Motorhome madness

And They Called it “Wilderness”

By David Feela, 2-20-06

A plume of dust billowed behind me like a vapor trail as the pickup stuttered along the gravel road, fish-tailing so much I had to keep both hands on the steering wheel. Fortunately, no other vehicle shared our dust. Then, less than a quarter mile from where the highway pavement began, a sparkling clean rig pulling a fifth-wheel trailer chattered past, its driver launching a quick salute from behind his nearly spotless windshield. I was leaving our national forest just in time.

Early morning traffic along the highway headed into town. At the stop sign I rolled down the window, inviting some of the cool morning into the pickup when what sounded like a ship’s fog horn split the air from only 10 feet away. Immediately a massive RV blocked out the sun, pushing a gust of 60 mph wind, but just as suddenly it was gone. In the subliminal seconds it took to go by I recalled the one word on its side panel, printed in enormous three-foot green lettering: Wilderness. And odd as this sounds, I was happy to see it vanishing.

With my heart still pounding, I turned north off the forest service road, heading toward the Grand Canyon. Normally my route home took me into Tuba City, where I’d continue east again, through the desert, past Kayenta, Red Mesa, and Teec Nos Pos. Near the Four Corners National Monument I’d usually slow down, just to savor the image of that geographic enigma, and then finish my drive, ending at home.

I had quite a few miles of asphalt in front of me as I headed out, but the desert is usually persuasive in convincing me to drive in beauty. On this day the sky reflected a polished blue and the sand shimmered red and gold. When I take this route, I always marvel at the mesas hovering like ghost ships off in the distance. Or I count hogans that lurk half hidden, so far off the road they’re barely visible. It’s safer than counting sheep.

On this trip, however, I couldn’t help straining to read what every other RV on the highway had to say. I just couldn’t concentrate on the scenery. Each RV that went by shamelessly shouted some glib message about the outdoor experience with graphics painted on its front, side, or rear. It occurred to me that RV designers and manufacturers are either incredibly inept at choosing logos, or they purposefully generate a string of Orwellian doublespeak. Bigger is badder. Freedom sleeps six. The collision I nearly had with the Wilderness might just as well have been with the Titanic. Disaster is the West’s future if RVs become America’s flagships to our public lands.

I know it’s absurd, but I imagined a board of directors sitting around a table, tossing down shots of tequila, brainstorming a list of words until the silliness of someone’s suggestion strikes them as hilarious. Then they select it as the name for their newest RV model. How else could a vehicle with the aerodynamics of breadbox on wheels get dubbed the Southwind? Or a $65,000, 36-foot bus belching black smoke from a big Cummins diesel engine that gets less than 10 miles to the gallon earn a name as refreshing as Mountain Aire? Somebody in the christening department must be drinking.

RV manufacturers must also feel very insecure about their niche in the natural world, which results in many of their RV models taking on the identifies of wild animals, as if an infernal combustion beast might forever roam the earth as a Cougar, Wildcat, Mallard, or even a Condor. How strange to think of school children, after condors are extinct, being taught to imagine the wing span of those once magnificent birds as roughly the width of an RV. I suppose it’s possible that manufacturers are committed to preserving the memory of these species, but I doubt it.

I noticed what had to be a mistake when I saw an RV go by emblazoned with the word Intruder. For once I thought they got it right. Finally, a little truth in advertising. What’s wrong with reality, names like Gas Hog, Bug Deflector, or even Wide Load? I guess as consumers we’re no different than cattle, herded by the companies we keep.

RVs prowled the highway all the way home. I stayed as close to the shoulder as possible whenever one pushed past me. Eventually I got boxed in by a Winnebago for the last 50 miles. Its back panel sported an airbrushed picture with a snowy mountain peak on the horizon, a bald eagle gliding in the cool blue enameled air. For the last 20 of those 50 miles I stared at that scene as if it was a television screen – no potato chips, beer, or even a place to rest my feet. With just a few more comforts our national fleet of RV campers might stay at home. Perhaps just an extension cord running no more than length of their driveway, and of course enough imagination to accept their massive windshields as an alternative to high definition TV. Then we could all relax and let nature get on with its own programming.

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