Punk and PJ towed their new-used trailer twenty miles to Cliff Edge Park with no mishaps. It was the Friday before Halloween, and after two days of heavy rain, the sun was trying to make an appearance. Punk had spent the last week poring over the brochures and instructions that came with the trailer and now he considered himself pretty much an expert.
“First thing we have to do is fill the fresh tank with water,” he said. “Hon, look at that campground map and see where the water thingies are.”
She looked at him. “Water thingies?”
He threw up one hand, exasperated. “You know. Um, hydrants. There's one!” He screeched the truck and the trailer to a halt, throwing them both against their seat belts. He clambered out of the truck, found the hose after checking three storage compartments, and got it hooked up.
By the time he finished and got back in, PJ had scanned the campground and spotted several empty sites. They hadn't made a reservation, deciding they would wait and see what the weather did. She pointed the spots out to Punk and he edged the camper along the one-way road as they considered each possibility.
“That one is close to the shower house,” PJ said.
“We have our own shower, Patty Jo,” Punk reminded her.
“Well, I just thought it would save water.”
“Here's one with lots of shade,” he said.
“It's October. We don't need shade,” she said.
“There's a perfect one,” he said.
“It has a reserved tag on it,” she said.
After similar discussion of five different sites and two loops around the campground, they agreed on one that Punk thought it would be easiest to back into.
“Now,” Punk said, stopping the truck, “I need you to get out and guide me in. I don't want to be too close to that tree either.”
PJ got out and stood where he told her to. Punk pulled forward and then reversed slowly, turning the trailer into the site. PJ saw that the back end was headed straight for a post and waved her arms, yelling “Stop!” He jerked to a halt and she ran forward to explain. They tried again and this time he turned it too sharp, heading toward the fire pit on the other side of the site. The third time, he got the trailer pretty much in the center of the site and PJ waved him back.
Just as she held up a hand to indicate far enough, the trailer tire nearest her hit a large puddle, spraying her new Halloween sweatshirt—orange with a large black cat with glowing eyes on the front—and her face with muddy water.
“Punk!” she yelled.
He turned off the truck and jumped out. “What? What is it? Did I hit something?” Then he saw her face. “Whoops,” he said. He pulled a disreputable looking rag from under the seat and walking back to her, offered it while trying to keep a straight face. She seethed but took the rag, gave it a disgusted glance, and silently wiped her face. She had heard stories about couples whose marriages teetered on the basis of backing up a camper and she didn't want to be one of those.
“I'm really sorry, honey. Why don't you sit at the picnic table while I set the trailer up?”
She shook her head. This had been her idea and she wasn't giving up. They both put on old gloves, and removed the sway bars.
He then unhitched the truck and started to lower the stabilizers at each corner, remembering to put blocks of wood under them on the soggy ground. When he got to the back corners, he stood for a moment and scratched his head. The ground sloped away under the back end.
“I think we're going to need something taller.” He returned to the bed of the pickup and pulled out two pieces of firewood about equal in length. He stood them on end and PJ held them in place while he cranked down the stabilizers.
“There,” he said, and stood up straight, admiring his handiwork.
The logs began sinking in the soft ground, toppling over, and the trailer started to slide backwards down the slope.