds. They just turned out not to be my cup of hemlock tea.

In the Wilds

Actually, I love to camp but my tastes run toward internal-frame packs, freeze-dried food and pristine ridges deep in the wilderness, regardless of how inconvenient they are to access.

I have spent considerable time in organized, formal campgrounds during various shooting, hunting, fishing and general outdoor rambling. To accommodate my aversion, I do try to avoid peak times such as spring, summer and fall. I’ll even grudgingly acknowledge a state park or federal campground can be a very nice place to visit during a major blizzard or hurricane. I’ve done both, even though the storm wasn’t officially a Cat 1, it just seemed that way.

At the risk of publicly exposing my irascible side, I will admit the majority of my disdain for camping comes from the people populating the campground. Between the general overcrowding, hordes of drunken yahoos mixed with swarms of unsupervised children committing moderate annoyance under the cloud of campfire smoke hanging in stagnant 90-degree air, I have often said housing prisoners of war in such conditions would invoke a visit from an international tribunal.

We found there was never a moment of peace with the trailer. We were either scrambling around to prepare for a trip, suffering through the weekend in a hot, crowded, smoggy, overpriced shanty town or were cleaning up in preparation to do it again the following weekend. I soon began to realize there were other ways to spend our time, countless new adventures awaiting which didn’t involve public restrooms cluttered with the skeletal remains of health inspectors.

Simply towing the trailer was a major headache. I have pulled boat trailers across the country for years without major incident (yet), but for some reason, our camper seemed bent on destroying our vehicles, my sanity, or both. One time, I heard Satan laughing with delight, but the radio wasn’t even playing …

For example, while coming home late one Sunday night after spending the weekend in misery — Misery, Illinois — I noticed out of the corner of my eye another driver was trying to pass on the right. I grew increasingly agitated about this stupid and dangerous motorist until I realized it was actually our trailer, now happily chewing the paint off my still-financed family van. Though I had spent many hours working on the problematic hitch latch, it would still periodically spring open to give the trailer a moment of unearned highway frolic. This quickly became unfunny after the second such incident.

Therefore, given all these problems and my disgust with the whole camping scene in general, the trailer quickly went into the category of “things I have tried and won’t do again,” along with disco dancing and badger husbandry.

Know Thyself

One sweltering night lying awake under a cloud of humidity in melancholy — Melancholy, Kansas — I came to realize I didn’t enjoy our weekends because things were far too “civilized,” while the family hated the whole experience because it was too rustic. At the end of two long, long years, our next camping-related purchase was a For Sale sign. I haven’t had a trace of camper fever since.

I’ll admit I’ve mellowed a tiny bit on the subject, helped by a trip with a buddy one year ago. We were salmon fishing in Michigan, and I agreed to provide the boat if he brought his trailer along to provide off-duty housing. “Trailer” is really a misnomer — his house-on-six-wheels boasts a fireplace, laundry room, two bathrooms and a big-screen television. We did have to rough it somewhat because the sauna was out of order.

I could see myself “glamping” in such digs, though I can’t picture myself making the necessary installment payment each month for the next 600 or so years. Thus, trailer life is not something on my radar. Nope. I’m over it. “Been there, done that.” Moving on to other things. I’ve got a new motorized progressive reloader to buy and places like Raton, New Mexico and Camp Perry, Ohio to visit.

And Then ...

Now, imagine my surprise this week when I noticed myself absent-mindedly admiring a smaller pop-up camper for sale in a driveway near my home. Having passed it for several days in a row, I slowly began daydreaming about the neat little rig and thinking how it would be perfect for hunting trips and long weekends with grandkids.

Then, yesterday, I stopped right in the middle of the road, horrified at the sudden realization I was being tempted again. Satan was obviously calling, even though my radio was tuned into the GUNS Magazine Podcast at the time. Obviously, the circle of life had spun one complete revolution, and now I was being inexplicably drawn back to one of the evil beasts on two wheels, malevolence made of aluminum and canvas, a nuisance of overheated bearings and bad wiring. After all, it’s no mere coincidence Trailer and Trouble both start with a capital “T.”

Fortunately, since I’m a “Seasoned Citizen” and no longer wet behind the ears, at least I know the next step down this road — anyone got a For Sale sign I could borrow in two years?

—

Want more online exclusives from GUNS Magazine delivered straight to your inbox? Sign up for our FREE weekly email newsletters.