June 7, 2026
The Wandering Writer Adventures Begin
Welcome to the very first chapter of what I hope becomes a long, winding, joy‑filled road of adventures. Buckle up — I finally did.
Owning a small motor home has been my dream for ages. I’d hunted, hoped, and nearly surrendered more times than I care to admit. Every time I tried to move on, some shiny RV would glide past me on a back road or freeway, and boom — the wanderlust fairy would smack me upside the head again. Hard.
Some folks might think I’m just a quirky old gal chasing memories. Wrong. I’m out here making new ones. And a wise friend recently reminded me, “We are not promised tomorrow.” That one hit me right in the soul. So here I am — choosing “now.”
I grew up camping — first in a tent (which these old bones now reject with extreme prejudice), then in a 16‑foot Road Runner trailer my family bought at the Puyallup Fair in the early ’60s. Bless my poor dad. He endured sharing sixteen feet of canned humanity with three women, two dogs, and no toilet. After too many rainy midnight treks to the park bathroom, we upgraded to a 22‑foot Terry trailer and luxury.
Every Friday, Mom and Nana packed the trailer like a military operation. Dad and I would load our 15‑foot Alumacraft boat onto our Ford LTD station wagon — affectionately called The Tank — hook up the trailer, and off we’d rumble toward Fir Island and Phil’s Boathouse in the beautiful Skagit Valley. These were the days where there was no freeway. Just back roads. Saturdays were for the Skagit River, where catching fish was optional but listening to Dad’s stories was mandatory. These were the best of times. I was Dad’s tomboy and Mom’s girly girl, depending on the place and time.
Oh, the stories I could tell of our wanderlust.
Then came the accident — the kind that becomes family legend. The trailer hitch weld popped off coming down the Mount Baker Highway, leaving only the emergency chains between us and disaster. Dad stayed calm, steered us into the guardrail, and saved our lives. The trailer’s insides looked like a blender had gone rogue — the fridge on the dinette, the toilet on the couch, food and you know what was everywhere. We were shaken but safe, and the Ford lived to tell the tale.
After this, Mom was done with camping. Nana, at 87, was absolutely not. She declared she wanted a motor home, and when Nana spoke, you listened. We bought a 28‑foot Class C Monaco, and Nana adventured with us, for three more years until she passed, dogs in tow — woods, streams, campfires, the whole deal. Between her and Dad, my love of travel was sealed forever. I can say from experience, the fancy hotels in exotic places and trips to tropical isles are nice, but nothing compares to getting out and seeing what we have right in our own backyards.
My first time driving the motor home was on a trip to Reno. Dad stopped and filled the gas tank, much cheaper than today, handed me the keys, and said, “She’s all yours.” Mom nearly fainted. I survived. So did she.
Fast‑forward: 
Owning a brand new Class B+ RV was way beyond my budget and I kept telling myself to stop checking Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace. In the meantime, I followed the women‑only and senior van groups, cheering for everyone else while trying not to ache for my own chance.
But that wanderlust fairy? Persistent little thing she is, had other plans.
A month ago, I took one last peak before giving up. And there she was — my motor home, practically waving at me and only eight miles away from where I live. She’s in mint condition with only just a few tiny repairs needed. The seller has been a gem, making sure she’s road‑ready before I bring her home. I’m counting the days, but patience has been good to me so far.
I’ve already scheduled a Certified RV Inspector to check her out — a must for anyone purchasing a used RV. Over the years, I’ve collected and been gifted RV ‘chachkas’, enough to decorate a 40 foot motorhome. (Pictures to come). I can’t wait to give her that country cottage touch with the perfect space to create the stories you’ve come to love to read.
Soon, she’ll be home. And then? The first adventure begins. I’ve spent hours mapping out and researching destinations. Thanks to Harvest Hosts I’m looking forward to the farm and winery stays and making new friends along the way.
Stay tuned — the road is calling.
My motto: “If you don’t go, you’ll never know.”
