The Winter RV Hijinks

Week 1

I've been on the road the last couple days, slowly transforming into a sentient gas station hot dog. Very tiring.

Also, apparently Iowa doesn't build bridges... they guard them. Every single one comes with speed bumps on both sides. Not the polite kind either, not a gentle "hey buddy, maybe ease up." No. These are full-blown, "strap in, we're about to audition for a low-budget Dukes of Hazzard reboot" speed bumps.

I'm just out here trying to cross a bridge, and my truck and RV are like, "So... we flying this one or what?"

When we left Des Moines, I packed the RV like I was prepping it for reentry. Everything that wasn't nailed down got promoted to "ballast." Towels, books, snacks, my dignity... all strategically redistributed to keep us from accidentally becoming Iowa's newest low-altitude satellite. Sorry, NASA, the launch window is closed. The hot dog has chosen gravity. I think the half full black tank and 80 gallons of water helped too.

The drive out of Des Moines was actually peaceful at first, like the universe was apologizing in advance for what was about to come. Then the sky pulled a full mood swing. Tornado warning my phone and everything attached to the internet screamed. Winds that didn't just blow, they negotiated. "Hey, what if we just... you know... relocate you, your truck, kids and your RV to Kansas? Think of the change of scenery." I tightened my grip on the wheel like I was arm-wrestling a storm with Arm wrestling championship goals in its sights.

Mid-chaos, I did a headcount on the dogs. Three of them, all present, all giving me the same look the kids had: "You said this was a relaxing trip." No Toto, so at least we weren't contractually obligated to pick up a witch along the way. Small victories. The RV creaked and moaned like an old ship, and I swear one of the cabinets whispered, "We weren't built for this, captain."

Then Pilot Knob State Park emerged out of the rain like a gothic postcard. Beautiful, but in that "are we sure this isn't where legends start?" kind of way. No leaves on the trees, just bare branches clawing at the sky like they forgot what summer feels like. The entrance looked less "welcome to nature" and more "Sleepy Hollow auditions, this way please." I half expected a headless park ranger to wave me through.

I got parked and set up in the torrential rain, moving like a man being chased by invisible deadlines and very visible weather. Two other campers sat in the distance, minding their own business as if they'd signed a pact with the storm.

And then there was the white SUV.

Circling.

Slow. Patient. Like it had questions I didn't care to answer.

It passed once. Twice. A third time, just to make sure I noticed. At this point I'm standing there, soaked, holding a soggy extension cord like a prop in a low-budget thriller, thinking, "Cool, cool, cool... either I'm an unwilling actor in a horror movie, or someone's really committed to finding the world's most confusing campsite."

The rain kept coming down as if it had a personal vendetta against me, and by the time I dragged myself back into the RV, I was frozen, drenched, and approximately 12% closer to becoming an actual Popsicle. The dogs, kids and wife, looked at me like I'd just come back from battle. I shut the door, peeled off the wet layers, and just stood there for a second, listening to the storm hammer the roof.

Outside, the wind howled. The SUV made another slow pass.

Inside, three dogs, two kids, a wife and one damp husband, and an RV full of carefully arranged anti-flight snacks waited it out... hoping gravity remained a shared belief system. Then the skylight started dripping...

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