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From 1972 to 1975 my wife spent every summer in a Winnebago Brave motorhome, parked somewhere in the wilds of Alaska. This was the old 24-foot rig, enormous for its day, with a massive plate-glass window in the back, bike racks in the front, and a 7-mpg fuel rating.
Since we’ve been married for almost 25 years, I thought it would be fun to test out the new Winnebago Via, a 25-footer about the same size and shape as the classic Brave. I pictured the two of us driving down a lonely two-lane road, gripping sodas in one hand and smiling occasionally with a wistful stare.
Over the past two decades, we’ve camped in pop-up trailers and camper cabins across much of Minnesota, where we live, plus at a handful of parks in northern South Dakota, a few in Wisconsin, and one unmentionable backwoods site in Nebraska. Yet we’ve never camped in an RV together, or even driven one. As you can imagine, the initial conversation with Winnebago about renting the vehicle was a bit stilted.
"That’s right, I’ve never driven an RV before. No, I don’t think I would need a training course. We do want to bring the kids and the dog. We were thinking of driving out to Denver and seeing how she drives up the mountain passes in the Rockies Mountain. Yes, I have a full life insurance policy."
Pick-Up and Walk-Around
When I arrived at the Pleasureland RV center in St. Cloud, Minn., for the pick-up and walk-around, I first spotted the Via nestled between two gargantuan models bigger than coach buses. We slipped inside and felt a waft of cold air billowing past the bathroom into the rear sleeping quarters. Luke, the salesman responsible for the walk-around, quickly touched on the major selling points of this $123,942 beast: a 28-gallon fresh water tank, two 12-volt batteries located below the steps, a Mercedes-Benz turbo-diesel engine, a Cummins 3600-watt power generator located in the side compartment.
He started to explain the finer points of RV driving: The power inverter only works when you are driving because it uses the engine alternator. The red switch for the holding tank heater should be used only in freezing temperatures at the campsite. The chemical flush for the toilet will help reduce odors for about 40 gallons. I think my face went blank at this point, as I stared at the RV’s airplane-like plethora of indicators, buttons, and switches, wondering what I had gotten myself into.
"And here are two sets of keys," he said, "See you in a week." Driving
As we merged into highway traffic for our 15-hour drive, the Via felt more like our old 1999 Ford Aerostar minivan than the 9630-pound behemoth it really is. Driving in Nebraska, however, I discovered that I needed to manage my tendency for a lead foot to avoid a scare at the filling station.
After a fill, when I kept the speed at about 55, the fuel-range indicator said I had somewhere between 500 to 550 miles left. That’s getting into the neighborhood of economical at that point, about 15 to 16 mpg and slightly over spec. But when I cranked up the speed to 65, and with the engine roaring away at 3000 rpm, the average mpg dropped to about 12. The fuel-range indicator also dropped to only 350 miles left. This created some range discomfort, as there are few gas stations with diesel south of Valentine, Neb. In the end, the fuel-range indicator was not terribly helpful, but we made it to Colorado. I paid about $65 a fill for a total of about $380 to drive between Minneapolis and Denver.
I also noticed that the navigation system on the Via is better than many cars. It is designed to be incredibly easy to use. The touchscreen is accurate and it was easy to punch in my route. The nav voice is a mix of calm directional advice yet nothing that sounds like a school marm. I only wished it had suggested a few gas stations along the route when it noticed I was running low on fuel.
After reaching Denver, we headed west. A winding mountain road went up and down and sideways for about 10 miles. I knew enough about down-shifting to brake infrequently and stay in first or second. Because the Mercedes Sprinter is so agile, we had no problems on the curvy roads. I never tried to pass anyone, figuring that might put my RV companions into hysterics, and I had to plan my parking routes to accommodate the taller size.
By the time we reached the Golden Gate Canyon State Park in Golden, Colorado, the rest of my family had opened just about every interior compartment, found 20 over-the-air digital television stations in HD, and had eaten most of the dry goods we had brought along for camping.
Camping
While driving this Goliath took some getting used to, it was when we’d pulled in for the night that I fully discovered that maintaining an RV is far more complex.
First, you head to the dump station to unload the black (bathroom) and gray (sink) water tanks, and fill up the freshwater tanks. (I told my wife, Yes, we need to fill up the freshwater tanks at the dump station, and she just gave me the I-don’t-get-it look.) Apparently, there’s a 50/50 chance of having water hookups at a campsite. Many state parks don’t have them, but many RV resorts do.
Even then, maintaining an RV is an exercise in resource management. For the average homeowner, you probably don’t have to think about whether your city has enough water for your next shower or if flushing the toilet might fill a black water tank to a less-than-desirable level. But I found myself calculating how much water and gas my family would use during our travels.
After finding the freshwater station, I connected a hose and started filling the tank, which took only about 10 minutes. No problems so far. We’ll only use a few gallons, I figured. I will tell the kids to take a military-style shower. (This proved to be a grievous error, considering we had teenagers along.) I did a little better with propane; here my assumption that we could go light on heating and just cover up with more blankets proved correct—we used just a quarter tank during the trip.
I then connected the electric cord to the 30-amp power outlet at the campground. (Many campgrounds offer both 30-amp for smaller motorhomes and 50-amp hookups for the big rigs.) This was fairly intuitive even for a newbie, because the electric cord from the motorhome fit into only one electrical port. Last, I clicked a button for the water pump, turned on all of the faucets to get the water flowing, and poured the chemical treatment down the toilet (careful to keep my foot on the plunger).
At this point, I hung a hammock between two poles and dozed off for a nap. That night, we had no problems finding a bunk for everyone in my family: There are two twin beds in the back that convert into one bed that seemed about king-size to me, plus a bit more. There’s a slide-out in the living area for the sofa sleeper (a hair bigger than a twin), and another bed above the front seats folds down as well. This is where the shortest, smallest, and least-likely-to-complain person in your party goes.
Unfortunately, the morning wasn’t quite so rosy—I had not filled the water tank enough for even one shower. And once you fold down the front bed, turn the front chairs back toward the living area, push the button for the slide-out, and set up your beds and all of your gear, the last thing you want to have to do is pack it all up and go back to the dump station for a water fill. So I had an idea. I decided to use the gravity fill, a compartment on the side of the RV with a spout just big enough for a garden hose. It was just a little smaller than a standard gallon jug, which is what I used. After about 12 trips to a nearby water spigot and plenty of heavy breathing on my part, I filled the tank about a quarter. That still wasn’t enough for me to take a shower the next morning, but everyone else did.
Disposal and Departure
At the end of the week, I packed up all the gear into the Via’s dozen interior and exterior compartments and headed back to the dump station. This is where I started getting visions that I was playing out the Robin Williams movie RV. There’s a scene where he doesn’t quite connect his disposal tank hose correctly, with disgustingly disastrous results. (I blame Motorhome Disposal Tank Anxiety, or MDTA, entirely on this one movie.)
In reality, it’s a simple snap-on, snap-off process. The hoses attach only one way. You connect the black-water tube and pull a lever. The stuff flows down into the dump portal, freeing you for further travels. After pulling on the big gray tank lever, pushing a waste pump button, and whispering to your wife something about having teenagers who eat too much, you’re nearly done. The whole process takes about 30 minutes, including the extra water-spray cleanup, quick trips into the RV to check tank levels, and a hand-washing ceremony.
After that, I filled up the entire water tank, all 28 gallons. I thought for sure a full water tank would last through five showers and three teens, but the last person (me) had a trickle of water.
Conclusion
By the end of the trip, I felt like I was an RV expert, ready for any adventure. I knew which buttons to click on the nav system, which tank level indicators to use, and I even poured a second bottle of chemical treatment down the toilet. Robin Williams would be proud.
I learned a bit about the Via as well. It proved to be a luxury motorhome that fit perfectly into our outdoor schedule. By the last night I slept soundly and woke to the cooing sounds of an owl only once.
Still, there were a few annoyances. The lids for two storage compartments near the front chairs would crash down unexpectedly, and the screen door came off its track a few times. I was impressed that the big RV could get 15 mpg when we drove 55, but struggled to keep myself plodding along at that pace. (There’s a sense that you spend as much time at the pump as you do on the open road, even if that’s not really true.)
I blinked more than twice at the $124,000 base price. As a lowly journalist, these luxury mobile accommodations are way out of my league, especially considering that many homeowners in small towns across the U.S. are asking less for an entire house these days. I found myself adding up how many hotel rooms I could afford over a lifetime for the same chunk of change.
Yet, for those who can afford to drive and sleep in style, I did end up seeing the value. There is no better way to see America than driving in the fish-bowl openness of an RV, with its massive front and side windows. It’s also a ticket into the American RV subculture; on a few occasions a few fellow RV travelers stopped over to ask me about my fuel economy and digital antenna reception. Plus, you don’t necessarily have to buy the Via; it’s a popular rental motorhome because of the smaller size, with rates around $1500 a week. That’s still a chunk of change, but it compares easily with a week’s stay at a luxury resort.
More than anything, though, an RV forces your family to drive together, live together, and enjoy the outdoors together. It was a unifying experience. In the past 25 years, I have rarely spent so much time with my wife and kids—talking about some of the challenges in our family, sharing stories from the trip on the way home, and, to be honest, fighting here and there. We found the common thread of getting there and staying there, and finding our way together. That seems to be the one major draw for a motorhome, even one this expensive and feature-laden.
Read more: Winnebago Man: Lessons From an RV Newbie - Popular Mechanics
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