The Dream (Sort Of) RV
Back in 2014, I decided to ditch the house and downsize to an RV. One person, two small dogs …how much space do we really need? Eight feet wide by thirty-five feet long sounded plenty. I scoured ads, endured way too many toilet glamour shots, and finally landed on “the one”: a 1997, 35-foot fifth wheel for under $10k. Rear kitchen, queen bed, cupboards galore. Sure, the salmon-pink carpet and valances screamed granny’s basement, but I figured I’d redo that later.
Exterior photos? Meh. It had a door, windows, wheels…what else mattered? (Spoiler: everything.)
Warm Beer, Cold Reality
After two long days on the road from Saskatchewan to B.C., my “new home” rolled into the RV park (well, technically a seasonal campground with a six-month max stay…thanks for the fine print, friends). Within hours, the rose-colored dream turned septic brown:
– No batteries (so slides and landing gear had to be cranked by hand).
– No propane tanks (not even one).
– The fridge? Dead. My beer? Warm. Breakdown #1.
The ad had promised all of these things…working and included. Instead, I had a 35-foot decorative paperweight.
Enter: The Toilet Geyser
I thought, “Fine. At least I’ll hook up the water.” Weird that the connection was on the opposite side of the trailer, but my “seasoned” RV friends shrugged and hooked it up.
I heard a whirring sound. “Is that the water pump?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” they replied.
One beer later, nature called. I opened the bathroom door…
đź’¦ WHOOSH. Water erupted straight out of the toilet like Old Faithful.
“Shut it off!” I screamed.
“Oh… whoops,” my friend muttered. “Guess that was the black tank flush valve.”
Yes, my very first hookup was literally a shitshow.
Lesson Learned
Never, and I mean never, buy an RV sight-unseen.
Always check the exterior.
And most importantly: know where your black tank flush valve is before turning on the water.
