The Lights Are Off

This week I found myself alone at the lake for a night or two—just me, the dogs, and two much older couples in their RVs—while Gary was off on a quick trip for a potential consulting assignment. Let me be clear: this is WAY outside my comfort zone. Alone in the woods? With my overactive imagination? Not ideal.

As a lifelong fan of Stephen King, it didn’t take long for creepy thoughts to start bubbling up. I looked to my two sleeping hounds for comfort and tried to remind myself: I am a strong, capable, mature woman. No lake creature or axe-wielding hobo is going to mess with me. I channeled my inner Ree Drummond—blogging, drinking wine, and dining solo at the local Pub and Grub—while keeping the RV running smoothly for two whole nights. Wish me luck.

I did survive that first night, thanks in no small part to a Benadryl, which knocked me out just enough to not care if the Blair Witch herself came tapping on the slide-out. Lola and Fiona were snuggled up close, hogging the blanket as usual. Lola’s snoring was oddly comforting—almost like having Gary there beside me.

The excitement of the next day began early. Our RV, one of only two parked in a section with fifty spots, was conveniently located right next to a massive sinkhole. The maintenance crew had decided that today was the day to dig it up. As I walked past the very large, very noisy machine, the operator cheerfully informed me that the restrooms were temporarily closed while they fixed the damage. Naturally, I asked the most important question: “Where is the water coming from?” To my great relief, it was the fresh water pipe, not the restroom outlet.

It hit me in that moment: my life has been reduced to not just knowing—but truly caring—where my fresh water comes from. Life on the road does that to you. We grow so complacent in our “normal” lives—assuming the water is safe, the power will stay on, the food is fresh, and that our internet will buffer only minimally. Out here, none of those are givens. It’s a more self-reliant life. It’s not always convenient, but it’s real, and it gives you perspective.

As the sun began to set again, painting the sky with a beautiful pink hue, I sat back in my new rocking chair with a cold beer and two tired dogs at my feet. And I felt something I hadn’t expected: pride. I’d done it—alone. I didn’t rely on Gary. I kept things running, walked the dogs, fixed the TV to stream from my phone (yes, I paused and rewound The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel all by myself), and I didn’t burn anything down in the process.

Of course, now I’ve blown my cover. The gig is up. Turns out, I can do tech, I can handle myself, and I may never be able to feign helplessness again. Darn.

Gary returned safely today, having had a successful trip. We’re not sure where it will lead, but for now we’re back together at the lake, relaxing and fine-tuning plans for our eastbound journey.

This morning’s breakfast was a bit of an adventure. We stopped at a hole-in-the-wall joint—the kind of place that screams “deep undercover” episode of Restaurant: Impossible. The décor was mostly Mickey Mouse heads (just heads—no bodies, which somehow made it weirder) and dozens of Olan Mills-style family portraits featuring people awkwardly posed and staring off to the side like they just saw a UFO. The patrons were just as vintage, with a table of retirees ordering the lunch special at 10:30 a.m. We, oddly, had breakfast.

The rest of the day was pure joy. We took the dogs to Hemlock Cliffs—a gorgeous, wooded hiking trail filled with cliffs and caves carved right into the hills. Lola and Fiona did great, bounding up the trail and over rocks like seasoned hikers. They surprised us even more at lunch, when we stopped at 33 Brick Street in French Lick. The patio was dog-friendly, and both pups promptly fell asleep on the ground beside us, just like they used to as little boys when we’d take them out to eat and hope we could make it through a meal without incident. Usually, we did—and a big tip helped cover the inevitable trail of crumbs.

Some things don’t change. Others do. And sometimes, the unexpected ones—like learning you’re capable of more than you thought—are the most rewarding.