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Piling In
An RV is a very, very big vehicle, except when you are inside it with your husband Ed, his daughters Lily and Phoebe, his sister Doris and her ten-year-old Alisha, and your in-laws. Then it is very, very small. RVs are interesting that way.
We are headed for the Grand Canyon, taking the route of a family road trip 40 years ago, when Ed and his sister were about Alisha’s age and 31-foot RVs were just a twinkle in a madman’s eye. The RV, which we rented in Las Vegas, was Doris’s idea. “It’s just like a regular car,” she assured us. “Only long.”Ed is trying to maneuver out of the RV parking lot. This is not easy to do when the rear of your vehicle is in Las Vegas and the front is already pulling into the Grand Canyon Visitor Center. Ed’s mom puts a hand on his shoulder. “How you doing?”
“Great,” says Ed, without unclenching his jaw. “It’s really fun.”
An hour out, just past Hoover Dam, Ed finally begins to relax, and a tire blows. He pulls into a parking lot, and a bunch of us pile out to look at the damage. A piece of rubber the size of a playing card has been ripped from the tire. We call the RV company, who promise to send a tow truck to fix it. They call back to say that he won’t be there for at least an hour.
Alisha sticks her head out the window. “Hey, what does RV stand for?”
Ed looks at the sky. “Ruined Vacation.” Just then, a bighorn sheep runs across the parking lot, 20 feet away. “Wow!” says Alisha.
“And we wouldn’t have seen it if the tire hadn’t blown,” says Doris. She is determined to make the trip live up to her memories of the last one, which of course she can’t really remember.
The tow truck man arrives and changes the tire in less time than it takes Ed to change lanes. Ed shakes the man’s hand. “You wouldn’t want to come with us to the Grand Canyon, would you?”
Because of the flat, we’re two hours behind schedule and won’t make it to the RV park where we have a reservation. Doris starts calling random campgrounds in the guidebook. “Hey, they want to know how long our RV is,” she calls out.
“About 30 feet too long,” yells Ed from the driver’s seat.
Doris secures a reservation in an old mining town named Chloride. “The lady says just take the I-40 all the way there.”
“But we’re not on the I-40,” says Ed.
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