Home Purgatory

Making our way back to the campground after what we considered a moderately successful soft launch around Northern Minnesota, it was time to pack up and head back home. Being that we’re still not used to loading up the camper, it still took us a couple of hours of disorganized scrambling. We should really think about having a written checklist to minimize the back and forth. ¹

“But wait, Julia!” You’re probably asking, “You said you had given your notice to the apartment and that you were living out of the Bus now. Where is this home you speak of?”  

Let’s call this phase of the trip home purgatory. It’s where there are a few loose ends we need to tie up and certain additions we need to make to our setup before setting sail for real. So back to central Minnesota at Chris’ family lakefront lot we go. 

For the second time, we load up our two motorcycles, double and triple check all the attachments, lock the doors and we’re ready to go. This time doubt doesn’t creep in, and this becomes THE MISTAKE. We’re overly confident in our skills too early in the game! We don’t check in the cargo area as much, thinking that everything is under control.  

We discover the crime scene at the end of our 4-hour drive. Literally. We were 23 minutes away from our destination, when we realized that one of the straps holding my motorcycle had loosened and she had tipped and fallen onto Chris’ bike.  

At this point I’m thinking there should be an entire segment on this blog about how my poor motorcycle has been mishandled by my inexperience and its ever-growing list of broken parts needing replacement. In this instance, the already partially broken front blinker came completely undone and looked eerily similar to an eye out of its socket. The right mirror became even more bent, rendering it completely useless in seeing anything behind me (the left mirror had already broken off earlier in the season when Chris tried using vice grips to fix its already bent angle).  

I will also add that seeing my motorcycle leaning against Chris’ felt like a metaphor for our relationship. My husband is such a calm and dependable person while I have a chaotic personality and appreciate being able to lean on him for support in times of need. Truth be told it all seemed very poetic. But also horrifying, thinking that some of the narrower straps can get loose during transportation. This was a very clear sign from the universe that things can go wrong. It didn’t have catastrophic consequences yet, but if we didn’t change something, we might not be so lucky next time. Add “more straps” to the list of expenses. 

Minnesota summer weather is on the unpredictable side. Before arriving at the lake there had been quite a bit of rainfall, making us wonder how difficult the grassy terrain was going to be to navigate without getting our wheels stuck. Just what we needed. Another source of anxiety as we drive around with the Bus. I can’t help but wonder if everyone who owns a trailer is driving around in a perpetual state of angst? No wonder the world has such a severe anxiety crisis.  

As we were arriving right before the July 4^th weekend, Chris’ uncle was already on site with his tractor to better assist us in placing the Bus in our selected spot with the least amount of damage possible. Worked like a charm! During our stay here, we woke up to the view of a calm lake. “This is something we could get used to,” we tell ourselves one morning while having coffee and looking out into the distance. 

What a phenomenal long weekend filled with family fun, boat rides, fishing excursions, floating around on the lake and making smores by the campfire. The weather was definitely on our side, as we found out just how hot a camper gets when being hit by the midday sun.  

Side note: I grew up with Italian grandparents who believed that air conditioning or any form of draft on a person is the root cause of all illnesses (un colpo d’aria, commonly called in Italian). This, combined with the fact that none of my apartments before moving to the States had A/C have translated into a love-hate relationship with the buttons on the thermostat. Although, I’ve been known to secretly turn on the A/C in the truck when no one is around and basking in the relief that the cool air provides. Deep shame follows for letting down my ancestors, who are probably yelling about how I’m going to catch a cold or a pneumonia breathing in the processed air. Yes, I know this is not how catching a cold works. But the old European ways hold a tight grip on me. 

In order to keep the air flowing in the Bus during the hot summer days, one must develop techniques to remain comfortable. Keeping the back door of the toy hauler open is the most effective. However, this leaves a gaping hole that exposes us to every insect with wings becoming interested in visiting the inside of our space. The subtle sound of buzzing wings quickly activates Chris’ primal hunter instincts. His initial weapon of choice was a rubber band. Because who owns a fly swatter under the age of 45? After a few days of having to duck and cover to avoid the wild rubber band hitting me in the forehead, I expressed my concern over this erratic behavior to a friend.²  

She, who has been married a good deal longer than I have, clearly holds secret survival strategies I’ve yet to discover. Today’s gem: the perfect fix for my fly-swatting misery. She casually pulls a salt gun from her garage (basically a shotgun for flies) and hands it over like it’s the most normal gift in the world. I can’t decide if this is peak practicality or peak comedy, but either way, the flies don’t stand a chance.  

When I get home and give the salt gun to Chris, his face completely lights up. His inner child had been awakened, and I couldn’t have expected a more luminous smile. It all escalated so quickly from there: Commando style, war paint, helicopters, explosions. Death surrounds us and he feels a pang of delight for the carnage that unfolds as he shoots down these winged intruders. Like a wild child playing space invaders, he has that crazed look in his eye and I express exasperation over the ungodly number of carcasses left to be disposed of in such a small living quarter.  

To clarify, when we bought the Bus a bug screen was already installed, but we didn’t like the old “zipper-vinyl-roll up-mesh” system. We ordered a retractable rear screen door and the arrival date was right before our departure date. We were required to send in the exact measurements with no refund possible should the installation not work. We hoped that our previous experience with measuring twice and cutting three times didn’t happen. Way to live on the edge. 

Speaking of living on the edge. In order to get back on the main road from the lake, we needed to back the truck and trailer all the way down the single lane dirt road before being able to drive off into the sunrise. To those who have seen me attempt to back up a vehicle with any sort of trailer, you won’t be surprised to hear that I wasn’t considered for the role of main driver for this adventure. I am the equivalent of that person on the construction site, who stands on the side and holds the sign while maybe looking in the direction of the workers every so often. 

The 1200 miles to our next destination 

The first thing Chris noted after our first day on the road was that 8-10 hours in the vehicle is way too long. I believe that this statement shouldn’t even have to be uttered out loud —it’s a no brainer. Our first pit stop was in Michigan: Pictured Rocks RV Park. As we near, we see Lake Superior to our left with lovely sandy beaches. At this point my main focus is to sink my toes in the sand as fast as possible. Since we are only staying the night, no major set up is required and this saves us the remaining daylight hours for a nice sunset walk along Sandy Public Beach. The sand sounded squeaky as we walked along the shore. It was delightful. These “singing” sands are caused by vibrations in the sand and require a combination of round sand grains, silica content, and humidity to emit a variety of sounds. A strong urge to run across the sandy beach and into the water overcame us. I mean, if you haven’t stripped down to your underwear and jumped in a frigid lake at least once in your life, have you even lived at all? 

The next morning it was time to make our way to the Canadian border by crossing the Sault Ste. Marie International bridge: A 2.8-mile steel truss arch bridge where the long line up of cars spanned all the way from Michigan to Ontario. Once at the border, we didn’t know what they would ask about the Bus. Should we have taken out the registration papers? What did we need to declare? Was the frozen pack of chicken in our freezer going to be considered a national threat and be confiscated? Nope. Instead, it was a simple “How many bottles of alcohol do you have with you?” Confounded by such a question, we stuttered: “Eh, 2 or 3?” The agent asks again: “More specifically, how many bottles of alcohol are you bringing with you?” Oh my! Why is this so difficult? Do they have to be full or do you have to count the halves and make a whole? Or does a half count as one? “Three.” Chris finally says, “ish” He sheepishly adds. This must be because we are driving to Quebec, and the customs agent assumes we are transporting enough wine bottles to put an army into a coma. We should probably check on the customs website what is the maximum quantity of alcohol one can import into a country. ³

Another mistake we made on this trip was blindly listening to the GPS route. As we drive away from customs, we notice that the roads we are taking are not going towards a highway. The residential streets are getting narrower. And then it hits us. We are approaching downtown Ottawa. Here we go with the breath holding again. Because aging 10 years between 3 blocks of sky rise buildings isn’t enough, there are traffic poles that make the streets even narrower. If there were 3 inches on each side of the Bus as we passed them, it was a stretch. 

After another full day of driving, our second stop was in North Bay, Ontario. Although I’d called to reserve our spot a few days earlier, I should have seen the red flag. I never received a confirmation email.  

As we rolled into the dusty campground, a figure shuffled out to meet us. He was all angles and shadows—tall but rail-thin, his clothes hanging loose like like they’d been handed down to him by a much larger, older brother. His long arms swung awkwardly at his sides, and a cigarette smoldered between his fingers, sending up a thin thread of smoke that curled around his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. He greeted us with a quick, twitchy smile and immediately launched into a ramble, words tumbling over each other as he tried to make the place sound better than it was. He waved his cigarette toward a crooked patch of dirt and gravel, insisting it would be perfect, though the guilt in his voice gave him away. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll be good here—sorry, we’re a little overbooked, y’know how it is—but this’ll work out just fine, real fine.” His tone was overeager, almost apologetic, like a man desperate to sell a lie he didn’t believe himself.  

We backed up into this unleveled site that at least had a pretty view of the lake. He dragged deep on his cigarette and pointed down the lane, talking fast, his voice all reassurance. “Easy out in the morning,” he said, flicking ash without looking. “You just turn right, follow the nice gentle curve through the campground—no problem about your rig, it’ll for sure fit—and off you go through the exit.” He grinned like he’d just handed us a golden secret. 

But when the smoke cleared and we traced his directions with our eyes, the “gentle curve” he promised was anything but. It was a hard turn that led straight into a steep upward slope, low branches clawing overhead like they were waiting to tear strips off our roof. The aisles were pinched tight, hemmed in by crooked curbs and parked rigs. Worse yet, the only way to swing wide enough meant dragging wheels across the edge of someone’s permanent-looking site—right over the patch of lawn where they’d set up patio lights, lawn chairs, and a ceramic gnome staring blankly at the chaos to come. 

By six in the morning, the “gentle curve” our chain-smoking campground greeter had promised us looked more like a booby trap set for unsuspecting RVers. No way were we feeding the trailer through that angle of doom. Instead, we invented our own exit plan. A back-and-forth shuffle that probably looked like we were trying to parallel park a semi in a phone booth. 

Every shift from drive to reverse was loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the poor souls whose camper window we were idling directly in front of. Curtains wide open, lamp still on. We couldn’t see them, but you just knew someone was in there, sipping coffee and silently judging. Honestly, they had front-row seats to the show: “Watch as this couple attempts to escape a campground designed by a sadist.” Finally, after a few nerve-wracking shuffles, the truck and trailer lined up straight. No branches overhead, no curbs, no neighbors’ lawns. Just a clean shot out the gravel lane. We eased forward, the tires crunching louder than seemed possible in the morning quiet and rolled back onto the open road—half relieved, yet half certain someone was still watching us through that open window. 

And then we crossed into Quebec. There’s no mistaking it—your rig tells you before the road signs do. Everything starts rattling like a tin can full of bolts the moment the tires hit those legendary potholes. It’s almost like the province is saying “Bienvenue (welcome), now let’s see what your suspension is made of.” 

The driving style shift is instantaneous too. As a native Quebecer, I say this with love: we drive like it’s a competitive sport. Blinkers are more of a suggestion, tailgating is practically a handshake, and if you don’t accelerate like you’re escaping a crime scene, someone will let you know. And then there are the bridges. I don’t know what civil engineer declared them “finished,” but clearly nobody tested them in an actual vehicle. Every overpass comes with its own personal launch ramp at the start, followed by a bone-rattling drop on the other side. I’ve started to believe it’s less poor construction and more public safety strategy: Jolt drivers awake at the beginning and end to make sure they don’t doze off while crossing. Cheap caffeine, Quebec-style. All the while, the memory of my motorcycle tipping over in transit was still fresh. The PTSD of watching my trusty steed fall still makes my stomach drop. So, we turned it into a ritual—stop every hour, walk the rig, tug on the straps, check and re-check that everything is upright. The trailer probably thought we didn’t trust it. We didn’t. 

And then there was the gas. My God, the gas prices. Every stop felt like feeding a teenager who’d just discovered the carnivore diet comprised only of filet mignon. Add in the fact that the hills got steeper, the climbs longer, and suddenly our truck was roaring like it was dragging the whole province behind it. That’s when we realized: This is why everyone kept asking if we’d bought a diesel. We should have gotten a diesel. Regret is loud—about 4,000 RPM loud. 

But the road, as always, eventually led us where we needed to go. The pavement gave way to winding forest roads, and then—just like that—the lake appeared. Lac Bélanger. My parents’ cabin. My favorite place in the world. The sight of it never gets old. The still water reflecting the sky, the trees leaning close as if to guard it, the smell of pine carried in the air. This was the place of childhood summers, of campfires and swimming until the sun went down, of quiet mornings with coffee and loons calling across the water. Every bump, every jolt, every drop of overpriced fuel—it all faded the second we pulled in. 

Backing up the Bus into one of the lots was still a comedy routine, of course. And yes, carrying essentials down to the cabin meant another round of unloading, hauling, and moving. But this time it wasn’t just a chore. This was a homecoming. Each trip down the path to the cabin felt like stepping back into memory, a return to the one place in the world that never seemed to change no matter how far we’d gone or how long we’d been away. 

As I write this article, 2 months later: 

¹ A written checklist has still not been produced. We somewhat still struggle our way through the process, albeit much less than in the earlier days, but still. 

² Thank you, Abbie, for the gift that keeps on giving as Chris continues to hunt every fly that dares to enter our personal space. 

³ We still haven’t looked it up. We probably should do that soon, as we prepare to cross another border.