Mrs. Weeble and I were woken up by the pups at their usual 6:30 a.m.
Or maybe it was the rain.
Okay, it was both.
The rain was coming down pretty hard. As Mrs. Weeble’s grandmother would say, it was coming down like a cow peeing on a flat rock.
That is one of those sayings that paints a picture whether you want it to or not.
Rain or no rain, the pups had business to conduct, and apparently that business could not wait for better weather. Of course, their leads were all the way outside, safely away from the RV door, because why would anything be convenient at 6:30 in the morning during a downpour?
I went to put my shoes on.
They were not where I normally leave them.
So I started looking around the RV, slowly becoming suspicious of myself.
Then I began to reminisce about the wonderful campfire I had going the night before. I remembered sitting there, relaxing, taking my shoes off, and holding my feet near the fire to enjoy the warmth.
That was when the horrible truth came rushing back.
My shoes were still outside by the fire ring.
In the rain.
In the cow-peeing-on-a-flat-rock rain.
So out I went to retrieve them, dumped the water out, and came back inside slightly wiser and considerably less dry.
I grabbed Buster and got him hooked to his lead. Then I extended the awning so we had at least a little cover from the rain.
Just as I finished that, I heard Buster bark.
Naturally, he had decided this was the perfect time to wrap himself around my chair.
The chair, of course, was not under the awning.
While I was getting Buster untangled, I opened the door to let Sophie out. Normally, Sophie does not like going out in the rain. I figured she would step out, do what she had to do, and head right back into the RV.
Nope.
Apparently, Sophie had either been taking notes when Buster made his break for freedom the day before, or the two of them had been in cahoots all along.
Either way, I was now dealing with what appeared to be an organized escape attempt.
She hopped down and just kept walking.
So there I went, barefoot, chasing Sophie through the rain like some kind of underdressed campground rescue squad.
By the time I got her back, I had wet shoes, wet feet, and a wet shirt.
Another proud moment in RV history.
Next up was Pennie’s turn.
Pennie, being the only one with any common sense that morning, stepped out under the awning, took care of business, and went right back inside.
No drama. No escape attempt. No barefoot chase scene.
Thank you, Pennie.
Thankfully, the Blackstone grill was under the awning, so I was able to stay mostly dry while making breakfast.
After that came the next great challenge: packing up the RV in the rain.
I know what you are thinking.
This is where another classic Captain Weeble disaster story should begin.
And, as it turns out, you would be correct.
The coach battery had gotten low overnight because the furnace had been running. We could not start the generator yet because quiet hours did not end until 8:00 a.m.
Naturally, it was 7:20 a.m.
So we started the RV.
That was when I discovered another safety feature.
Apparently, the RV has an alarm to warn you if you try to drive away with the levelers down. That is a very good feature. I am glad it exists.
But does it have to be loud enough to wake up the entire mountain?
I ran back, raised the levelers, and the alarm finally quit yelling at me.
Then I continued putting things away. The slide had to come in so I could put away the Blackstone grill. The table got tossed into the RV. At that point, all I had left to do was close the awning.
I pushed the button.
Nothing happened.
For one brief second, I went, “Oh poop.”
Then I remembered the RV was still running.
And just like that, I discovered another safety feature I did not know about.
Apparently, the awning will not retract while the RV is running.
Good to know.
Also good to know before standing there in the rain questioning all your life choices.
Once the RV was finally packed up, the levelers were raised, the awning was closed, and I had completed my morning safety-feature training course, we headed down the mountain on our slightly out-of-the-way journey home.
Because, apparently, once you own an RV, “direct route” becomes more of a suggestion than a rule.
Next Stop: Buc-ee’s
Our first planned stop was Buc-ee’s.
And yes, we are still in awe of the place.
Buc-ee’s is not so much a gas station as it is a small city with brisket, bathrooms, snacks, clothing, wall décor, and enough beaver-themed merchandise to make you question every financial decision you have ever made.
Naturally, we bought Buc-ee’s nuggets.
Okay, let me correct that.
We bought a lot of Buc-ee’s nuggets.
I bought some to take to my son, with whom I work. I bought some to share with my coworkers. Then I carefully set aside one bag for myself.
Because I do love a nugget or two.
Or eight.
Mrs. Weeble Takes the Wheel
With our snack cargo secured, Mrs. Weeble decided she wanted to take the wheel of the Weeblemobile for a while.
Now let me be clear right up front: Mrs. Weeble handled the RV just fine.
The Weeblemobile behaved.
Mrs. Weeble behaved.
I behaved, which was probably the biggest surprise of the three.
The problem was not the driver.
The problem was I-81.
I-81 is not what I would call a relaxing Sunday cruise. It is one of those major north-south highways where cars, trucks, campers, and people who apparently left home 20 minutes late all come together in one long rolling test of patience.
I drove a big truck over the road for more than five years, so I know how that road works. Big trucks are generally supposed to be governed at around 67 miles per hour.
The key phrase there is supposed to be.
Some are.
Some are not.
And as for the cars, a good number of them appear to believe I-81 is not a highway number, but a personal challenge.
Mrs. Weeble pulled onto the highway smoothly and set the cruise control at around 67 mph, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan. In theory, that would put us about the same speed as the trucks.
In theory.
Unfortunately, the theory got out at Buc-ee’s and never got back in the RV.
Cars kept flying by on the left. Trucks would come up behind us wanting to pass, but they could not get over because the cars were already occupying the passing lane at near-orbital velocity.
So the trucks would creep closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Mrs. Weeble kept her lane, held her speed, and did exactly what she was supposed to do.
Meanwhile, I was over in the passenger seat, trying not to do the helpful-husband thing where you make little noises, tap invisible brakes, or offer advice that nobody asked for and nobody wants.
For the record, I mostly succeeded.
After about 40 minutes of being boxed in by traffic, trucks, and the general madness of I-81, Mrs. Weeble turned to me and asked, “Would you be upset if I asked you to take over?”
As I have always told her, if she does not want to drive, it is not a problem.
So we switched drivers, and I finished the drive home.
She did fine.
I-81 was the one that needed retraining.
The adventure does not stop here. Use the Previous and Next post links below to see where the wheels rolled before — or what trouble we found next.