(A-Not-Quite Road Warriors-Worthy Escapade.)
3/30/25
Things are not looking so great as we embark on our first camping trip post Road Warriors Alaska Edition. The first omen was that we lost our PO Box mail key, which was kept in the Bronco. It was on a silver carabiner with some other keys — at least 3 others — that neither Dave nor I can remember what were for. They each had a meticulously installed color-coded silicone cap and were labeled. Clearly, they were of great import to me at the time when I did all that work… But for the love of all that is holy, I cannot remember what they unlock. Except, of course, for the PO Box key. Obviously, we discovered the missing keys when we stopped at the post office in Eagle — which I have surely written about before, but in case that memory has faded, let me just say that it is the Seventh Circle of Hell. We refer to going to the post office in many ways in these parts, but the most often used phrase in our home is: “I’m going to Russia. If I don’t return, send help.”
So yeah, no, we haven’t found the keys and I can’t tell you how nervous I am about the day when I need one of the mystery keys and I suddenly remember… “Oh yeah….”
At least I DO have another mail key. And I WAS relieved to confirm we had all the camper keys, so… I guess stay tuned on that.
The next morning (the morning before we were to leave) Dave came into the house saying “Remind me: is there any trick to turning the fridge on?”
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. The FRIDGE? Isn’t TURNING ON?
Again, forgive me if I assume people reading this already know about the flipping refrigerator debacles of yore. 11,000 miles of pure Hell: Will it be on? Will it be off? If it’s off, will I be ABLE to get it turned on again? All of that drama culminating in our final leg of the Alaska trip at the camper manufacturer who fixed EVERYTHING in one day of amazing customer service. The faulty female plug now a sturdy, secure work of absolute ART that we have complete confidence in.
Except for NOW, after parking it last September at the conclusion of the final Alaska leg when it was in perfect working order, it won’t turn on.
Muscle memory assisted me as I unbuckled it from the tray, retrieved the portable light and crawled back into the barely accessible cubby-hole of Hell and began my troubleshooting steps. Before I took the most dreaded step of totally disconnecting the work that Escapod had done on the plug last fall, it occurred to me that I could easily test the outlet with another 12v device. Duh! I grabbed the inverter I use in the car and plugged it in. IT WORKED. I then hefted the 2000 pound refrigerator over to the 12v outlet in the back of the Bronco. Nothing. I then found the 120v wall socket cord that came with the fridge — and let’s take a moment to appreciate the fact that I was, in fact, able to even FIND that cord — and plugged it into the wall receptacle. Nothing.
So now, after living for the whole Alaska trip with what I thought was a faulty receptacle, you, Fate Of The Universe, are telling me I have a faulty CORD????
I will not belabor this process any more than I already have. I “fixed” it. I have no idea how. I truly don’t. I took the fuse out, looked at it and put it back in. Plugged it back into the wall and it worked. Then I plugged it into the Bronco’s 12v. It didn’t work. I took the plug fuse out, flipped it around and tried it again. It worked. I took it back to the camper and plugged it in. It didn’t work. Dave came out to check on my progress — greatly appreciated because I was currently deep inside the refrigerator cubby-hole of Hell — I flipped the fuse around again. I plugged it back into and held it while Dave tried to turn in on. And… it worked.
And it’s still working. But I have zero confidence in it. If it stops working again, I have no idea what I’ll do to fix it other than to try some sort of seance.
Shortly after this literal miracle, but before I had done any personal packing or food packing, Dave saw fit to head out for some fishing.
(I’ll just leave that sentence as is. No further clever writing necessary.)
I will say that I considered sitting down to the puzzle I was working on, cuz… I GUESS IT’S LEISURE TIME NOW? But the martyr in me doesn’t roll over quite so easily. So, yeah, I martyred to the very, very best of my abilities and everything was ready to roll before Dave returned a couple hours later — including a next-level turkey/sweet potato/brown rice/cabbage bowl that I declared to be DELICIOUS.
Further, we grimaced through two episodes of The American’s in our effort to complete the six-season series of — maybe the Fifth Circle of Hell? Why do we keep watching? Because we like to wind down with a show after dinner and haven’t landed on anything else yet. So we picked it back up at the beginning of season five where we had left off maybe a year ago and — DAMIT — we think we can DO IT! We can finish this effer off! (it’s actually pretty terrible. I don’t recommend it. If *I* were the writer, I’d do something other than the same recipe episode after episode. I’d have them become DOUBLE AGENTS and defect to the US when they realize the USSR sucks. Just saying.)
The plan is to leave at 7:45 sharp. Can you guess who made the plan? (I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t me.).
We’ll see if I decide to comply…
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