On a recent trip on the Blues Trail through the Mississippi Delta, I experienced a perfect day. The people, the scenery, the music, the food – it culminated into a nonpareil, the memory of which I will cherish. I’ll tell you about it, soon.

One week later, to maintain the balance of cosmic scales, in a single day, life threw at me a series of hapless mishaps (redundant, I know, but I like the way it rolls off the eyeballs). Some might even call it a “bad day,” but I refuse to think of life in those terms. A day may have bad moments or events, but there is nothing inherently bad about a day. In the melodious words of Rare Earth, “I just want to celebrate another day of living.”

Celebrate, yes. But nowhere is it written that I may not complain a little too.

En route to the cultural hot spots of Fayetteville and Bentonville in Northwest Arkansas (and I say that in all seriousness, without a hint of sarcasm), I stopped for the night in Russellville, Arkansas. The 2,000-plus mile journey from Arkansas back home to Seattle for the summer was beginning to weigh on my mind. I plan to boondock most of the way; it was time to lay in provisions; replace the windshield wipers; top off the tire pressure and replace the batteries in the PSI monitoring system; check the oil, and fill the propane tank.

In the west, you have no idea how good you have it when it comes to propane; it’s available at almost every gas station. In the south and in the east, propane is much harder to come by. It seems everyone has an irrational fear of inert gas, banishing propane dealers to the outskirts of town in a cordoned explosion zone.

The day got off to a good start; parked strategically between Auto Zone and the Auto Care Center at Walmart, I figured out (with help) how to replace Nellie’s windshield wipers. An old cowboy struck up a conversation about my travels, running over to hug me with a tear in his eye, telling me to enjoy myself and this great country of ours. It warmed my heart.

BOTTOMING OUT IS NO FUN

I Googled an AmeriGas dealer three miles outside of town, calling to confirm they could fill an on-board, 30-gallon tank. The young woman fielding the call assured me they could.

I was immediately worried as I pulled up to AmeriGas. The entrance and exit were exceptionally steep, and a parked car in the yard was going to make it difficult to get near the refueling area. I wasn’t close enough on the first pass. I told the attendant I would turn around, exit, and enter again to get closer.

Again noting the steep grade at the exit, I angled the rig as best I could, but I heard an awful scraping noise at the front end. As if to echo, the tow bar at the rear responded in kind. There’s nothing quite as disconcerting as the sound of metal-scraping-on-asphalt emanating from the rear of your coach.

I entered the lot again and still did not get close enough to the refueling station! All that grating and grinding for naught! I jumped out of the rig to survey the damage. Luckily the tow bar and its screws and fasteners were still intact. The front end did not fare as well, although it was not apparent because the damage was underneath. On the right bottom corner, the fiberglass is gone, and foam is visible. Add that to the repair list!

The propane attendant took pity on me and told me that Flying J sold propane. It was more “coach friendly.” My wounded pride wanted to try one more time, but I thanked him instead and went on my way.

FLYING J FIASCO

I have never seen such tight spaces at a Flying J in my life. Usually semis are separated from autos and RVs, but this lot mixed the RVs and semis together. I guessed smaller towns get smaller Flying J’s.

I spied the propane filling station, which was pretty old-fashioned. The holding tank was vertical, unlike the horizontal tanks you see nowadays. It also seemed a bit rusted, but the rest of my attention was pulled away by attempting to maneuver around the big rigs in the lot.

I wedged Nellie and Toad between the holding tank and a semi tractor (no trailer), its generator running and no visible driver – likely a mandatory rest layover. And when I say wedged, I mean it. My spot was the shape of a piece of pie, the front of Nellie was at the point, and the rig was inches from the tractor cab to the right.

Upon closer inspection, the propane tank seemed pretty derelict. I confirmed my suspicions with the clerk inside, who said the propane had been out of order for years. I replied snarkily that they might want to consider taking down the propane sign out front.

Returning to the rig, it began to dawn on me just how precarious the position in which I had shoehorned myself. There is no backing up when towing a car – forward only. If the tractor had also had a trailer, to pull out I would have had no choice but to wake the sleeping driver and ask him or her to move forward. Believe me, I did not relish that thought. I walked around the perimeter three times, convincing myself if I moved forward slowly and hugged my side, both Nellie and Toad would just clear the tractor.

ROCKIN’ ROBIN

I did it! I cleared the sleeping truck driver. I was so relieved and pleased with myself, as I exited the lot, turning right, I did not see the huge pothole in front of the rig.

If you have ever driven a large motorhome into a hole with the wheels turned, you know what happened next. The coach rocked turbulently from side to side. The refrigerator doors, freezer doors, and all cabinet doors opened, disgorging most of their contents onto the floor, then violently slamming shut again. While I use those tension bars in the cupboards and ‘fridge to corral items that shift during transit, they are no match for this situation.

I found a safe place to pull over and assess the carnage. Nothing was broken, but there was ice and water everywhere from my restocking and refilling the ice cube trays that morning. It took a good 20 minutes to pick everything up, dry everything off, put it all away, and get on the road again.

ROCKET FUEL

The time it took me to rehabilitate the morass of foodstuffs on the floor was just the opportunity Rocket had been waiting for. You see, I love iced coffee. I love to drive Nellie with an iced coffee in the beverage holder by the driver’s seat. And, I dislike using cups with lids on them. I’ve sworn off straws, and there’s never any place to put the lid while I’m drinking.

The first time I left an unguarded iced coffee in the rig, the cup was empty when I returned, and Rocket was licking his chops. Panicked, I researched just how much caffeine it would take to kill a dog of his size, concluded there was no need for an urgent trip to the vet, and kept an eye on him for the rest the day. He peed a lot more and slept a lot less.

The second time I forgot and left the coffee unattended, I caught Rocket in the act when I returned to the RV. I finger-wagged and chastised and called him a bad dog, but I knew the human’s behavior was the one that had to change; I bought a metal tumbler with a snap tab for drinking.

I hated that cup from day one. It was really meant for hot beverages, not cold. So, for the last few months I’ve just been remembering to bring the iced coffee with me when I leave the rig for any reason.

This time, I didn’t leave the rig. This time, I was so preoccupied and dismayed and upset about the way the day was unfolding that it wasn’t until I returned to the driver’s seat and found the empty cup that I realized what happened.

This tiny little development in the grand scheme of things was more than I could bear in the moment. I screamed and yelled at poor Rocket, who slinked off to the bedroom and didn’t return for hours. (I purchased a new cup yesterday that I think will solve the problem.)

Lo and behold, there was a brand new, shiny, sparkly Flying J across the freeway! THIS was the Flying J the man at AmeriGas suggested. Without incident or consternation, I got propane, a slice of pizza AND some Funyuns for a little comfort/stress eating, and back on the road. I had two hours to Fayetteville with plenty of time to relax, listen to some music, and put all the bad vibes behind me.

ROAD ALLIGATORS AND ROCK GUARDS DON’T MIX

You didn’t think it was over, did you? Well, I did as I drove merrily along I-49 North. But before I tell you what Paul Harvey would call “The Rest of the Story,” have you ever heard of a Road Alligator?

You see them along the sides of the road everywhere. A tire shreds, leaving pieces of the tread scattered in its wake. At an RV training seminar an expert called them “Road Alligators,” advising to avoid them if at all possible. They get under your rig and toad, puncturing holding tanks, ripping out electrical systems, and causing general mayhem.

Meanwhile, back in Arkansas, driving behind an 18-wheeler, I saw one of its tires shred to bits. The compact car in front of me darted to the right, wheels in the soft shoulder and gravel, narrowly avoiding the biggest chunk. I could not pull the same maneuver given my weight and girth, and moving to the left was impeded by traffic. I slowed down to approximately 40 miles per hour and swiped the piece with Nellie’s right front bumper. I thought to myself, “How much more damage are we going to do to the right front bumper today?”

I did not hear any clawing or ripping noises under the coach, then looked in the rear camera to see the tire tread still on the road behind me. Thank goodness I was not dragging it with me! I checked the tire pressure monitoring gauge to make sure none of the tires had somehow been punctured, then turned off the radio and fan to listen for any strange noises.

Ticka-ticka-ticka-swoosh, ticka-ticka-ticka-swoosh … it was almost too slight to discern – practically imperceptible. I’m sure I would not have heard it when I first started driving the RV, but after two-and-a-half years on the road I have grown very accustomed to the diverse sounds Nellie makes while we drive together. I unmuted the volume on the rear camera, and it was loud and clear. Something was dragging behind the coach, but could not be seen in the camera.

Cue mystery music – Duh-duh-dummmm!

A rock guard is like a great big mud flap for the rear of an RV. Theoretically it reduces the spewing of rocks and gravel, protecting your towed vehicle and/or the windshields of the traveling public. Mine was pretty fancy, with “Newmar” in chrome letters.

The right side of the rock guard was sheared from its fasteners and dragging the ground. It had been scooting along the asphalt for a couple of miles, directly underneath the exhaust pipe. I did the only thing a reasonably intelligent person would do – I tried to pick it up with my bare hands. Yeah, it was a little hot. Ouch.

I spent the next 45 minutes dangerously close to the highway fog line, semis roaring past and shaking Nellie and Toad, wind ripping, hair in my eyes, trying to remove the rest of the rock guard. No one stopped to help. Where was that cowboy now? I did not want to call roadside service over such a small thing, but I was not having any luck getting the left side of the guard off. It was too unsafe on the side of the road, especially laying on my back in the gravel with a vice grip and wrench, so I bungeed the guard to the tow bar and limped my way 30 miles to an RV repair shop. It took power tools and 10 minutes for them to get the darned thing off. It was trashed. Add that to the list too!

When I told the owner what happened, he replied, “Good job. You made the right call. That’s such a scary situation. You were very lucky, and your rock guard stopped the tire tread from damaging your toad or anyone else on the road. Thankfully, the entire guard did not come off and cause another roadway hazard.”

Up until that moment I was stress-ridden and sullen about what Lemony Snicket would call the Series of Unfortunate Events that befell me that day. With his words I immediately felt the elephant get up off my chest. I went from “Woe is me” to “I’m so lucky” in an instant.

Later that night, bourbon in my hand, sitting perfectly still to avoid further calamity, I thought of that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem reworked into a popular tune by Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots.

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.