We are six days into our Most Excellent Road Trip (MERT). We have become accustomed to the creaks, groans and lumbering ride in our 24-foot RV. I have named her Mertyl. She is glossy white with blue and red stripes that are reminiscent of Canada Post Trucks. We have sideview mirrors that extend far enough to graze the trees and shrubs as we ramble through campgrounds, searching for our reserved patch of gravel and dirt, locating the post with the electrical plug (always hidden in the forest), and maneuvering our bulk, not too close to the picnic table and firepit. Once landed, we plug in the very heavy electrical cord, release the dogs and tether them to the picnic table, turn on the water heater and pump, and start our campfire and charcoal BBQ. Captured in a single sentence, the routine looks much simpler and shorter than it actually is. We have six storage compartments on the outside of Mertyl. During our packing, we designated each to hold related items. That system held up until camping night two. We are learning through experience and fine-tuning the logistics and procedures for setup, meal prep/cleanup and tear down. As we wander through the parks with our dogs, we are painfully aware of our newbie status. Veteran campers know the importance of an outside mat to manage mud, dirt and gravel. They have tarps and rain flys to go over the picnic table. Their fires have admirable flames and no smoke. They hang welcome signs; some even have planters. They have the most scenic location, always with access to the beach or river.
Most campers are friendly, always curious as to where we’ve come from and, more importantly, where we are going. There is an inevitable expression of appreciation when we tell them we are headed to the Yukon. That’s something we’ve talked about doing . . . they all say. The unfriendly few glare at our dogs and my shiny red rain boots. While there is no dress code for camping, baggy, cozy, dark coloured, and plaid seem to be the most popular. I almost fit in with denim overalls and an oversized plaid jacket. My sweet husband can’t help but look like a preppy golfer, in his Canadian Open quarter-zip and Lulu pants.
This morning I watched the sunrise from our picnic table at Rushing River Provincial Park. Just east of Kenora, it is our final night in Ontario for several weeks. The peace and quiet of the early morning were stunning. The dogs knew to be still as they sat on either side of me, always on guard. While journaling, I decided to list the likes and dislikes of our trip so far. I love waking up with a current of anticipation and curiosity, as each day we are journeying to where we have never been, so there is always the potential for wonder and awe. I find peace in living with much less and no agenda. I am happy driving, eating and sleeping in nature, without noise, people, traffic and the undercurrent of urgency. As we approach exits to enter larger towns and cities, we look at each other and silently agree we don’t want to get that close to concrete and crowds.
The dislikes were few. Mertyl is compact and built to be efficient. Each day I learn a new trick. To cut down on the rattle, jingle and crashing noises that accompany potholes, curves and gravel, everything must be wedged into tight spaces, laid on its side, or cushioned with rubber matting before we roll out and onto the highway. It is remarkable how jarring the noise is of a tube of toothpaste falling into the sink as we round a corner. Battening down our belongings is a daily mild pain in the ass. The greatest annoyance, and one that creates bruises and four-letter utterances, is the daily collision course that is unavoidable when sharing 200 square feet of living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom with another human and two large dogs.
As I finish this dispatch, we are now in Saskatchewan. Each day offers discovery and appreciation. The view from my window as we cling to the right lane and hold our breath when transports whiz by is a long, straight ribbon of dark asphalt. I want to remember the vast blue sky and endless fields of gold. The Welcome to Moose Jaw, The Friendly City, sign affirms my faith in community. I shake my head and turn my phone over when a headline pops up, reminding me of the aggressive insanity beyond our borders. Feeling unplugged and untethered is what I had hoped for.