In Advance, North Carolina, life decided to behave for once. No explosions. No fires. No sudden bursts of profanity echoing through the campground. Just a lake, some trees, and a bedroom slide that refused to move until we performed a little mechanical therapy.
The new motor arrived, a beautiful, gear-meshed miracle in a cardboard box. The install went as smooth as bourbon. Gears lined up perfectly, the slide moved in and out without drama, and it was so quiet it actually freaked me out. I didn’t trust it, but I respected it.
With that crisis resolved, we decided to act like regular tourists. We drove out to Wake Forest University to see the botanical gardens. It was an off day, which meant half the place was closed, because apparently plants take time off from tourists too, but we found a dumpling house instead. Absolute win. Dumplings, gardens, and no grease under my fingernails. Life was good.
Next stop: Native Vines Winery, which absolutely crushed it. Fantastic wine, great people, and a vibe that said “you can stay as long as you keep buying bottles.” We followed it with Weathervane Winery, which was fine, but it’s hard to follow perfection. It was here that we decided we’re not doing that cliché RV thing where people plaster maps of every state they’ve visited on the side of their rig. Nope. We’re doing winery and brewery stickers. Because nothing says responsible travel like a rolling alcohol scrapbook.
That night we sat outside with a bottle from Native Vines, under clear skies filled with stars. I finally figured out how to shoot long-exposure photos on my iPhone and nailed a shot of the backlit trees against the Milky Way. For a moment it almost looked like we had our shit together.
The next day we hit the High Point Greenway Bike Trail, a gorgeous stretch of peaceful path where we met a little rough green snake sunning himself. We said hello, admired his “I don’t give a shit” energy, and left him to his tanning session. Later, I took more night photos, apparently that’s my new hobby. The following day we wandered over to Curran Alexander Winery, found a fantastic bottle, and after taking a hike at Boone’s Cave Park brought it home and drank it by the fireside like civilized degenerates.
Before leaving town, we and found a solid Indian restaurant nearby, Taaza. The food was excellent and Kylie finally got some damn dosa, which she's been hanging out for, and world peace was briefly restored.
The mornings here were crisp, about 42°, with afternoons warming up to 70. Perfect weather for dogs, wine, and pretending we live on the road by choice. Honestly, I’m almost sad to leave. The area’s beautiful enough to make me consider settling down, maybe a little property, a few chickens, some goats… and if Kylie lets me, a donkey. But that’s future nonsense, there's way too much to see, more vineyards to find, more breweries to eat at.
For now, the rattle trap’s packed, the slide’s smooth, and Yemassee, South Carolina is calling. I'd love to see Parris Island again! After that, St. Augustine; where we’ll see old friends, and then our son and his main squeeze, it'll be a great two weeks. Keep the beer cold and the wine glasses full, fuckers, because the mayhem rolls on.
Not every chapter is a dumpster fire. Sometimes Mayhem in 40 Feet takes a breath, sips a cabernet, and lets the machinery behave. I’m not saying I trust it. I’m saying it can try.
We did our pre travel checks yesterday like responsible adults. Packed up the outside gear, verified the usual suspects, no dramas. This morning I finished the water and sewer ballet, pulled the slides in, then let the rig idle to fill the airbags and warm everything up because it was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra last night.
I step outside and get a nose full of what smells like a campfire. Only there is no campfire. The smell is coming from our rig. Cue the panic. I start popping cargo doors like I am playing whack a mole. Nothing obvious, but the smell is still there. I restart the motor and go into investigative mode. That is when I spot tiny puffs of smoke near the engine and catch the scent of burning rubber. Bloody hell. The realization hits, the serpentine belt is getting smoked.
Now I am doing the math. We are supposed to check out in an hour and roll to the next campground. I can drive, but that is a great way to end up on the shoulder waiting for a tow truck and donating a kidney to pay for it. It is Friday, which means even if I find a mobile diesel tech, they will arrive after the apocalypse and they will not have the parts anyway. Also we do not even know what failed yet.
A few phone calls confirm the nightmare. A tech can swing by later today to look, but no fix until Monday. So I march to the office to extend our stay. Leaf season means every retiree with a camera is here, which makes the front desk real excited to see me. I smile, I explain, I use my inside voice. They juggle things and get us a week. Not my fault. Work the puzzle.
Next stop is canceling the next campground. Sorry Yemassee, you will get our circus later. Weekend plans are now altered to include a barbecue festival. This thrills me. Kylie does not eat meat, so she will be judging coleslaw like it is a wine flight and I will be face first in brisket.
So we wait. The rig lives to idle another day. I will be under the rear hatch with a flashlight and a few creative words, and Monday a professional will grace us with knowledge and a belt that does not smell like despair. In the meantime the dogs are thrilled we are not moving. I am less thrilled, but I do have bourbon.
Intermission extended. Mayhem continues. If you need us, follow the smell of smoked rubber and barbecue.