Pace of change makes RVs more enjoyable
If you’ve never rented a motorhome, you might not know how easy it is to do so. You might not know that as long as you have a valid G licence, you can go to most major cities in this country, pick out the unit you like, receive a briefing on how to connect power and water, how to de-poop it, what all the switches and toggles do, and off you go.
This is awesome.
It is also just a little terrifying.
Before I started doing some RVing a couple of years ago, I never really noticed how many units were out there, unless I was stuck behind one of them on some snaky two-lane highway somewhere. But once I got converted to the joys of occasionally getting away from it all by essentially bringing it all with you, I joined a whole movement of rabid RVers who border on cultish. If cultish can be considered a good thing, where people gladly lend you can openers and shortcuts and advice.
A couple of weeks ago I was in Nova Scotia to ostensibly tour in an RV, but mostly to eat a lot of lobster. I took a friend, Jodi, with me who although an avid camper, had never experienced the world of RVs. She stared up into the cab with a raised eyebrow. Up, from the vantage point of her 4-foot-11 self.
“You’re doing the driving, right?”
“Yes. And I won’t ask you to back me up, because I’ll probably run you over,” I told her. The brilliant thing about Nova Scotia is not only are they used to giant RVs running around their province, they are incredibly kind and helpful when you need to back up. And your partner is shorter than a groundhog.
It’s an easy way to travel. For $150 per day (mid-season through Fraserway Rentals), and about 34 cents a kilometre, you have the freedom to explore. Gas consumption has improved vastly over the years; we spent about $250 driving more than 900 kilometres, including getting lost most days.
For reasons I don’t understand, all RVs are different. I don’t just mean from year to year and model to model, I mean every one I’ve ever been in has had the switches and panels in slightly different places. Units that are identical on the outside have their innards distributed differently. When you pick up your unit, they give you a thorough briefing. You do a walk-around on the outside, a run-through of all the systems, they hand you an inch thick sheaf of What To Do If, and you hop in the seat and take off.
And every time, the first night when you pull into your campsite, you stand there drawing a blank as you stare at where the hot water tank switch was on the last unit.
Two major changes this year made me very happy. The side door of the unit features a set of metal steps. First person out unfolds it, and if you’re lucky, someone remembers to pull it in before you drive away. If you’re lucky. Every dumb RV movie you’ve ever seen is based on some truth. This year, the step automatically popped out whenever you opened the door. It also retracted whenever you closed the door. This is handy.
The other big change? In previous years, you are instructed, in very big letters, to never operate the sliders unless the emergency brake is engaged. Sliders are those room things that pop out from the sides when you’re parked. As some campsites overlook cliffs, it is important to make sure you don’t risk over 4000 kg of living room hurtling over the edge.
“Hey! Awesome! The sliders don’t work if the emergency brake isn’t on,” I told Jodi, heading to put it on.
“Has it occurred to you that you found that out because you tried to slide them without it?”
Damned newbies.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her at: www.lorraineonline.ca.
Thanks on this trip go to GoRVing Canada and Nova Scotia Department of Tourism.
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