Innocents Aboard: An RV Travelogue of Appalachia

Did you know most brake fluids have a dry boiling point of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit? What’s even more amazing is how quickly that temperature can be exceeded if you’re, say, using the brakes to keep a 5-ton camper containing your beloved mother, your only child and yourself from plunging over a 900-foot cliff on one of the Blue Ridge Parkway’s many terrifying, inadequately guard-railed hairpin turns.

Learning about the pitfalls of riding one’s brakes from this roadside mechanic was one of many highlights of my just-concluded RV vacation in the Appalachians:

I paid $400 for the lesson and subsequently learned that all you have to do when your brakes underperform due to boiling brake fluid is to pull over in a “scenic overlook” (if you’re on the Parkway) or near a “runaway truck ramp” (if you’re on one of the regular old 45-degree-angled highways) and wait 35-40 minutes for your brakes to cool. Then you can go on your merry way.

That length of time is coincidentally about the amount required to remove the shit stains from the upholstery -- the shit stains that occur after you attempt to apply the brake when down-shifting is inadequate to slow your hurtling descent toward a cliff and your foot hits the fucking floor.

FLATLANDERS

Oh, don’t think I can’t hear the derisive chuckles from you veteran mountain road-trippers from here. But I was born and raised and have lived nearly my entire life in Florida. And one of the top features of this state -- right behind the giant, indestructible flying cockroaches, crooked elections and heat -- is its flatness.

Anyway, going uphill in the mountains is scary enough in the rickety-ass RV I drove every single mile of the trip. (My mom flatly refuses to ever drive it and usually makes her boyfriend do it, but he wasn’t along for the trip, and my daughter is several years away from license age, so it was all up to me.) But going downhill is WAY scarier.

When I planned the excursion and made reservations in RV parks throughout the mountains from my flat, swampy home, I was too dumb to realize that a park located on the TOP of a ridge signified a white-knuckled, bearing-squealing, swaying ascent dramatically accompanied by the whine of an engine straining to the breaking point and the rattling of every single pot, pan, plate, glass and piece of cutlery as gravity slams them against the cupboard walls at each turn. And here I had thought higher elevations just meant it would be more scenic. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

After we arrived at the reception station at our first truly mountainous park, we were of course relieved to have lived to reach the top. Mumsy was already hard at work de-corking a bottle of cabernet. But then the park reception dude pointed at our actual camping site, which was, I shit you not, accessible only by a narrow path so steep it barely qualified as an acute angle. It was mercifully both paved and short, so we made it up, gratefully disembarked and immediately leapt into tall tumblers of wine (well, the kid went for root beer and started clamoring for S’mores).

We stayed at that place for several days. We had planned to take the RV into town and explore the surrounding countryside during day trips. Ha! We ended up not moving the RV an inch and only left the park once -- taking a $60 taxi ride into town for more wine -- because we were just too terrified to face that mountain road again until it was absolutely necessary.

THE CRYING AT LOT #15

When the day arrived to move on, we made the terrifying descent, foolishly filled with optimism by the prospect of a ride on the parkway, which we had not yet experienced and thought would surely feature more level roadways. But it was there that our brakes failed the first time and we learned our expensive lesson about downshifting. After the guy with the “purdy mouth” above checked our brakes, delivered instructions and made off with his hefty “roadside assistance” fee, we were on our way to the next spot.

Because of the delay necessitated by the brake failure and subsequent 4-hour wait for our rustic roadside savior’s arrival, we didn’t reach the parkway exit for our next campground until darkness had fallen. It started to rain. I found the road leading up to our campground and was dismayed to note that it was even steeper than the one leading to the last site. But after a horrifying 35-minute ascent, we found that the worst was yet to come.

A dilapidated sign bearing the name of the campground we sought loomed next to a narrow, gravel driveway that sloped downward at an alarming angle and disappeared into the trees. Mumsy and I looked at each other, but what could we do? We made the turn and immediately slid down what can only be described as a gravel flume and skidded to a stop outside a darkened reception shack. A sign said we could check in at lot #15 and pointed the way to an equally steep gravel path leading straight UP and disappearing into even more trees.

“You have GOT to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, but Mumsy was already pulling the cork from that night’s bottle of pinot noir, and I was hearing alarming howls from the rain-soaked woods, so I backed up to get a running start, popped the rig into drive and floored it to make the ascent.

I stopped in front of the rusty travel trailer at lot #15 and knocked on the door until an elderly man in boots and pair of boxer shorts answered. I explained that I had a reservation for one night only and that I sincerely hoped a spot could be found that did not entail further up or downhill driving, which elicited a blank stare and open mouth. As I spoke, nearby tent flaps and camper doors were flung open, and their occupants issued forth to join the circle of light outside #15, by all accounts fresh from a Deliverance cast reunion.

The old man in the boxer shorts continued to look confused, opening and closing his mouth as wordlessly as a fish. Finally, a gangly, officious yahoo stepped in front of the old man and said, “I’m in charge here. Who are you?”

I again said my name, mentioned the reservation made weeks earlier and launched into an earnest entreaty for a spot that did not require further precipitous ascents or descents. He interrupted to again assert that he was in charge and to ask, “Who are you?”

I said, “I TOLD you who I am, and I have a RESERVATION!” If I hadn’t been at the bottom of what seemed to be a mountainside gravel quarry, I would have stomped back to the RV that very moment and found the nearest 24-hour Wal-Mart Superstore parking lot in which to stop for the night. But we were where we were, so I took a deep breath, calmly repeated my name, re-stated the fact I had made a reservation weeks earlier and re-expressed my desire for a close-by spot.

It worked because our inquisitive host (whom Mumsy designated “Al Haig” due to his take-charge nature) directed us to a spot between the old codger in boxer shorts and a small tent occupied by an odd-looking youth who had emerged to gawp at us during the transaction (his gaping mouth led us to conclude that he was the old man’s grandson).

Once we’d backed in and hooked up, everyone went back to their canvas and aluminum abodes, which, from the quantity of rusting equipment and other crap piled around each one, appeared to be permanent homes rather than travelers’ temporary quarters.

COYOTES IN THE MIDST

We felt fortunate when our bucolic Al Haig informed us that the camp bathhouse was located directly across from our lot. Until we saw the interior of that building, that is. It was a horror of a place featuring filthy, crud-encrusted cracked linoleum counters that appeared to have been the site of a recent engine disembowelment, cob-web enshrouded pipes sporting gigantic spiders and moldy floor mats in the showers that not only encouraged showerers to keep on their flip-flops but might inspire the more germ-phobic to don a full hazmat suit.

Despite the facility’s defects, Mumsy repaired there to wash away the effects of our harrowing journey after chugging a couple of glasses of wine. I stayed at the campsite to guard the sleeping kid and tend a fitful campfire we’d started. I was paranoid from my encounter with the campground denizens, so I kept watch with a glass of wine in one hand and an extra long and heavy metal Maglite flashlight in the other.

I saw what I took for a dog moving from the shadows on the path toward the pool of dim light between our campsite and the bathhouse. But it didn’t move like a dog -- it sort of slithered along. I shined my light on it and immediately realized that it wasn’t a dog at all but rather a coyote with glowing yellow eyes, and a pretty good-sized one, maybe 50 pounds.

Just as I thought, “Oh shit, I hope Mumsy doesn’t walk out of the bathhouse while this coyote is here,” Mumsy walked out of the bathhouse while the coyote was there.

“Stay where you are!” I said. She froze, and the coyote melted away into the shadows. She ran to the camper, gulped down another glass of pinot noir and turned in for the night. I stood guard with my Maglite until I was fairly confident we would be menaced by no more men nor beasts for the night. I noticed that our neighbor’s small tent was equipped with a TV and that he seemed to have Scarface or another movie prominently featuring car chases and machine-gun fire on continuous loop.

He also had an electronic air pump which he employed frequently. At first I thought he was just inflating an air mattress. But the pump kept coming on at approximately 10-minute intervals all night long. Leaky mattress? Leaking blow-up doll? I’ll never know. Eventually I too was swept away by the sandman.

TROUBLING SIGNS

We all uncharacteristically arose at the crack of dawn to get the hell out of that RV park. Daylight exposed it as both more beautiful (the countryside) and more scary (the roads) than we’d realized under cover of darkness.

As we began our downward descent, we kept seeing ominous signs about the road. Steep downgrades and sharp curves are to be expected. But the subsequent signs were almost taunting, something like, “You think THIS is bad? It gets worse!” Of course we were too paralyzed with terror to take pictures of those signs, but trust me, they were that scary.

About half way down the mountain, we experienced our second brake failure and pulled over in a lane prior to a truck brake-cooling lane and runaway truck ramp. I called the guy who had charged me $400 to “fix” our brakes on the parkway the day before and learned that in fact he intervened in no important way and that all I had to do was wait for the brakes to cool and go on.

I called every mechanically inclined person I know to verify the advice. We briefly considered chartering a helicopter to hoist us down. Eventually we took the leap of faith and continued on our way, and sure enough, the brakes were fine.

EPILOGUE

We arrived back home at 4:30 in the morning on Sunday. It all seems so surreal now. I’ve been wondering ever since -- was it the RV? That wasn’t the first time I’d ever driven through the mountains.

I drove through the Rockies -- twice -- on a cross-country trip in a Volvo station wagon. I drove from Vienna to Salzburg once in a Volkswagen Golf. So what made this trip so uniquely terrifying? It must’ve been the RV. Next time, we’re going to the Keys.

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]