OPERATING AN RV SOUNDS TRICKIER THAN IT IS. You might think that executing a left turn in a 32-foot bouncing canister requires the sort of exact precision that sparks incessant horn honking and forces idling cars to reverse. It does. Bobbing-and-weaving through grocery store parking lots and squeezing through the tightness of gas stations might even induce some unwelcome apprehension. It shouldn’t. And having to dump gallons of excrement—known as “black water” to RV handlers—can make showering in bleach seem appealing. Wear rubber gloves.
Attentiveness is an RVer’s most applicable tool—an invaluable resource that protects against preventative damage. The responsibilities will surely test the patience and erode the time of its occupants. Whether locking the exterior storage doors or retracting an awning or extension, RVs roll over the conventional notion of a vacation. Lengthy parking requires a flat surface or some shifty maneuvering to set the leveling planks. Driving is no mindless task; fastening every latch and securing every cabinet is crucial for dodging erupting liters of soda and unopened pasta boxes. And by no means is it smart to lie on the master bed at the rear of the RV while it’s moving. After hitting a monstrous pothole driving to the Arctic Circle, I momentarily found myself weightless, suspended in mid-air, wishing I had buckled-up and promising to do so from then on. Somehow, I escaped unharmed. The benefits of full coverage rental insurance aside, an unfailing supply of awareness and depth perception can reduce its necessity.
The overriding concern for all RVers is water. Fresh water is the blood of an RV. It gives life to the pipes so pots can be filled, dishes cleaned, hands washed and bodies bathed. The result is an ever-growing “gray water” tank—the remnants of used water not mixed with shit. It flushes the toilet, transforming urine and feces into the aforementioned black water. In Alaska, and other rural states RVers and campers frequent, hundreds of miles can pass before reaching a spot that supplies a water hookup and dump station. This places considerable importance on conservation. Cooking, showering, and personal hygiene are all dependent on the amount of water remaining in the reservoir. An RV is deftly capable of tripping its passengers with guilt for taking advantage of the luxurious first-world plumbing most Americans enjoy. For example, when roaring along the predominantly gravel Dalton Highway—the only major thoroughfare to the Artic Circle and beyond—with no water hookups in sight, hygiene suffers, increasing the value of hand-sanitizer exponentially.
Still, the upkeep it deserves only ads to the adventure of trying to exist for two weeks in Alaska in an RV. The freedom it offers alone makes it a worthy expenditure, a cheaper alternative to the pricey hotels at the various tourist traps. And the nightly bed hopping presents an opportunity to develop a relationship with a particular spot (think of it as a one night stand). Or in Stock’s and Dean’s case, a mutual loathing of your bedmate should you find yourself with one for ten questionably heterosexual nights. The rental was affordable ($2,500 total) and, including gas (67,302 pennies ), fell well under $1,000 each for transportation and lodging.
