How An RV Road Trip During The Pandemic Changed Our Lives

NORTH FORK, NY — With Nomadland making a splash at the Oscars Sunday, all eyes are on RV life. And, after a year spent confined during the pandemic, families are contemplating a summer spent out on the open road, nights illuminated by campfires, and precious quality time spent at some of the most beautiful spots across America.

While it may seem daunting to plan a road trip for those who've never done it before, what I realized after a recent trip with my son, is that if I can spend two weeks in an RV headed west, anyone can. And the experience is one to be treasured forever.

The idea was one that started, for me, when a good friend of mine started posting photos of her cross-country RV trip with her girls on Facebook. The images of my friend and her daughters, frolicking with horses and standing before majestic vistas, stayed with me.

When my grown son finally came home to quarantine during the pandemic, we were given the gift of time, precious time that I thought I'd never be given again. Time to cook for my boy again, something I'd missed so much. Time to watch all the shows we like and time to hunt for beach glass together. Time to be a family again, under one roof, something more precious than any material gift.

We stayed completely socially distanced while he was home, adhering to the protocols and masking up. But when he was told he had to get back to California, to his life and work and projects, the quandary arose of how to get there. Despite the fact that we are both vaccinated, the fear of flying lingered. And it was then, like a burning ember after so many campfires, the idea blazed into a full-fledged dream: What if we found an RV and hit the road?

Keep in mind, neither my son nor I had ever done anything remotely like this before. Yes, he'd been a Boy Scout and I was a Scout leader for years. Yes, we'd camped in tents and knew our way around trails. But this was something we'd never even imagined we could do. Like so many who dream of just setting out on the open road, it was a "maybe someday" notion, a fantasy. How could we make it come true?

The RV seemed like the perfect option: Because we wanted to remain socially distanced, we needed a kitchen and bathroom. Then, we needed to educate ourselves. And what a time for bonding that was, the two of us on the couch, poring over YouTube videos on how to work the electric — what the heck was shore power, anyway? — and, yuck, empty the black and grey tanks. How to back into a campsite and how to navigate those turns in an RV.

Finally, we felt ready: Armed with lanterns, marshmallows, and the blue camping plates and mugs I knew we had to have, we set off (My grandmother taught me that you always have to set a nice dinner table, even in the woods!).

To be honest, the first day was not without pitfalls. First off, I'd mapped our path with a regular GPS, not one geared to RVs. That means a projected distance of, say, eight hours, really meant 10 or more — and even longer, if you added in the fact that as a navigator, I'm just plain awful. We got lost around Saugerties and finally made it to Niagra Falls in the dark of a rainy night, too tired to eat the turkey casserole I'd made the day before so we'd have a taste of home, of one of my son's favorite meals, when everything else was unfamiliar.

There were some moments that first night that we both thought about turning back.

"I just want to go home," my son said. In my head, I silently agreed.

And we're both so glad, now, that we didn't.

Despite the fact that we were tired and cranky, we headed out to see the lights that illuminate Niagara Falls at night. And stood, the only two, before one of the most awe-inspiring spots on earth. The next day, we saw the falls in the morning light and I know that for the rest of our lives, we'll never forget seeing them, for the first time, together.

Next we headed to Ohio, which, quite frankly, amazed us with miles and miles of lush, green beauty. We stayed in the Ohio Amish country and had our first outdoor fire as the sun set and the only sounds were the echo of a horse's hooves as he shepherded a buggy home for the night. We had s'mores — and no marshmallow before or ever after will ever taste as good.

From that point onward, the trip unfolded like one of those accordion packages of the most spectacular postcards, opening up one after another, each spot more beautiful and breathtaking than the last. There was the morning hike to the falls at Starved Rock State Park in Illinois, where rays of sunshine broke through the rain just as we set out.

There was the eerie but amazing experience of arriving at Gull Point State Park in Iowa in the dead of night; we were the only ones in the campground at Lake Okoboji. But rather than feeling afraid — alone in a deserted campground, it was the stuff horror movies are made of — the rain on the RV was soothing. And waking up for a morning walk with my boy at that gorgeous lake was a moment I'll cherish forever.

On a road trip, you have to make time for kitsch, and the World's Largest Truck Stop in Iowa fit that bill. But nothing could compare to the Corn Palace and next, Wall Drug in South Dakota. The signs stretched for miles, advertising Wall Drug, signs that spoke to the days when family road trips meant a shared adventure, the anticipation that something wonderful could always be found, just a few miles down the road.

The South Dakota Badlands stole my heart. I never knew there was a place on earth where bison and prairie dogs still wandered free, or where a deserted small town nearby still evoked memories of the old West; if only that faded saloon, long shuttered, could talk.

Watching my son hike the highest peaks was terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. We loved those Badlands so much we stayed an extra day — something we could do because yes, we were in an RV, and that's truly where the true meaning of spontaneity can be found.

Mt. Rushmore came next, and again we were the only two there at 7:30 a.m. —so cold we could barely smile for the selfies.

Then Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado, so cold and windy and absolutely jaw-dropping in its beauty. Watching my son sandboard down those huge dunes is a sight forever etched onto my heart. And I even impressed myself — it took a lot, but I made it to the top of those dunes. I challenged myself and I did it — something that became a hallmark of the entire journey.

In Colorado, we went from snowy peaks to lush green scenery and then, we headed to the rich red clay, soaring pinnacles, and red-rock majesty of The Arches National Park in Moab, Utah. And then, the heart-stopping beauty of the Grand Canyon.

But beyond all the natural wonders, there were those moments with my son that were once-in-a-lifetime. Watching both the sunset and sunrise over that glorious Grand Canyon. Laughing so hard that we could barely breathe as we ran around the South Rim, "chasing the light," trying to catch the best view of the sunset for the photo.

There were miles and miles of vast, open spaces, silos, crumbling barns, and faded old towns where long-time family businesses still struggle to carry on and where a night at the drive-in is still America's pastime. We saw snow and rain, endured bitter cold and embraced warm sunshine, drove through dust storms so thick the road became invisible as we forged forward.

We collected stories like so many polished stones we also picked up along the way: We met an Amish woman who's been making dolls to help needy children for years; a Native American shop owner who shared her story of survival after a pandemic shuttered her business and vandals left her windows broken; a man who'd come to Colorado because he wanted to live where the snow falls. We found a Navajo public radio station near Tuba City where students from Greyhills Academy High School produced content as professional as any I've heard on any road trip.

If I were to give advice to someone setting out for the first time, the most important thing would be to accept the fact that things will likely go wrong. And there will be times when, even when you are with the people you love more than anything on earth, you will argue. But somehow, it all goes away in the light of a new morning, in the magic of arriving at another mind-blowingly beautiful destination. And here's the funny part: The things that seem like the worst mishaps at the time become the memories you'll laugh about later. (Such as the time when, just as I finished a trail at Badlands National Park, right when I reached out to touch the train end marker, I fell, in a most ungracious manner.) Those moments become part of your shared story, told time and time again around holiday dinner tables in the years to come.

As long as you can keep an open mind, accept what RV life throws at you, and read that RV manual — and then read it again — it will all be okay. Actually, it will all be more wonderful than anything you could possibly have imagined.

I also emerged so proud of my son: Not only did he drive the entire way, he took care of all the RV chores, including the shore line, emptying the black and grey tanks, filling up the water and gas, and driving with seamless care over miles and miles, sometimes navigating narrow mountain roads in the dark of night. He made the fires and extinguished them. He also managed to participate in necessary calls for the projects he's involved in. This trip wasn't just about meaningful conversations and amazing vistas and photography and so, so much laughter. It was about having a socially distanced and safe trip. And in the process, I got to marvel at the competent, talented, caring young man my boy has become; he can handle anything. I couldn't be more proud.

This trip was also about healing. The pandemic has left us all scarred. Anxious, afraid, and for many weighted by sadness. We faced unprecedented times and many of us spent it entirely alone, unsure of what the next day would hold.

In the wide open spaces and under star-lit skies and blue sunshine, those wounds began to heal. In every new morning, there was the promise of a new day — there was joy. And in every mile traversed, each highway bringing a new destination, a new town to explore — there was hope.

Hope is the one thing we all have needed, for so long. And it was there to be found, on that long, winding, open road.

As we headed to our last stops, Sequoia National Park and sadly, Los Angeles, where I had to leave my son behind, I realized that although we'd seen literally some of the most beautiful spots on earth, what I would pack in my suitcase of memories were the moments of time we'd spent, just being together.

Listening to a Dungeons and Dragon podcast my son loves. Playing Yahtzee, something we hadn't done in years. Eating dinner by lantern-light at a campsite at the Grand Canyon. Talking, really talking, about the big things that really matter; it's easier to talk about pandemic fears and career goals, worries and dreams — about everything — in the cab of an RV with nothing but miles ahead. Listening to the wind and rain on the RV and hearing my son say, "Good night, Mom," as the night fell on another perfect day.

The pandemic has held so many challenges, so much anxiety, so much sadness for so many. But if there is one shining gift this past year has given, it's the precious gift of time — the chance to make memories in a world that's all too often rapid-paced. I'll always be grateful for the moment my son and I decided to step into that RV and set off on the adventure that will forever be one of the most awe-inspiring of our lifetimes.

And the best part? Both my son and I left that RV knowing that it wouldn't be the last time. There are national parks still to visit, wonders to unfold. We'd both realized that, in the words of a dear friend who I lost during these dark months, life is for living. We'll both never again be too busy or caught up in a post-pandemic world to remember that sometimes, the greatest joy can be found sitting beside a campfire as the sun sets, just spending time with the ones you cherish most.

And in the still of a new dawn, or the velvet dark of a forest at night, with none of the distractions of daily life to intrude, time, as vast as the skies overhead or the miles beyond, awaits, there for the taking. . . .