Nicki Drake

Thanks for joining me on Part 2 of my journey from Florida to Wisconsin in Spring 2024. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. But First, a Crash Course in Rolling with a Tow Dolly(Not literally, thank goodness!) When I bought my Winnebago, I didn’t have a car. My maiden voyage from Wisconsin to Florida was a solo RV marathon of back-to-back, insane single-day mileage that was a “never again” kind of experience. (You can read about that misadventure here.) The plan had been to buy a car in Florida and figure out the towing situation at some point thereafter. Fine. Great! It gives me plenty of time to decide: to flat tow or to tow dolly? I chose a Chevy Sonic—a lightweight, flat-towable mini car that seemed like the perfect partner for my RV escapades (It’s even blue to match the Winnie!). Why? Because Google had me believing that purchasing a tow dolly and installing flat-tow equipment would be relatively equivalent at about $1500. The actual cost of flat-tow installation? A jaw-dropping $4,000. My little Chevy wasn’t even worth $4,000. The math wasn’t mathing. The USA Trailer Store 1434 Poinsett Hwy, Greenville, SC Committed now to this little, turbocharged car, I pivoted to Plan B: a tow dolly. After much research (and a fair amount of swearing at conflicting reviews), I landed on the EZ Haul Stand Up Idler Car Tow Dolly from the USA Trailer Store. It wasn’t the cheapest option but had a unique selling point—it could stand upright for easy storage. While I haven’t had to use this feature yet (shoutout to campgrounds with pull-through sites and generous storage space), it felt good to have the option. Another big selling point? I could pick it up in person from the USA Trailer Store in Greenville, SC. This was huge for a newbie like me. Having someone walk me through the tow dolly setup felt like the kind of hand-holding I could admit to needing. Let me paint you a picture of this location: The USA Trailer Store is in a very “keep your head on a swivel” part of town. As a solo woman, the vibe wasn’t great. (Future adventurers, take note: Bring a friend, or at least channel your best “don’t mess with me” face.) Despite the surroundings, the folks at the store were friendly and patient. They showed me the ropes—or rather, the ramps, straps, and chains. By the end of the walkthrough, I was feeling downright confident. The dolly itself has been great so far. It’s lightweight enough for me to move around solo (more so when the ramps are off), and the setup process is straightforward once you get the hang of it. Of course, I had to buy a few extra bits to make everything work smoothly. In case you’re interested: With my shiny new setup, I was ready to hit the road. Little did I know, this tow dolly and I were about to have some moments. But hey, no adventure starts without a little drama, right? Picture this: Me, a Winnebago, a tow dolly, and my car, merrily cruising down the highway, jamming to Jammin’ by Marley, happy because this towing thing really was as easy as it seemed. That is until I rolled into the campground in Gatlinburg and began reversing the steps I’d followed earlier to secure the car to the dolly. That’s when I truly grasped how wrong towing could go. My car wasn’t just stuck on the dolly—it had trapped itself. The tires had rolled onto the strap hooks, locking them in place, AND the safety chains had pulled so taut they might as well have been welded. Unable to move it forward or backward, I was honestly convinced the Army Corps of Engineers would have thrown up their hands in defeat. Now, I’d listened to the guy at the USA Trailer Store like I was cramming for finals. I even insisted on doing everything myself while he watched. (“Independent woman” energy was strong that day.) But here I was, the car firmly secured in place, and I had no clue how to begin getting it unsecured. That didn’t mean I didn’t try. I got out the jack from the spare tire kit in the trunk. It did a great job of putting the whole situation into a fresh angle—just enough to let me admire how well-secured it really was. Then, this guy showed up—a friendly, casual observer of my predicament. Like a scene out of a reality TV show, he listened to my frantic explanation, nodded solemnly, and then whipped out—wait for it—a chain cutter. What? Is there a Camping Essentials List somewhere with “chain cutter” on it that I missed? But you know what? I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to question my knight in flannel. Together, we snipped the safety chains, nudged the car forward just enough to liberate the front tires, and finally freed it from the dolly’s evil clutches. I was honestly on the verge of crying tears of joy, but I was too busy awkwardly thanking him while simultaneously trying not to look like I was Googling, “Do campers normally carry chain cutters?” Of course, this incident taught me a lesson—or rather, several. First, my car apparently has wanderlust. No matter how tightly I strap it to the dolly, it shifts just enough to cause chaos. I invested in a Club Twin Hook Steering Wheel Lock to address this. (Fun fact: I later discovered in the manual that this particular brand of tow dolly requires a locking steering wheel. My Sonic, while flat-towable, does not have one. Sigh.) Second, those straps? They need to be hooked so wide it’s practically a yoga pose so the tires don’t wind up on top of them. (USA Trailer Guy, you were thorough but left me hanging on that one.) At least, while this was the start of my adventures in Gatlinburg, things only got better (and way less

I’ve detailed my experience with the Thousand Trails system for my travels between Wisconsin and Florida here. For this series of posts, I wanted to highlight the places we visited along the way. Quick side note: Like many of us, my time for fun is limited. I live and work full-time from my RV (you can read more about how I mastered that here), so my exploring is confined to weekends and after-hours. During my spring and fall travels, I also move every fifth day to park hop the Thousand Trails system, which means I’m only in each location for a short time. Nevertheless, I wanted to share the places we visited in hopes of inspiring your own adventures, no matter how limited your time may be. We kicked off our journey from Apopka, FL, to Yemassee, SC, in true road trip fashion: with a torrential downpour. I’ve never seen rain like this. The downpour was so intense that I-75 had about 2 inches of standing water. It felt like I was piloting a boat instead of driving an RV. But the next morning, everything changed. I woke up to a sunny, glorious day that also happened to be my thirty-sixth birthday! I worked (mainly so my colleagues could shower me with birthday wishes, of course!), and it was time to celebrate. Being a Thursday, and with big plans for Friday and Saturday with friends and family, we decided to drive to the nearest charming town, Beaufort. It would be the perfect spot to kick off the birthday celebrations with sightseeing and good food. Beaufort, SC What an adorable little town! It has charming boutiques and picturesque antebellum sights in a quaint historic district. We spent about an hour wandering the streets and popping in and out of boutiques where even the toilet paper seemed out of our budget. Hungry, we stopped at Plums Restaurant, which boasts lovely views of Port Royal Sound, but besides a quick drink, we couldn’t find anything for me (the vegan) to eat. In fact, despite its bougie-ness, Beaufort offered nothing at all for vegans. Henry C. Chambers Waterfront Park Bay St, Beaufort, SC 29902 Before we left, we found ourselves at the Henry C. Chambers Waterfront Park. With its row of porch swings between vine-covered columns facing the Port, the park is just gorgeous. The landscaping is ripe with colorful flowers and tropical foliage. We couldn’t help but swing for a while, watching the sun sparkle on the water and the yachts bobbing on gentle waves, at least until hunger got the best of us. Do I recommend a stop in Beaufort? Maybe. It’s charming but, frankly, not that unique. If you’re short on time, you might want to skip Beaufort and head straight to Charleston or Savannah. Both cities offer a richer array of historical sites, diverse dining options (including vegan-friendly spots), and a more vibrant cultural scene. Chef Frank’s Bistro, 1635 Paris Ave, Port Royal From Beaufort, we drove over to Port Royal and Chef Frank’s Bistro. Having struck out with vegan options in Beaufort, we called ahead to see if they could accommodate us. Boy, did they ever! Chef Frank himself came out to greet us and, after explaining that his kitchen was outfitted to feed a king, asked if I was okay with him whipping up a special dish with ingredients on hand. He created a beautiful dish of carrots, asparagus, beech mushrooms, and crispy polenta. I’m kicking myself for not taking a picture! (Side note: While I’m disappointed about the lack of good visual content to support this post, I’m excited to see how these blogs evolve as I learn. As James Clear said, “Your 1st blog post will be bad, but your 1000th will be great.” I guess there are just 994 to go! Ha.) Dinner was truly lovely. The restaurant offers an intimate experience in a cozy but comfortable dining room with a limited number of tables. The staff work tightly together to create an experience that feels like dining with family. The menu is well-thought-out, with options that are hard to choose from, making every meal a delightful dilemma. The waitstaff and fare are worthy of six Michelin stars (IMHO). They also have a great wine selection, which perfectly complemented our meal. To top it all off, they treated me to a special vegan dessert for my birthday that was unexpected. It was the perfect sweet ending to a memorable meal. After a pre-dinner stroll through the Port Royal Cypress Wetlands right across the street from Chef Frank’s Bistro, we headed home. Charleston, SC Friday late afternoon found us driving an hour and fifteen minutes to the Atlantic Coast, arriving in Charleston’s glamorous city filled with old southern charm. A work colleague played tour guide and walked us around parts of the Medical University of South Carolina campus before heading over to King Street. We could have spent an entire day exploring King Street. It was like the Magnificent Mile of the South—block after block of shopping and restaurants. Since we were crunched for time, having met up later in the afternoon, we breezed up and down King Street, stopping only for a quick bite at Bartaco. Bartaco, 304 King St, Charleston, SC I adore this place! They make everything fresh and have multiple options for vegans. We landed three stools at the bar and watched the uber-friendly mixologists peel, squeeze, and shake drinks I swear would win them awards while snacking on a sampling of their taco options. The open-air ambiance and the exotic, natural feel of the place, with its giant mural on the wall and wicker light fixtures, created a feeling of welcome, peace, and well-being, all reinforced by the fresh-made drinks and clean food. Charleston City Market 188 Meeting St, Charleston, SC Afterward, we took a quick detour through the Charleston City Market. It was already winding down for the day, so we didn’t get to see it in full swing,

I have a job that’s a delightful cocktail of marketing and sales support, shaken, not stirred. I work for a fabulous Fortune 500 company that’s so global, even my emails have jet lag. For the past five years, I’ve been a full-time remote worker, which means my office attire is a stylish blend of pajama chic and “business on top, party on the bottom.” Thanks to my salary and responsibilities, I am able to live full-time in an RV. Who needs a corner office when you can have a corner of Smith Lake, Alabama as your backdrop? Even though I’m a veteran in the full-time work-from-home game, transitioning to having an office in an RV required serious trial and error. From inconsistent, sluggish internet to finding a comfy work setup that didn’t involve a yoga pose, it was a journey of trial, error, apologies, excuses, phone calls, and a few choice words. Let’s not forget the investment—both in time and money—that went into making my mobile office dreams a reality. But hey, who could complain when the alternative was the gray-carpeted walls of a corporate cubicle slowly closing in on me (cue the theme song from The Twilight Zone)! Let’s start with the basics: internet. Internet Without a strong, stable connection, I don’t have a job. Without a job, I don’t have a paycheck. Without a paycheck, I don’t have an RV. And without an RV… well, you get the picture. It’s a slippery slope from remote work to remote-less living! My company is all-in on Microsoft 365, including Teams and OneDrive, which are notorious for their insatiable appetite for data and bandwidth. It’s like trying to feed a sumo wrestler with a single (vegan, of course!) sushi roll. Needless to say, I needed to ensure I had a reliable internet connection in the RV, and you had better believe I was willing to make a few sacrifices to the Wi-Fi gods to get it! (The Twilight Zone theme song, anyone?) Unfortunately, my Winnebago did not come with a pre-installed system like a Winegard. For those not in the know, a Winegard is a high-performance router specifically designed for RVs. It acts as a central hub, connecting all your devices (phones, laptops, tablets, smart TVs) to the internet through WiFi or cellular networks. I can’t tell you much more than that. A friend of mine lives full-time in a Thor and has a Winegard. She, too, runs the wheel of the corporate rat race. One morning, while I was pulling my hair because I was operating at speeds of 1kb/hour, I inquired about her Winegard. She merely shrugged and said, “It works.” I took that to mean, “It’s amazing and works so seamlessly I often forget that I am working in an RV and not in some newly constructed high-rise outfitted with the latest and greatest of all things Smart.” Anyway, back to my story. Did I consider a Winegard? Yes. Did I get sticker shock? Absolutely (not so much because the Winegard is unreasonable, but the labor to have it installed professionally is mucho dinero). So, I put that option on the back burner. One, because I am no MacGyver. I was not about to start drilling holes into the roof of my RV. (I know little, but I do know that water is an RV’s nemesis, and I was not about to tempt that particular god.) And two, I wasn’t so uncomfortable (or threatened with losing my job) yet to fork out a few thousand dollars. Holy smokes, is campground Wi-Fi unreliable! Even with towers scattered around like confetti at a parade, the signal was about as stable as a Jenga tower in an earthquake. And the kicker? They often charge you for this shaky service! I quickly decided that paying for campground Wi-Fi was like throwing money into a black hole. Next, I considered paying for a monthly internet service. The problem? I move around once a month. Starting and stopping service at every new destination felt as fun as trying to navigate the Winnie through a nightmare where all eighteen wheels of a semi-truck have suddenly come loose and are bouncing down the highway straight at me. So, I turned to a third option: the trusty mobile hotspot. Problem número uno? My carrier only offered 30 GB of mobile hotspot data per month—barely enough to last a week. So, I looked into having a dedicated mobile hotspot device and paying for a second line and discovered I didn’t need to! Lucky for me, Verizon had just launched a new add-on: 100 GB per month, in addition to the 30 GB offered in their Unlimited Plus plan. What does this look like? It means a single, $90/month (with my discounts) bill for both cell services and internet. So, I bid ‘sayonara’ to my old carrier, AT&T, and switched to Verizon. With 130 GB of mobile hotspot data, I was ready to busy-bee my way up the corporate ladder—or so I thought. RVs are notorious for blocking cell signals, and I was parked in a campground surrounded by megalithic signal stoppers. This wasn’t going to work. Believe it or not, I ended up driving to the nearest safe parking lot to work from my car! Looking back, I can’t believe I did that. But desperate times, right? I had to work! After a couple of months of this (and I’m embarrassed to admit it went on that long), I was burned out and needing any other solution (Winegard, here I come?). After googling things like ‘boost mobile hotspot without turning my RV roof into Swiss cheese,’ I stumbled upon nifty gadgets designed specifically for RV living. These signal-boosting wonders claim to keep you connected, even when you’ve parked in a place where Wi-Fi feels like an urban legend. After doing a ton of research and chatting with other campers on their experiences, I ended up investing in the weBoost Destination RV which I purchased off Amazon. Why?

“What just broke?” If you haven’t barreled down the interstate and asked your travel companion that very question, you haven’t been RVing. Few things in life spike your adrenaline quite like steering a 32-foot RV (plus a towed car) through the ultra-narrow lanes of a construction zone, boxed in by towering cement barricades with nothing but a line of flimsy orange reflector posts separating you from oncoming traffic. No matter how securely you think you’ve battened down the hatches, that inevitable crash, bang, and [insert another catastrophic sound effect here] reminds you that life on the road is a wild ride. It didn’t take me long to learn why the 3:2 rule exists in RV culture. For those unfamiliar, that rule basically suggests you travel no more than 300 miles in a day, arrive by 2 p.m., and stay put for at least two nights. I ignored that rule and paid the price. Here’s how: I bought my RV in October, and within three days, I was driving it 1,300 miles from Milwaukee, WI, to Apopka, FL. In just five days. What happened during those five days, you ask? Buckle up. Here we go. Day One: Love’s RV Stop, De Motte, IN (161 miles) We hit the road around noon (mistake number one). It was my first real drive in the RV, aside from the short ride home from the dealer. So, of course, we found ourselves in the southern part of Chicago (aka construction hell), with lanes so narrow I could practically hear the paint being scraped off the sides of the bus as we screeched past the cement barricades, all while dodging rush hour traffic. Midway through, I noticed a black thing flapping outside my driver’s side window like a demonic bird trying to crash its way in. Turns out, it was the window gasket slipping out from between the window and its frame, whipping around like the devil himself was holding the other end—good start, right? I’m white-knuckling it, praying not to scrape a semi, when BANG. The loudest, longest crash I’ve ever heard. I freeze. The fridge and freezer doors flew open. It was like a food explosion in aisle four: cans of Carbliss are rolling, the ice has gone rogue, and our Tupperware has utterly failed us in epic food fight fashion. My trusty co-pilot (hi, Mom!) leaps into action like Lucille Ball trying to prepare dinner in “The Long, Long Trailer,” bouncing down the aisle as we sped down the road. Finally, we made it to Love’s after dark, stumbling out of the RV in a state of blurry-eyed exhaustion, as if we’d just completed a marathon while being chased by angry raccoons. Our clothes were disheveled, our makeup was a mess, and Mom probably had more food in her hair than what had been repacked into the fridge. After shoveling dinner into our mouths, we hit the sack and slept like the dead. Day Two: Grand Ole RV Resort, Goodlettsville, TN (400 miles) The cat went missing. Well, technically, she found a cozy spot under the driver’s side console. Naturally, we panicked and called Winnebago. The rep reassured us she couldn’t Houdini her way out. Funny thing about that—my mom, still incredulous after looking up Winnebago schematics, called them again. In a glorious moment of red-faced embarrassment, we got the same customer service rep. He laughed but patiently confirmed that the cabin was a completely sealed box and that if our little escape artist had wedged herself under the console—which apparently happens all the time with cats—she was definitely onboard. We hit the road. Nevertheless, for the entire nine-hour drive, I imagined every worst-case scenario. Had she escaped into the wilds of Indiana? Was she roasting like a rotisserie chicken by the engine? Or worse, was she being bounced around under the console like a tiny, terrified pinball? At some point, the microwave decided to join the chaos by flinging its door open, sending the glass plate hurtling through the air like a frisbee of death. That distraction was almost enough to take my mind off the cat—almost. We over-journeyed, of course. While Google Maps may claim that 400 miles equals six hours, in an RV, that distance is closer to nine. Time moves differently in an RV. Miles move differently in an RV. It’s a law of nature that seems to defy the laws of physics. Anyway, we reached our destination after sunset. Again. And just as soon as we parked, out popped the cat. Purring. Tail up. Completely happy, as if nothing had happened at all. My mom, on the other hand, burst into tears and told her, “I had been mentally writing your eulogy all day!” I echoed the sentiment. Day Three: Gunter Hill Campground, Montgomery, AL (300 miles) Finally, a good day! We drove a comfortable six hours and actually made it to our destination with plenty of sunlight to spare. We kicked back and enjoyed the gorgeous sunset over the Alabama River, with the comforting scent of campfire smoke drifting through the air. It was perfect. Well, almost. An improperly secured gallon jug of water slid off the counter and exploded in a spectacular Bellagio-fountain fashion, soaking everything within a ten-foot radius. Day Four: Big Oak RV Park, Tallahassee, FL (200 miles) By now, we’re pros. The cat’s chillin’ in her carrier, and after some, uh, “digestive delays,” everyone’s feeling lighter (including my mom, who hadn’t pooped since Day One). Cue the check engine light 55 miles out from Tallahassee. We pulled over because my co-pilot didn’t think you could drive with that on. Spoiler alert: you can, as long as it’s not flashing. Roadside Assistance with Good Sam never showed up, so we powered through. Turns out it was just an old, stored code. Day Five: Lost Lake RV Park, Apopka, FL (260 miles) Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. No explosions, no breakages. Just peace and quiet. Of course, the universe couldn’t let us end on a

“You drive that thing? All by yourself?” That’s the reaction I get every time I tell people about my RV. “Yeah, I do,” I reply, often with a grin. “I couldn’t do it,” they usually respond. “Yeah, you could,” I say, with all the confidence of someone who’s been there and back. Because the truth is, you could do it. You just need a dash of confidence, a spoonful of patience, and a mindset that refuses to give up. Let me tell you, I love living in my RV. It’s the perfect mix of freedom, adventure, responsibility, challenge, independence, pride, and a whole lot of fun. In this season of my life, I couldn’t ask for anything more. So, how did I end up here? Well, let’s rewind a bit… It all began with the end of my marriage. After reaching the point of irreparable differences, I moved out of the brick-and-mortar home I co-owned with my ex-husband and landed back at my parents’ house. At thirty-four. Not exactly where I pictured myself. I didn’t want to be there, but staying in that house with my ex wasn’t an option. I consoled myself with the thought that I’d find an apartment soon and reclaim my independence. But life, as it often does, had other plans. My mom, bless her adventurous soul, had this dream of buying an RV and touring the country. Her bucket-list fantasy became a reality when I showed up on her doorstep. Intrigued, I started digging into the logistics of RV life, all while apartment hunting in Milwaukee. And then, like a lightning bolt, I realized something amazing: the cost of living in an RV could be comparable to an apartment, if you budget wisely. I was hooked. A little background: I’ve always been adventurous. In high school, I spent a summer in northern Spain with EarthWatch. I attended college at Arizona State, clear across the country. I spent a year studying abroad on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. After college, I joined the Peace Corps and spent two life-altering years in Paraguay. All my adventures had primed me for another one. So, with my anxiety and self-disappointment soothed by this new incipient adventure, I dove into planning. For hours. And hours. I researched, I studied, I interviewed, I toured. I read Randall Eaton’s Motorhome Comparison Guide cover to cover, a half dozen times. I enrolled in the First Time CDL course, thinking I’d need my Class B (spoiler: I didn’t). I chatted with every Class A motorhome owner I could find. Every weekend, my mom and I road-tripped to RV dealers around southeastern Wisconsin, inspecting features and learning the ropes. All the while, I was untangling myself from my ex-husband and our shared landscaping business. You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a U.S. citizen. We’d met during my Peace Corps service when he was a Paraguayan national. Transferring the business into his name was a legal nightmare, complicated by his immigration status. It took a year for him to become a U.S. citizen. During that time, I lived with my parents, rent-free (thank you, Mom and Dad!), and saved every penny for my next big adventure. Fifteen long, grueling months after leaving my ex, we were finally divorced, our debts settled, and I was free. Except, my credit was in the tank. So, I waited. I kept saving, learning, and healing. Fast forward to the end of September 2023. A friend of my sister’s offered to let me drive his Class A. I jumped at the chance, excited to finally get behind the wheel. But then, he canceled on me. Annoyed, Mom and I decided to make the most of our Saturday and visit yet another RV dealer. And that’s when fate stepped in. We ended up at Kunes in Kenosha, where, to my utter shock and delight, I found a 2016 Winnebago Brave 29C. Months earlier, I had fallen in love with this exact make and model. The floor plan was perfect: the shower was separate from the bathroom, allowing sunlight to flood the interior. One entire side of the bus was a slide, creating a spacious bathroom, a king-sized bedroom, and a large living room/kitchen area. There was a drop-down loft above the driver’s area, and the TV was positioned perfectly across from the futon sofa, which, by the way, also folded down into a bed. And the design? A retro throwback to the Winnebagos of the ‘70s. It was cute, functional, and everything I had dreamed of. Except, there were only a few for sale nationwide. I had resigned myself to not getting a Winnebago Brave 29C, at least not anytime soon. But there it was. Right in front of me. I made the rookie mistake of gushing to the dealer, ‘There’s nothing wrong with this thing. It’s like it’s brand new!’ Oops. Lesson learned. (Though I did still manage to snag it for a reasonable price!) Anyway, I applied for financing. My credit score was stuck at 749, just one point shy of the magical 750. By this time, I’d saved up a $10,000 down payment and an emergency fund, but I had no idea if I’d be approved. So, I waited. For a week. I visited that Winnebago Brave four times, dragging along friends, family, and anyone I could convince to join me on a road trip to see it. But truthfully, their opinions didn’t matter—I was captivated. I wanted it so badly it ached. When I got the news, I was in disbelief. Right then and there, I wanted to rush down to Kenosha and sign the paperwork, but I had to wait for the unit to be inspected and minor repairs handled. It took three days and two nights. At the dealership, I was a ball of anxiety. I couldn’t believe it was finally happening. I signed the paperwork, resisted the sales pitch from Camping World, and then—just like that—I was handed the keys. Fifteen months of planning, dreaming,