Between the Gumdrop Forest and the Gates of Hell - RV Life Day #2

The generator died. It was day two of our RV extravaganza before we noticed. We had arrived in Lassen Volcanic National Park at Summit Lake North, completely off the grid with nary a cellular hotspot for the children to beg for. 

The first red flag should’ve been the RV owner’s instructions on how to jump the generator with jimmied cables.

The second red flag, the children and Schnoodles roasting in the way back like hot dogs on a campfire grill.  

Comfortably cool in the cab with our children fixated on screens, we enjoyed the Shasta Mountain View, unaware they were melting buckled up behind us. No wonder the dogs preferred my lap!

Somewhere between s’mores cleanup and plugging in our multitude of first world devices to charge, the generator sputtered and croaked. 

“It needs a jump,” I said, assuming a simple fix. Back in action within minutes, the kid’s observed even their mother can fix electrical s&*#! Thankfully, the cool mountain breeze lulled us to sleep through open windows, allowing for generator troubleshooting in the am.

The next morning we realized the connector to our gas grill was peacefully resting in our Portland garage, and as for coffee on a campfire grill, you can fuggedaboutit! 

We were off the grid, up Shits Creek without a paddle when my motherhood instincts for ‘Forced Family Fun’ kicked in again for better or worse, and ‘till death do us part’, my husband and I set off for the Pacific Crest Trail with four kids in tow.

The topographic map made the 6 mile distance to Warner Valley and ‘Devil’s Kitchen’ seem like a minuscule task and worth the reward for an experienced family of adventurers. 

Near mile four, my ten-year-old son began to lose steam volcanically. My 13-year-old, the largest of the crew, glassy eyed and falling further behind. Thankfully I had read ‘Wild’ and packed enough rations to feed an army, which my husband carried, eager to prove his paternal fortitude. When at the threshold of Devil’s Kitchen, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at 8,000 feet will blow your mind with wholesome goodness. 

At mile five, we surveyed the 1,000 foot decent into Warner Valley and extra mile to volcanic wonders when our younger children began to protest. It was then we realized our family would’ve died on the Oregon Trail! 

We called a spade a spade and chose to divide to conquer. My husband and two younger sons headed back to troubleshoot the generator and collapse, while my 15 and 17-year-olds challenged me to reach the Hot Springs River. 

Picturing myself Sacajawea, we forged on. I was now the water donkey. “Why must we go down to go up?” my daughter pleaded while my son maintained the empty thoughts in his head counting rocks along the rugged path. Desperate for a sign, a heart shaped rock signaled we were headed in the right direction.

We survived thirteen miles, seven on the Pacific Crest trail, in over five hours. Was it worth it? 

Back at the campsite, we told stories of the unicorns, rainbows and leprechauns passing out Ben and Jerry’s ice cream at the Hot Springs River, ‘Chunky Monkey’, my son’s choice. My youngest son’s eyes lit up as if he believed us, proving the journey paid off. Meanwhile my fingers, the size of sausages, refused to bend, so we dipped our swollen joints in the frigid waters of Summit Lake. 

The generator needs oil, my husband said proudly. “We can survive with our food supply until morning, then get the hell outta dodge and back to civilization,” I replied without a second thought.

I found myself dreaming that we had sold our Schnoodles to the highest bidder traveling somewhere between the Gumdrop Forest and the Gates of Hell. Perhaps the extra baggage on the RV trip would prove expendable like the contents of Cheryl Strayed's backpack on the Pacific Crest Trail. A fortunate mother to find REM sleep at my blessed age, I was quickly awakened at 11:44pm by another sputtering and choke, followed by a loud beeping sounding from the refrigerator that had, along with the generator, also abandoned our ‘Tin Can’ ship. 

We found ourselves at ‘Bumpass Hell’ around 10am, our powerless fridge and freezer doors shut tight, we planned to attack the most popular hike to the sulfuric hot springs and boiling mud baths in Lassen Volcanic Park. At the threshold of hell for three days now, I figured what could go wrong? 

My 13-year-old son flat out refused another ‘Extreme Forced Family Fun’ adventure. Furthermore, our Schnoodles were banned from solitary RV confinement in Lassen Volcanic Park given the hell raising commotion they caused at Summit Lake North. “But it’s only 3 miles roundtrip,” I pleaded. 

That hike was worth it, though our 'dogs' were absolutely barking and my youngest son proclaimed his ‘Bumpass’ hurt from the ten miles yesterday. “Bumpass Hell, Bumpass Hell”, he shouted, "wait ’til I tell my friends I’m not even swearing."

We sped outta Bumpass Hell as if we had oil to burn. Windows open, papers blowing and pans crashing in the back, we hit the high road for the nearest town. 

Susanville, California proved the next oasis in the steamy tin can rolling turd. The RV was chock-full and as soon as we refueled and gifted our offerings to the earth we were blessed with a bit of levity. I figured 'Reliable RV' would be the answer to our prayers.

Given J.D.’s smile, he was possibly a meth addict. My husband called him 'sketchy', but the way he lay down, reaching behind the generator, I assumed he was a bonafide RV technician, tattoos, gapped teeth and all. 

“This here generator is seized up,” he said with a smile. “It’s too expensive to carry these Cummins generators in my shop; they run near five-thousand-dollars,” he said.

My husband shook his head in agreement while I texted the RV owner we needed a new generator or RV at our next destination or we’d never survive Death Valley. Turns out the oil cap for the generator was stripped and popping off, unable to hold-on tight like my last nerve.

Grabbing Subway before leaving town to salvage our cold fridge another few hours, my husband sat down to eat at our kitchen table. Eating in a boiling hot RV, our only option save the parking lot curb, as Covid had shut down California.

“We need to get to Tahoe asap!” I said, “Can you please eat and drive?” 

That’s when I lost my last nerve. Jumping into the driver’s seat I revved the ignition and threw it in drive. 

“You haven’t even driven yet!” he shouted rudely, challenging me. My words bear not repeating at this point, to which he replied, “You expect me to be polite and solve all the problems?”

Those were my husband's last words before we were headed down the highway at 65 miles per hour, my fingers gripping the wheel. 

We were somewhere near Reno's three lanes of interstate traffic, when in the midst of texting the RV owner diagnostic codes, my problem-solving hubby glanced out the passenger side mirror to see our shoe bin flapping in the breeze. 

We rolled into South Tahoe last night on a wing and a prayer, thankfully with all of our shoes. The RV campground closed at 5pm. Luckily Harry, who looked every bit like a Harry, allowed me to back the rolling turd into spot #1 whose residents had vacated a week ago with Covid-19. We hooked up utilities, and while the AC roared, the internet wavered. Turns out we had arrived at ‘Mosquito Haven’, with my daughter’s 10:30am violin Zoom lesson in the morning. Once again we were disconnected from reality and I prayed I would survive the savage teenagers ’til morning.

After a hot cup of joe at 9am and my daughter cursing the frickin’ tin can, the frickin' Wifi, her three brothers, the barking dogs, and the violin shoulder rest, I dialed the Cedar Pines Resort, a block down the road. Pleading with the owner I used every tool in my clandestine belt to convince him to cough up his free Wifi connectivity. 

At 10:15am, I closed the pop-outs, revved the ignition, threw the beast into drive and cornered out of the flea-bitten RV park on two or three wheels, coming to rest in the ditch across from the Cedar Pines Resort at 10:25am. With not a moment to spare, the boys and dogs promptly perched on a log connected to the blessed WiFi blood of internet gaming, I locked the door and we Zoomed violin from the comfort of our god-forsaken tin can.

We await the status of a new generator and contemplate our next move sidelined on the Road to Nowhere. Lake Tahoe or RV garage, I pray for the best, come hell or high water. I am a grizzly mamma bear now. Next stop Yosemite?