Dear Hot Mess in the Rusted Van:
I walked the whole campground looking for you. Where did you go? The first and last I saw of you was about two hours ago when you were trying to back up your tent trailer into the site next to mine. And now I can’t find you.
The backing up was hard to watch. I first noticed the scene when I walked back to The Tiny from the laundry room and I saw several young men among a family in the playground area. They were all enthralled watching something: it turns out it was you backing up. Or attempt to back up, mostly jackknifing the trailer, pulling forward, and jackknifing again. I remarked to observers: “Nothing’s more interesting than watching someone back up.” One said: “We’ve all been there.”
As I passed you, I could see that you were a woman of about 40 and quite heavy, at least 100 lbs. overweight. I mention this because I was once 120 lbs. heavier than I am now. And I know with great authority that life is harder when you’re carrying around that much extra weight. I know you. I am you. I saw that the conversion van you drove was older and rusted in places. I saw that your hair was unruly. You might have called yourself a hot mess. And if you don’t, my apologies. I’m rather fond of the term.
Passing your window, I said: “You’ve almost got it. You’re doing great.” You said: “I’m learning.” I said: “Yep.”
I imagined your story. Like me, you had a powerful desire to live this life, to be solo and independent, counting on yourself, making your own decisions, free and mobile in the world.
And that made what followed all the more troubling. The young men couldn’t stand to see your misery and began moving toward your van, like a flock of turkey vultures (but with good intentions). One stepped up to your window and I could tell by his gesturing that he was giving you advice. I finally heard him say: “Just let me back it up.” I couldn’t hear what you said, but it sounded argumentative. You did not cede control. Another man walking along with a child stepped up and started barking out commands: Turn the wheel all the way! All the way! The trailer jackknifed even more.
I had my own advice for you—which was to try and get your truck and trailer into a straight line, then go straight back—but I kept it to myself. Really what we need when we’re learning is for everyone to leave us alone, give us our space, and let us learn by doing, just like they did. There is a cardinal rule in camping: Don’t talk to someone when they are backing up and setting up camp, and when they’re breaking camp and hooking up. It’s a time of high concentration and high consequences. Just let them be.
I’m sorry these guys didn’t know that rule.
I also jackknifed my trailer the first dozen times I tried to back it up. I did not like all the stares from the other campers. But I was given some great advice early on, which was to not worry about what other people were thinking about my backing up. I was advised to use 100 percent of my energy to focus on what I am doing. That has been the magic bullet. A few campgrounds ago, as my backing up was taking longer than it should have, I saw out of the corner of my eye a man from the next campsite walking toward me, looking helpful. I rolled down my window, smiled broadly, held out my palm, and said: “It’s OK. I don’t need any help. I’m going to keep working on it.” I hated to put him off like that, but it had to be done.
I was inspired even before I started my journey by the owner of a glass shop where I got a window in The Tiny replaced. She suggested I back the trailer along the side of the building to the back in a very narrow passageway so her husband could work on it. I said I can’t back it in. She said: “I can back anything in. School bus. Eighteen wheeler. Bring it on.” I’m not there, but I can certainly back my trailer up properly the vast majority of the time.
And when I don’t people have usually been so respectful and left me alone to work it out. One time in Oregon my backing up was so masterful in one smooth motion that when the line of cars I’d been blocking on a campground road began to pass, a woman called out from a passenger seat: “Good job!” I flashed her a brilliant smile.
There was one time, though, at a beach site in California, when I was trying to get into a very challenging site and it was late and I was tired. I went back and forth, jackknifing and twisting, backing up, going forward. Finally a man appeared at my window and said: “My wife sent me.” I said: “It was too painful to watch?” He said: “Yep.” He gave me advice, which I appreciated. He finally said, “Not to be rude, but I would be happy to back it in for you. I’ve been a trucker for 30 years.” I said “Yes!” A few days later, passing him talking with some campground buddies, I called him out by name and thanked him for saving me. I think he appreciated that.
Another time, at a campground on a reservoir in Mississippi, I proactively asked the ranger on duty to back my trailer in. I was only 2 weeks into my journey and was very unskilled at backing up. She happily did it for me. Another time, at a high mountain campground in California with darkness coming on, I could not find a site that I could back into and I thought I might have to retreat to town and get a hotel room. I ended up asking the young ranger on duty if he would help me find a site if I gave him $20. He gladly helped me, showed me what he considered the best campsite in the campground (in the tent section, accessible only by small rigs) and even backed The Tiny up for me. I would have paid $100 at that point.
But in your case, you had daylight, a flat site with no trees or cliffs or other obstacles. You should have been able to work it out on your own. I’m sorry you didn’t get that chance. I wanted to go over there and yell out: Leave her alone! Let her learn! Instead, I retreated to the trailer and played Enya really loud.
I was looking forward to meeting you and hearing your story. But when I emerged from my tiny home, you were not parked next to me. I walked the entire figure 8 campground and looked at all 100 sites and you are not here. Where did you go?
Wherever you are, I know you will keep going. I know you will learn and before too long, if you have enough experiences, you will learn what that trailer does when you turn the wheel this way or that. You will learn to go slow and observe the minutest movement of the trailer and if it’s going opposite your desire, you can quickly reverse the wheel before you jackknife. And if you do jackknife, pull forward and try again. You might watch YouTube videos like I did to get more strategies and techniques. You might learn about “the scoop” from the Long, Long Honeymoon couple.
Whatever you do, I hope I remember this lesson. Next time I’m tired and flustered and it’s a challenging site and I’m descended upon by a flock of helpful men, I hope I have the courage to ask for what I need, which is usually to be left along to figure it out. That’s what I’m doing in this traveling life. I’m figuring things out. Just give me some space.