Seaway News
If you are travelling and in need of a place to stay overnight, you’d go to a hotel, motel, B&B or hostel. If you have a tent, a car, a camper trailer or an RV, you’d look for a campground. However, if you’re on a limited budget, or an adventurer or explorer at heart, you’d search out somewhere else to spend the night.
The term ‘boondocker’ would fit you. Ideally, it’s public land, somewhere where your presence would not offend or interfere with anyone. You are discreet.
Ever since c. 1962, boondocking has been my preferred overnighting practice. It took a period of trial and error to hone my skills. The following is a factual account of those early days. The term ‘bungling’ comes tomind.
The vehicle in this account is a 1962 VW ‘Bug’. I removed the front passenger seat, replacing it with a three-foot by six-foot sheet of plywood. The 5,950 km return leg of the trip took me back to my home in Toronto after almost two months working in the Los Angeles area.
Exhausted, I pulled over for my first night’s sleep on a deserted dead-end gravel road.
“Aaah! Z Z Z Z Z….” But then, a ding, ding ding…, followed by a blinding light, a deafening blast of a horn, then a lengthy clatter, bang, clatter, bang…, then silence. I had parked beside the main rail line between LA and San Francisco.
At the crack of dawn, still more than weary, I turned the key and headed for the closest gas station. I innocently asked, “Do you know the way to San Jose?”
The young attendant smiled, asking, “Do you want me to sing it? It won’t be as good as DionneWarwick – but I can tell you the way.”
After the next day of tiring driving, I carefully scoped out my next overnight place to sleep. It was like a flat desert. No railroad tracks in sight. Completely deserted. I sure needed some Z Z Z Z Zs… – and I got it until daybreak. Then, a roar, a loud whoosh and a cloud of dust, soon followed by another, and another. I had parked on an access road between a gravel pit and a freeway construction site.
Third night: a vast rolling field. No rails, no rutted road, just an endless expanse of green.
According to my clock, I woke up late that morning, but it was still dark! I looked out the window, every window. My VW surrounded by curious cattle, some licking the glass, others just gazing stupidly. I had parked in the middle of a pasture. At least I had a good sleep.
I really piled on the miles that day. Then, a sudden power loss. I had been pushing the little four-cylinder engine too hard. It was just about Saturday quitting time at the Cedar Rapids VW dealership.
I was offered an appointment for a valve job after the Labour Day long weekend. I countered with, “But I have to be teaching in Toronto on Tuesday morning!”
The owner provided a solution: “Take my car. Drive into town to have supper. My two mechanics have volunteered to get the job done overnight. You can sleep on the sofa in the customer waiting room.”
“So who do I pay the bill to?”
“We’ll mail it to you.”
By Monday I had driven the final 1,200 km to Toronto. Tuesday morning, I was teaching my grade six class at Our Lady of Peace school. The bill came in the mail a week later.
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