Good day, everyone.
I have been on this forum for several years, and have read the posts with great enjoyment and anticipation during that time. Being a member of this group of strong women RV’ers has given me the desire and the courage to attempt my own adventure.
As many of you know, I purchased a new GMC Savanna van and converted it – all by myself – to a camper van (link to my van building project is below). The van was finished about three years ago now, but I have taken only a few trips in it because my elderly dogs became ill with age, and were unable to travel. There was no other option to me, being who I am, than to live with and care for these beloved old friends until their final heartbreaking days.
This I did.
My Sweet Girl, who had been battling Pancreatitis for several months, passed at the end of June at the too-young age of 15 1/2. Shortly before she became ill, I had acquired a retired show dog of my chosen breed (Staffordshire Bull Terrier). My Big Joe is a wonderful dog, and is proving to be a fantastic traveling companion.
I love volcanoes, and I also give talks and demonstrations on volcanoes to young girl and boy scouts and school children. I have just returned from a long-anticipated trip to the Oregon volcanoes, which has made me wonder if perhaps I have missed something in reading all of the posts here over the years.
Without going in to too much detail, I had an experience a few days ago that is causing me to perhaps re-think my travel adventuring plans.
The short version:
Before leaving, I had acquired a Passport America membership that so many of you had recommended. I located a Passport America campground in La Pine, Oregon: (yes, I am going to name it) Cascade Meadows RV Resort:
http://www.passportamerica.com/campgrounds/or/cascademeadowsrvresort3537
For the record, this “resort” was in poor repair, run-down, and in need of a lot of TLC. However, I didn’t much care, because I just needed a place to sleep overnight.
I had called ahead to make reservations (they asked how long was my rig, I said it was a camper van) and arrived about 4:30 p.m., registered at the office, I was given a site map and a blue slip and went to my assigned site and began to set up.
As I was busy doing this (not a lot to do, really – I run a power cord out my window so that I can plug in my heater – it is cold this time of year in this part of Oregon) and that is pretty much it. I turned slightly when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere in the dark was a large, rough-shaven man standing inside my personal space, obviously very very pissed off. We were practically chest-to-chest (he was no more than a few inches from me – I had not heard him approach partly because I was not thinking about any trouble, and partly because I am hearing impaired).
I could immediately tell that he was extremely angry, and he said to me in a sneering tone: “I’m over there” (he jerked his head towards the $60,000 King Cab pickup truck, hooked up to a $100,000+ deluxe, mega-slides everywhere, travel trailer that was parked next to me). “I’m pretty sure this place don’t rent to no vans” (his voice dripping with extreme distaste at the word “van”, as though he had just stepped in a brown pile of you-know-what).
I was actually dumbstruck by this. My van is not a “beater”, but is a nice, unblemished, 2011 van that I purchased new. My immediate impulse was to say “F—k off, a$$hole” as I was instantly more angry than I have almost ever been and - also instantly, and just as suddenly - pretty much terrified out of my wits.
Both at the same time.
Not a good thing to be when one is alone, in a strange place, with not another soul around, talking to a enraged man larger than I was (and I not a small woman), just as the sun was going down. I was wishing he would take a few steps back. I couldn’t step back, because my back was already pressed tight up against the side of my van.
I don’t think I actually made any reply, just kind of stood there with my mouth gaping open (also not a good thing to do) wondering what the hell was going to happen next.
I soon found out.
He continued: “I thought I better come over here and see what kind of fu-king riff-raff trouble making trash I’m a gonna havta deal with”.
Sweet Christ, I thought, I am going to be assaulted.
To hopefully avoid this, I immediately went into my fall-back “dumb broad” imitation. I actually smiled and let out a small laugh (no small feat under the circumstances – but then I majored in theatre when I was in college – a learned acting skill can come in handy at the oddest of times) and replied “Ha! I’m too old for all that.”
This seemed to stop him in his tracks. He probably wasn’t expecting any kind of reply, but then continued on “. . .we are all ‘Conservatives’ around here, if you know what I mean, and goddamn ‘Liberals’ just had best get out and stay out.”
Again, I was dumbstruck. Great. A discussion of the merits (or lack thereof) of the current political situation. Yes, just the thing for a dark night, alone with an angry man, in a rainy campground. After an instant (actually, less than an instant) consideration I thought it best to keep my own political outlook to myself. I could tell he was pretty fired up.
So I said, noncommittally, “Well, that’s nice” or some other kind of non-statement. I don’t really remember, because my knees were starting to shake. For some reason, he then gave me a hard look, turned around and left.
I took a deep breath, hoping that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
A few minutes later I could see another angry man rapidly striding towards my van as I was inside looking out the windshield. Before he could knock on my door (and get my dog riled up) I stepped out, smiled (ah, the benefits of acting training!) and said “Hello” with a smile in a pleasant, welcoming voice.
His first words to me: “So. . . what did you do, just pull in here and park, and hope to stay overnight without paying, or did you actually stop and register at the office first, which I seriously doubt?” He then identified himself as the titular “night manager”. Can we say “hostile” here?
Apparently, Mr. Testosterone had “reported” me.
I replied that of course I had registered.
“Then where is your blue slip? It should be hanging from your mirror!” he snarled.
Well, I remembered getting a blue slip with my space number on it, but I didn’t remember ever being told it needed to be displayed in my van. Maybe it had been mentioned, I don’t remember. Memory tends to fail me when I am scared out of my wits.
I replied that I would put it up directly, to which he snarled again: “Well, you’d better!” He then angrily strode away.
What is it with large angry men and smaller defenseless women, anyway?
I began madly searching for the blue slip. Not a lot of places for it to disappear to in a cargo van, but I COULD NOT find it. So I locked my van, and walked to the office. Of course, the office was now closed, but there was a phone number posted for the campground at the restaurant across from the office. I telephoned, explained to the woman who answered the phone that I had registered not an hour before, that I couldn’t find my blue slip, had not even been told the purpose of the blue slip, and that there was an extremely angry man at my camp site threatening to throw me out.
The woman on the telephone said that she would check on it and call me back. She never did call me back, whether or not she “checked on it” I will never know.
When I got back to my van, I did finally locate the missing blue slip and, with shaking hands, taking several deep (really deep!) breaths, placed it on my dashboard before closing the curtains.
I then picked up my flashlight, got my dog out, and spent the next two solid hours rapidly run-walking around the deserted half of the campground until the adrenaline petered out. I stayed the night, because inside with the doors locked, a telephone, pepper spray, and a big dog I felt reasonably safe.
Besides, by the time I had calmed down enough to be able to have a single rational thought it was nearly 11:00 p.m., too late to go anywhere else. And, in any case, rational thoughts were currently in very short supply.
So. Here is my question to those of you who have (or even those who have not) camped a whole lot more than I have:
Is something like this a common occurrence for single women rv’ers?
Has something like this ever happened to you? If yes, what did you do about it?
If a person can't afford an expensive rig, should they give up the dream?
How would you have handled this?
What steps do you think I should take to avoid something like this happening in future?
Man, I am not quite ready to give up on my single woman rv’er travelling dream.
But I have to admit that the thought has now definitely crossed my mind.
Any and all responses greatly appreciated.
Thank you.
Anne