LONG STORY SHORT By Kristine McGowan Jason and I don't fight much. In our first 10 years as a couple, our only arguments developed into petty insults that plunged us both into irresistible laughter. But now, in our 11th year together, I admit that we've been snapping at each other more often. That's what happens when you uproot your life and stuff it into a 146-square-foot trailer, I guess. While it was our dream to hit the road full-time, The Big Trip has also placed us in high-pressure situations frequently. And our first night in Wyoming would turn out to be one of them. We decided to head into the Cowboy State a day earlier than planned. For the most part, we've stuck to Jason's detailed itinerary for The Big Trip, but we changed things up here for a few reasons. For one, while Dinosaur National Monument thrilled us—and healed some old wounds—we were ready to get out of the heat. Temperatures had hovered around or above 95° relentlessly during our stay, and our sweaty backs were over it.
For another, our drive from Utah into Wyoming would take 7 hours. We didn't want to cram the whole thing into a single day. Plus, if we managed to swing an hourlong detour, we could stop in Bear Lake—home of the most delicious raspberry shakes in the world. Temptation was high. Willpower was not. So we headed out of Utah a day early. Given the change of plans, we didn't have a campsite reserved for the night, but that was OK. Jason had found us a public lands campground where we could boondock for free. We just had to find an open spot, which seemed likely based on his research. The only hitch: Our final hike in Dinosaur took much longer than expected, thanks to some road construction; we ended up leaving much later in the day than we'd hoped to—around 6 p.m., whereas our average departure time is around 10 a.m. Even with the long summer days, we wouldn't arrive at the campground until well after sunset. Which wasn't ideal. That said, we'd done our research. Our destination, Wyoming's Buckboard Wash Dispersed Camping, hugs a lakeshore, and Google Earth images showed a wide sandy shore where plenty of trailers could park. (We counted at least a dozen parked trailers in Google Earth.) We figured this meant that 1) the beach was relatively level and 2) we'd have no trouble finding ourselves a first-come, first-serve spot. You can probably sense where this is going. We arrived at Buckboard Wash around 9 p.m. A long, rougher-than-expected dirt road greeted us, stretching into the darkness ahead. We crawled along it, searching for open spots, but many along the road appeared to be taken. Eventually, the road banked left and wound its way along the lakeshore. That's what we assumed, anyway—given the darkness, we could only spot the lake through gaps in the brush on our right, where moonlight glinted off the water. The longer we followed the road, the more occupied campsites we came across, and the louder the occupants got. Buckboard Wash, evidently, was a party campground, the kind of place where locals go to sing music and drink beer well into the night (though not so much that they can't drive their dune buggies over to the pit toilets to take a leak). Well, we thought, at least we won't be the noisy ones when we're setting up camp. If we ever got to set up camp, that is. With the campground so full, we had to keep driving until something opened up. But the road had gotten difficult to follow. At one point, it forked into several roads, each of which looked dangerously bumpy and steep in the dark. Jason steered us up the one that looked flattest—to me, anyway, and at my insistence—but it turned out to be the worst of our options. He had to reverse the truck and trailer downhill, back to the fork, while turning our rig just enough for us to squeeze onto one of the other roads. To put it mildly, we were getting frustrated. By the time we found a few open campsites, we were fried. It was 10 p.m., and we'd already snapped at each other at least a half-dozen times. We were ready to park and go to bed. After bickering over which campsite to claim, we settled on one atop a small rise by the lakeshore, and then we initiated our usual routine. I got out of the truck and, via our walkie talkies, guided Jason while he backed the trailer into the campsite. Then I checked the trailer's leveling from driver's side to passenger's side and found that the trailer was not level. Really not level. An unlevel trailer isn't the worst thing in the world, but if you're living in one full-time, you do what you can to keep things working. In an unlevel trailer, the item most at risk is the refrigerator—it may not function properly after sitting off-kilter for too long. And in this campsite, the trailer was as unlevel as we'd ever seen it. I got out our leveling blocks and directed Jason and the trailer onto them. Then I checked the leveling again; still not level. I directed him higher onto the blocks. Still really not level. We'd hit the limits of our leveling blocks—and our patience. Jason got out of the truck. There was groaning. Cursing. An overall sense of what the hell are we doing out here. We were really freaking tired. Jason was about ready to give up—and that triggered something in me. Something I’m still getting used to. Typically, when Jason gets frustrated, I get frustrated in response—and that’s when I snap at him. But this time, I didn’t. Instead, I said, “It’s okay. We’re going to figure this out.” I don’t know why I felt so certain about it. I only knew that throwing my hands up and saying “screw it” would get us nowhere. After a few more reassuring words, we decided to try another possible solution. Jason got back behind the wheel and pulled the trailer out of our campsite and backed in again, this time setting the trailer at a different angle. It took several tries to find the right angle, but eventually, we got the trailer into a flat enough spot that would allow our leveling equipment to do its job well enough. (And this time, Jason reassured me and my anxiety—which often conjures images of our trailer rolling away uncontrollably—that we would be OK.) We parked, locked up the truck, and flopped into bed. All in all, our first night in Wyoming sucked. But it also showed that no matter how often we snap at each other now, we’re still a team. When we put our heads together, we can get shit done. And, more importantly, we can get our raspberry milkshakes.
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