Pt 25-From Pee Bottles to Peaches: The Unfiltered Truth of Life on the Road
From the art of waking up in a scrunched-up RV bed to crossing state lines and dodging pee bottles—an honest look at RV life: the good, the bad, and the downright ridiculous
You know how you are deep in slumber, and outside noises start weaving their way into your dreams? A distant hum, a faint rumble, all blending into the fabric of sleep until, somewhere in the haze, your brain starts rebooting reality. That split-nano-second moment where your body wakes before your mind, and you feel your memories downloading, piecing together where you are. Then… click. Everything comes back at once.
Need to catch up?
Pt 23 A Pyramid, a storm, and a 30-pound catfish: sleeping Under Memphis’s Iconic overpass
Or, Start from the beginning
Our slides were in, which meant the coach had transformed into something reminiscent of a Greyhound bus—narrow, compact, efficient. The front had just enough room to walk its single aisle with both slides in, while the back, where our bedroom was, felt more like a cozy cocoon than a cramped space.
When the bedroom slide is in, we can’t walk around the bed, but we still have full access to it. With the end of the bed pushed up against the counter, the only way out is over and out—a strategic maneuver that requires some level of flexibility, or at the very least, determination.
I attempted to gracefully crawl over my sleeping husband, aiming to slip out of our slightly scrunched-up bed with the precision of a well-trained operative. In my head, it felt like a Mission Impossible move, theme song and all, rolling over stealthily, smoothly landing like a secret ninja, without stirring the air.
Yeah, in reality, it was more of a roll-and-flop, my foot tangled in our fluffy down-filled duvet, sending me into an awkward half-stumble, abruptly yanking Ernie from his peaceful slumber and shattering his gentle descent into wakefulness.
Bolting upright, sputtering, "What the fuck?" he flailed in confusion, his brain scrambling for his download while I tried to untangle myself, failing miserably at my ninja act. My body, of course, took this moment to remind me that I am definitely not 20 anymore.
"Well, at least one of us got to wake up gracefully," I muttered softly with a satisfied smile, keeping score.
Karen 1, Ernie 0.
"If you would just give me the outside of the bed, this wouldn’t happen."
Like that was ever going to happen.
Slience.
Karen 2 Ernie 0
For being right
A deep, aching soreness radiated through my right thigh, as if I had spent the night bench-pressing 500 pounds with one leg. I winced, blinked, and tried to piece it together. Right! Another somatic download filled in the blanks of the 10 minutes of driving the motorcoach.
I gingerly walked the narrow path to the front of the bus and yanked up the window blind to welcome the morning. Golden streaks of morning sunlight spilled in, stretching across the interior like warm fingers peeling back the night. It was nice to let the light in, to shake off the feeling of being cocooned in our little fortress.
Outside, the lot had cleared out, most of the trucks were already gone, and we needed to follow suit.
We stepped out, greeted not by fresh morning air but by the leftovers of overnight trucker chaos. A minefield of discarded fast-food bags, plastic debris, and… ugh! Pee bottles. Yes, pee bottles.
I had heard the rumors, but seeing them up close was another level of horror. Turns out, some truckers pee into bottles to save time instead of stopping at a rest area. Fine, whatever, do what you gotta do. But what I don’t understand is why flinging them out the window instead of tossing them into a trash bin? Seriously. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt, considering these fuel stations don’t even charge for overnight parking. The worst part? Now I can’t unsee it.
Every time we’re driving behind a semi that starts swerving slightly, I used to assume the driver was distracted, maybe messing with a GPS or grabbing a snack. Now? Now, my brain goes straight to one terrifying possibility: is he…nooo…ugh… trying to pee into a bottle while driving?! Truckers love their Gatorade bottles for it wide opening. Before I could spiral further into that disturbing thought, Ernie’s voice cut through my horror.
“Hey!” he called, stepping out of the coach. “We need to do our inspection!”
And just like that, my trucker-pee reverie was over. Time to get to work.
Sometimes, Ernie drives me crazy with his relentless dedication to safety checks. It’s the CDL trainer and pilot in him—Every. Single. Time. It’s like a pre-flight inspection before taking off in a Cessna (that is what he used to fly). I know it’s important, but do we really have to check everything again when we just did it the night before? Asking more to myself then whining to him. Yes, we do.
But then I remind myself why it matters.
When towing a vehicle “four down” (meaning all four wheels on the ground instead of using a tow dolly or trailer), there are two absolutely critical things that have to be done:
The key must be in the ignition.
The gear must be in neutral.
Otherwise? Disaster.
I’ve heard horror stories of people reaching their destination only to find their car has no tires left, melted clean off from the friction. Just gnarly, bare rims from being dragged hundreds of miles.
When towing, our car, the key stays in the ignition, the passenger door has to remain unlocked (by manufacture’s saftey) which is a little nerve-wracking. Most vehicles won’t let you lock the doors if the key is still inside. Perfect for someone if they wanted to, unhook your car and drive off with it. Some of the newer tow packages have built-in locks to prevent this, but for us, we have our own foolproof system:
When staying overnight in a pull-through or rest stop, we take the key out of the ignition and lock the car up tight. Then, we tape the keys to the motorcoach’s steering wheel with painter’s tape. Not duct tape, because that’s just asking for frustration when trying to peel it off later. Painter’s tape equals easy removal and zero sticky mess.
Remember that—painter’s tape. It will be your new best friend for just about everything in your RV or van including taping cabinets shut, securing a fallen windshield blind, and holding together just about anything that decides to break right as you’re about to leave or while driving down some pot-holed highway.
Aside from the tow setup, our safety checks include:
Lights & signals; because nobody likes a brake light that isn’t working.
Cables connecting the car to the coach; checking for wear or anything loose.
Coach tires; tread, pressure, and making sure no nails or debris are lodged in them.
Suspension airbags; because smooth rides are happy rides.
The awnings, bay doors, and the TV antenna; because the last thing I want is to see my forgotten awning flying off in the side mirrors.
Even when I’m driving solo, I always do the checks. I just don’t like doing them on cold or rainy days. But no matter how much I gripe about it, I do them with intention because I know how easily one small oversight can turn into a big disaster.
I’ve personally caught bay doors not latched properly, which could’ve led to our belongings being scattered across the highway like a yard sale gone wrong. We’ve even had to plow straight through boxes that had just fallen off the back of a truck. It’s amazing what a little safety checking can prevent, even if it is a pain.
So, as much as I roll my eyes at Ernie’s unwavering commitment to the checklist, have to say it: Thank you, Ernie! I appreciate you. Even if I still think we could do this a little faster.
With all the safety checks complete, we confidently pulled out of the RV park and were on our way. The road stretched out ahead, smooth and welcoming, as we rolled through the last stretch of Alabama, gearing up for the Georgia state line. Garmin, for once, seemed to be in a cooperative mood, no unnecessary reroutes, no robotic passive-aggressive “recalculating.” A small victory. Today she sounded a little bit excited as she announced an upcoming state boarder.
Feeling the moment, I queued up Hoagy Carmichael’s "Georgia On My Mind" on my phone, stuck my ear buds in to get the full soulful melody. As we crossed the state line, I read the sign aloud to no one in particular:
"Welcome to Georgia. We’re Glad Georgia’s on Your Mind."
It’s funny how state welcome signs have their own personalities. Some are grand, practically begging for an Instagram moment, with bold colors and perfectly placed scenic backdrops. Others? They sit there quietly, half-hidden behind a guardrail, as if they’re just fulfilling a bureaucratic duty. Georgia’s sign had a little charm, though, not too flashy, but warm enough to make you feel like you were about to be handed a glass of sweet tea and a peach. Cobbler if you were lucky.
I’ve seen states that go all out, like Texas, with its giant, brag-worthy "Drive Friendly. The Texas Way" sign or Florida’s iconic "Welcome to the Sunshine State" complete with palm trees and promises of warmer days. And then there are the states that make you squint and ask, "Wait, did we just cross the border?" A lonely green rectangle with plain white text, barely noticeable, as if even the state itself is like, "Meh, you’ll figure it out."
But Georgia felt like a transition, a shift from the Deep South into something a little softer, a little slower. The trees changed ever so slightly, the air felt just a bit warmer, and the highway seemed to settle into a rhythm. I turned the music up a little louder, took a deep breath, and just let the road unfold ahead like the soulful voice of Hoagy Carmichael.
I only had one person on my mind in Georgia, my good friend Carolyn. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, and thanks to lockdowns, I had to pass up the opportunity, adding her to my "next year" list, along with so many others I’d been longing to see.
Carolyn and I met on Twitter twenty years ago. She was a raw food chef and health coach, and our connection quickly grew from casual tweets to deep conversations over video and phone calls. Then, one day, I mustered up the courage to ask her something big.
"Would you be interested in an all-expenses-paid vacation to my home in Arizona, with a side trip to Sedona, (I added in to sweeten the deal) if you teach me your raw food techniques?"
Back then, raw un-cooking was all the rage, but every time I attempted it, my stomach rebelled. Carolyn was game for the adventure, and we spent a full week together, blending, dehydrating, and laughing our way through the kitchen. Our friendship was sealed, and we’ve remained close ever since.
I never thought I’d have the chance to see her again. And now? The opportunity was right there, but it would have to wait. Like so many of the people I’d hoped to see along this journey.
At least I was lucky to visit my good friends Devra and Ray, as well as some RV contacts from social media when we were in Nevada, before the whole shit hitting the fan. It was incredible to mix old and new friends, blending my online world with my real one. In fact, my entire mantra for 2020 had been to meet my clients and social media connections in person, to hear their stories firsthand, to put a physical face to the name. Just a simple coffee and a chitchat.
And even now, after those couple of dark years, we’ve spent far too much time hiding behind our screens and gadgets. It’s time to bring back good old-fashioned, face-to-face conversation.
I thought about that for a while and then turned my focus to Georgia’s highways; well-behaved they are. The lanes are wide, the pavement smooth, and the roadside rest areas pop up at just the right intervals. Almost as if the DOT (department of Transportation) knew we’d all need a stretch and a snack exactly then. (They must be parents who’ve survived screaming kids wailing "Are we there yet?" for hours on end.)
Towering pines lined the highway like loyal sentinels, standing tall alongside patches of dogwood and redbud trees, their branches already tinged with green, whispering the arrival of spring.
And then, there were the billboards.
Pecans. BBQ. Peaches. And Jesus.
If I had a dollar for every advertisement for pecan logs, every BBQ joint boldly claiming to be “the best in the South,” every "Jesus Saves" sign, and every "Peaches Sold Here" billboard, we’d probably have enough fuel to keep this girl rolling for the next year.
The hum of the highway took on a different tone as we neared Atlanta. For miles, we'd been surrounded by nature, tall pines, open stretches of farmland, the occasional roadside sign promising the “sweetest Georgia peaches.” But as the city loomed ahead, the landscape began to change.
The trees thinned. The rolling green faded. Concrete took over. Billboards became bigger, brighter, more desperate for attention—legal firms, fast-food chains, and one oddly specific ad for vasectomy reversals. Yeah, I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that consultation. Who sees that billboard and thinks, Hmm, I should look into that? And are there really that many men getting reversals that this doctor is making a solid living off of it?
The once-wide highway started splitting and twisting into overpasses, ramps, and interchanges stacked on top of one another, a tangled mess of lanes that usually meant one thing: gridlock. Except… there wasn’t any.
For the first and probably last time ever, we breezed through Atlanta. Actually doing the speed limit. Atlanta is usually one of those city hubs that’s worth burning extra diesel to go around. It’s like Los Angelese, always bumper-to-bumper, always at least one fender bender holding you up for hours. But today? It was eerlie quiet like all the other cities we have passed through.
The city, normally pulsing with energy, felt oddly subdued. The skyline a mix of glassy skyscrapers, stadiums, and high-rises, stood tall but seemed… still. The usual frenzy of honking horns, lane-weaving commuters, and impatient drivers riding bumpers was missing. The hustle and grind had been replaced by something else…emptiness. Just. Silence. It felt eerie. A city so used to movement, now paused.
We flew through Spaghetti Junction without even tapping the brakes, an unheard-of feat. Even downtown, where I-75, I-85, and I-20 normally bottleneck into a commuter nightmare, we sailed through, the empty road stretching before us like a ghost town highway.
We cleared the city limits and the skyline faded behind us, I exhaled. Back to open road. Back to trees. Back to the quiet hum of tires on pavement. Atlanta had let us pass through unscathed. A rare, once-in-a-lifetime pandemic silver lining. Once through Atlanata We left I-20 E and followed I -75S
The landscape begins to breathe again. The towering skyscrapers shrink into mid-rise office buildings, then into warehouses and industrial parks, and finally into wide-open spaces once more. The tangle of overpasses and looping exit ramps gives way to a more familiar stretch of highway. Long, straight, and flanked by trees.
At first, suburbia clings to the roadside. Neighborhoods, big-box stores, and gas stations dot the exits, their signs standing tall above the tree line. But within thirty minutes, the city’s grip loosens completely.
The concrete gives way to rolling farmland, stretching out like a patchwork quilt of pastures and fields, some lined with wooden fences corralling horses or cattle. Pecans and peanuts grow in fields that seem to go on forever, their rows neatly arranged like soldiers standing at attention. The pines return, standing taller and fuller, the way they did before Atlanta interrupted the scenery.
I spotted a faded sign for a campground just off the highway, its lettering slightly weathered but still legible against the backdrop of pines. Curious, and in need of a good overnight spot, I grabbed my phone and dialed.
"Are you taking out-of-towners?" I asked, half expecting the usual pandemic-era hesitation followed by a slight snarky laugh and a firm no.
"Yep! Come on in," the voice on the other end said, cheerful and welcoming. Even better? They had a pull-thru site available, meaning we wouldn’t have to go through the whole routine of unhooking and rehooking the car in the morning and perhaps skip the inspection (doubtful, but wishful), just pull in, sleep, pull out. Nice!
I glanced over at Ernie with a satisfied grin. Tonight, we’d have a quiet place to park, a chance to rest, and no extra work before rolling out in the morning. Except for the morning preflight inspection.
I can’t write raving reviews about Forest Glen Mobile Home and RV Park in Jackson, Georgia, because, well, we didn’t really do anything other than pull in, expand our space with the slides, and catch up on work. But I can say this: the host went out of her way to make sure we had a pull-through spot, and we were super grateful for that. So in a way, that in itself is a raving review.
It’s a small park with a mix of tent sites, big rig spots, and full hookups. They offer a pool, Wi-Fi, restrooms, a bathhouse, and laundry facilities. Each site had enough room to breathe, with either a dirt or grass pad to park on. But the best part? Easy off, easy back on to the highway, with a couple of fuel stations nearby if needed.
Oh, and the cats loved the grass. So, points for that.
After their evening stroll, it was time to wind down for the night. And what a great night’s sleep it was, wrapped in silence and pure darkness. No trucks rumbling nearby, no glaring lights piercing through the blinds. Just stillness.
I drifted off easily, with Jaggies comfortably perched on my chest, snoring away. Yes, this cat has one mean snore. Loud, steady, and oddly comforting. Like a tiny, furry freight train without the chaos of an actual highway. And with that, sleep came quickly. The kind of deep, uninterrupted rest you only get in the quiet of a secluded campground.
Morning came gently for both us, wrapped in a thick, low-hanging sky, the kind that hints at rain but never quite delivers. The air was cool and heavy with the damp, woodsy scent of Georgia pines. I stepped outside, just for a moment, to breathe it all in. This is my favorite time of day. That delicate sliver of stillness before the world stirs, before the hum of engines and the chatter of the day begin. It’s like a tiny bubble of solitude, a quiet space to give thanks for the beautiful day about to unfold.
I took one last deep inhale, as if trying to bottle up the moment to summon later, whenever I needed a reminder of peace. Then, I climbed back into the coach. Back inside, I took a final sip of my now cooled rooibos tea with a splash of heavy cream, savoring the smoothness, the quiet comfort of my little corner at Forest Glen Estates. It was a brief moment of stillness before reality nudged me forward. Right, it was time to go.
The easy pull-through setup had been the golden ticket. No need to unhook, no hassle. Just start the engine and roll out. With everything secured, slides retracted, our three-point inspection complete, and the cats fed, litter cleaned, and fully stocked with cat and human snacks and water, we were ready to hit the road. Now, finally, we were heading south on the famous I-75.
With only four hours of Google time left, our destination was so close, I could almost taste the salty air of Florida.
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Need to catch up?
Pt 23 A Pyramid, a storm, and a 30-pound catfish: sleeping Under
Or, start from the beginning
Thank you for tuning in and reading this. I super appreciate you.
~Karen
Yummy to pecans! Yuck to the pee bottles! And yes, to the safety checks!
What an amazing adventure you are on! Travel safe and keep writing!