by
Phil Rowe
It's getting late in the day. You've been driving for eight hours, pulling that big travel trailer behind you. The winds haven't made things any easier, with the constant buffeting cross-winds and the spate of huge semi-trailer rigs whooshing past. And now the sun is in your face as you strain to see the freeway exit sign and the turnoffs you must take to the campground chosen for the night. It's really the only one for 50 miles. It's rated at three-stars in your campground guidebook. That ought to be acceptable.
Oh boy, you think. Will it ever feel good to take a shower and get cleaned up and refreshed after getting your rig set up for the night. Maybe you'll even partake of a libation of sorts, while putting those weary feet up on a stool or cushion. The anticipation is what keeps you going that last mile and into the drive of the campground.
You park in front of the office, shut down the truck and wearily stroll over to the front door, pausing briefly on the way to stretch out your arms ... and arch your back to loosen the kinks. A small bell, tripped by the opening door, summons an attendant to the registration desk where you approach. You hope there are some spaces left, preferably with full hookups. You haven't made advance reservations, and you've waited until pretty late in the day. It's 6:30 now. Will there be a spot?
"Sorry, mister," the gum-chewing clerk replies to your inquiry about an available space with full water, electric and sewer hookups. "All I can give you is a back-in with water and electric. But we do have a dump station, if that helps." You sigh with a little relief and mumble some sort of acceptance as you reach for your wallet. The clerk shoves a registration card at you. "Fill this out, please. And don't forget your license plate number." He hands you a ball point pen.
You complete the form and hand it to the clerk, who blankly stares at you and says "That'll be 25 dollars, including tax. It's two dollars extra if you use an air conditioner." You pull out your credit card and extend it toward the clerk. " Sorry, we don't accept those. Cash only, please."
You look into your wallet only discover you have but $23.00. Then you check your pockets for change to make up the difference. No luck. "I'll be right back," you mutter. "My wife has some money. Twenty-five dollars you say?" In just a few minutes you lay out two tens and an five on the counter. The clerk stuffs it into a small wooden box, then hands you a receipt.
Under a Plexiglas sheet at the counter there is a map of the campground. The clerk traces out the way to space number 65. It's on the third row, at the far end of the campground. "Restrooms are behind the office, and the laundry is over here," he says while pointing at the map. "Leave your garbage bag in front of your picnic table and we'll get it in the morning." He hands you a small black plastic trash bag. You nod and head out of the door.
"Spot number 65," you tell your waiting spouse. "It's on the back row. There'll be two empty spaces together and we have the second one." Soon you're backing into the designated space andeasing your rig into position. You are relieved to note that the parking space is relatively level.
"Hookups are at the rear of the trailer," you proclaim. "Don't think we'll need leveling boards, Hon." With some satisfaction you smile at how deftly you managed to back into the space onthe first try. "Yep. This'll do."
Within the span of ten minutes you have connected the water and electric lines to your trailer, installed the stabilizer jacks at the four corners and generally got things ready for the night's stay. You even remembered to disconnect the 12-volt cord between the trailer and truck. That's a precautionary measure you've learned, since the time you ran the truck battery down after the one on the trailer went dead. It's hard to start the truck the next morning when its battery is gone too.
Your wife has quickly taken care of the inside chores and checked out the water and electrical systems. Everything has gone smoothly and you are relieved. Soon you head for the bedroom area and gather up clean clothes to put on after your shower. Boy, have you been looking forward to a refreshing before-dinner shower. And the anticipation of a tall cool drink and a comfortable chair hasn't escaped your thoughts either.
In your bathrobe and old moccasins you start to leave the trailer. Your towel, wash cloth and shaving kit are in hand too, as you tell your wife "Back soon, Hon. I'm headed to the washroom behind the office for a much-needed shower." She acknowledges your departure with some off-handed comment about being sure to use the soap. "Supper in half an hour," she adds as you close the door.
The setting sun is still in your face as you walk the 200 yards from space #65 to the office building. Around on the back side you see four doors, one for each shower stall. This is the kindof place that provides individual showers with exterior doors, rather than shower bays within the men's bathroom area. Some sand and gravel from the driveway works its way in between yourfeet and the moccasins.
As you open the door to the shower stall, noting with some relief that it looks pretty clean, you find something unexpected. It's not something totally new to your experience, but definitely something you didn't want to see. And today of all days it's something you definitely do not need.
You discover that the shower stall is equipped with a coin-operated water valve. It takes quarters to get the shower water turned on. And you haven't got a dime on you. In fact, you remember that when you checked your pockets in the office, to come up with the $25.00 campground fee, all you had for coins were a couple nickels and a dime.
"Oh crap," you say out loud. Or was it something stronger you said? Anyway, you won't be getting a shower here, not now at least. "Why in the hell do these places have to do this? You'dthink that campgrounds that charge this much for one night's use of a small plot of ground could at least make showers available without charging more."
So, dear reader, you must certainly share our weary traveler's frustration. And perhaps you to have encountered campgrounds that meter their shower stalls. Sure. You might expect this situation at the places that charge under ten dollars a night. But for those that get $20, $25 or more it just doesn't seem right. Are they really that strapped for cashflow?
Let's sound off and let 'em know we think this practice stinks. Will it do any good? Probably not.
With this editorial we welcome Phil Rowe as a contributing author to RVers Online. Phil is a veteran RVer, with over 35 years pulling travel trailers and tent trailers from coast-to-coast and border-to-border. He is a retired Air Force engineer and navigator, turned freelance writer. His articles have been published in several magazines and numerous newsletters. He is a resident of New Mexico.