Two trailers and only one car. It's like a country song.
My brother & his girlfriend arrive in the Arby's parking lot around 11:30 or so. We check out the trailers, deem them good and hit the road, back to Shasta. We haven't begun our 4-day camping trip and I'm already exhausted.
We got back to the campsite around 3am. My other brother was there, headlamp on, beer in hand, wandering around not quite sure what to do with himself. His fiancee and their dogs were long asleep in the tent. My brother asks: "Where have you been and WHAT ARE THOSE?" Poor guy. I should have called.
We pulled in, left everything as it was, bundled up for the cold night and went to bed. I slept in Morrison, too tired and cold to put up a tent. It was cold in there anyway. Around 10a, after we slept until we could sleep no more, we got up and made breakfast BLTs with lots and lots of camping coffee. We caught my brother & his fiancee up on the Adventure to Oregon Friday night we had and looked at the trailers in the daylight. The one my brother picked up smelled. Smelled real bad. It hadn't been opened for about 6 years and it smelled all 6 of those years. Bad. The Medford one was in great shape. Turns out it had been a home for a couple as they built their new house, so it was in camp-ready condition really. That said, I pitched my tent that morning - no need to sleep in some rando's trailer without any cleaning.
The weekend was awesome. Perfect weather, perfect camping activities like beers around the fire, s'mores, ladder golf, cards, walks.
Fast forward to Monday. My other brother (there are three of them) and his wife got to the campsite that Saturday. Generously, he offered to take one of the trailers home with him which was awesome. My plan was to go back up there with my dad the next weekend and get the other one. No need to drive to Shasta twice - wait, three times - in one week, right? We hitched it up to his van and they headed out. My dad and I caravanned home, but my mom rode with me to keep me sane.
Ever since the accident, I've been terrified to drive with a trailer. I need to get over that STAT for obvious reasons. My dad followed me in the hot rod, I stayed at a consistent 55mph, my mom being the best co-pilot ever. She towed the tear drop trailer across the US by herself, so towing the 1966 Roadrunner was a piece of cake. For her. I white knuckled it out of the mountains. I enjoyed 505 where it was just me, my dad and lots of cows. Then we hit I80. Merging! Speeding! Merging! Changing lanes! All of the things that led up to my accident were fresh in my mind. My mom talked me off the ledge at every on-ramp and we made it home.
The '66 went right into the backyard. My dad picked up the '57 from my brother's house and brought it over. My backyard now houses two soon-to-be photo booths! The work is in full swing...follow our Instagram for snippets of the story!