Minnie Crockwell - Will Travel for Trouble 01 - Trouble at Happy Trails by Minnie Crockwell
Authors: Minnie Crockwell
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Chapter One
I pulled into the campground slowly, never quite sure what dangers lurked in the form of poles, signs, small children, errant tree limbs and one-way roads.
I paused for a moment and surveyed what would be my new domain for the next week or so. The office was clearly visible several hundred feet away, and marked helpfully with a sign which read “Office.” Always a good start to a campground stay!
While no longer a complete novice driver of a 37-foot recreational vehicle, I didn’t allow myself to relax my vigilance either. I drew my eyebrows and surveyed the approach to the office. A hard sharp 30-degree angle turn came between me, my rig and the office.
I pulled the wheel hard to the right, made the turn and rolled to a stop in front of the small one-story, nondescript beige building. Turning off the engine and setting the brake, I made my way to the door on the passenger side of the RV and clambered down the steps with a groan. Driving for 8 hours straight from the Oregon coast with only two rest stops was not the ideal RV traveling day, but I had been determined to reach my reserved spot at the Happy Trails RV Park in Spokane, Washington, before darkness set in.
Maneuvering into a site, hauling out hoses and cords, and finding the appropriate hookups (and determining whether they were working or not) was not one of my favorite parts of living on the road in a tin can (albeit an expensive tin can). But one grew used to it, along with the perks of electricity and running water. It was not something I wanted to do in the dark…ever.
I approached the office and jumped back as a middle-aged man, dressed in a snug T-shirt and form-fitting jeans, burst out of the office.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. He saw me, muttered a “scuse me” and hurried off in the general direction of the RVs peacefully parked in uniform rows on a diagonal slant.
“Hmmm,” I muttered under my breath. That wasn’t promising. Would I have trouble at this park?
I pushed open the door with some hesitation. Was the staff member inside just as angry as the man who had left? What was that all about?
A short, plump woman stood behind the counter with her back to the door. From the looks of her shaking, hunched shoulders, she appeared to be crying. Apparently, she hadn’t heard me open the door.
I cleared my throat loudly. In the past three months of traveling full time in my RV I can’t say that I had come across this situation before—a blubbering campground office attendant. Certainly, I had encountered abrupt, hasty, harried, tired, bored, ignorant and withdrawn attendants, but never one in tears. To be fair, the majority of RV park and campground attendants and hosts were helpful, friendly, welcoming and knowledgeable. It remained to be seen whether the short-haired blonde woman in a bright pink flowered tunic would be one of those.
Who was the man? A disgruntled camper? Those were common. An unhappy husband? Those were just as common. Thank goodness I didn’t have one…or hadn’t had one for years.
I cleared my throat again, and this time, she looked over her right shoulder and jumped. She wiped at her face and smiled tremulously, her hot pink-lipsticked mouth puckering at the corners.
“Is everything all right?” I asked. What could I do? I couldn’t just ignore the fact that she’d been sobbing only a few seconds ago and probably still would be if I hadn’t walked in.
“Oh, sure,” she murmured, still dabbing at her face with the back of her hands. She approached the counter and looked up at me with reddened eyes which made her bright blue eyes that much brighter. She appeared to be in her early 60s.
“You know how it is with husbands,” she said.
“No, not really,” I said. “I gave the marriage thing a running start when I was in my early 20s, but I couldn’t go the distance.” What a hokey analogy! There was only one man I would have considered marrying now, in fact,
I pulled into the campground slowly, never quite sure what dangers lurked in the form of poles, signs, small children, errant tree limbs and one-way roads.
I paused for a moment and surveyed what would be my new domain for the next week or so. The office was clearly visible several hundred feet away, and marked helpfully with a sign which read “Office.” Always a good start to a campground stay!
While no longer a complete novice driver of a 37-foot recreational vehicle, I didn’t allow myself to relax my vigilance either. I drew my eyebrows and surveyed the approach to the office. A hard sharp 30-degree angle turn came between me, my rig and the office.
I pulled the wheel hard to the right, made the turn and rolled to a stop in front of the small one-story, nondescript beige building. Turning off the engine and setting the brake, I made my way to the door on the passenger side of the RV and clambered down the steps with a groan. Driving for 8 hours straight from the Oregon coast with only two rest stops was not the ideal RV traveling day, but I had been determined to reach my reserved spot at the Happy Trails RV Park in Spokane, Washington, before darkness set in.
Maneuvering into a site, hauling out hoses and cords, and finding the appropriate hookups (and determining whether they were working or not) was not one of my favorite parts of living on the road in a tin can (albeit an expensive tin can). But one grew used to it, along with the perks of electricity and running water. It was not something I wanted to do in the dark…ever.
I approached the office and jumped back as a middle-aged man, dressed in a snug T-shirt and form-fitting jeans, burst out of the office.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. He saw me, muttered a “scuse me” and hurried off in the general direction of the RVs peacefully parked in uniform rows on a diagonal slant.
“Hmmm,” I muttered under my breath. That wasn’t promising. Would I have trouble at this park?
I pushed open the door with some hesitation. Was the staff member inside just as angry as the man who had left? What was that all about?
A short, plump woman stood behind the counter with her back to the door. From the looks of her shaking, hunched shoulders, she appeared to be crying. Apparently, she hadn’t heard me open the door.
I cleared my throat loudly. In the past three months of traveling full time in my RV I can’t say that I had come across this situation before—a blubbering campground office attendant. Certainly, I had encountered abrupt, hasty, harried, tired, bored, ignorant and withdrawn attendants, but never one in tears. To be fair, the majority of RV park and campground attendants and hosts were helpful, friendly, welcoming and knowledgeable. It remained to be seen whether the short-haired blonde woman in a bright pink flowered tunic would be one of those.
Who was the man? A disgruntled camper? Those were common. An unhappy husband? Those were just as common. Thank goodness I didn’t have one…or hadn’t had one for years.
I cleared my throat again, and this time, she looked over her right shoulder and jumped. She wiped at her face and smiled tremulously, her hot pink-lipsticked mouth puckering at the corners.
“Is everything all right?” I asked. What could I do? I couldn’t just ignore the fact that she’d been sobbing only a few seconds ago and probably still would be if I hadn’t walked in.
“Oh, sure,” she murmured, still dabbing at her face with the back of her hands. She approached the counter and looked up at me with reddened eyes which made her bright blue eyes that much brighter. She appeared to be in her early 60s.
“You know how it is with husbands,” she said.
“No, not really,” I said. “I gave the marriage thing a running start when I was in my early 20s, but I couldn’t go the distance.” What a hokey analogy! There was only one man I would have considered marrying now, in fact,
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