As I navigate my way through adulthood, I am learning that dreams can come true, but the delivery may look a little different than what you expected.  I’ve always been a big dreamer.  A constant childhood goal included having a horse trailer with an RV, so that I could travel the world and ride my horse everywhere.  As I grew, the wanderlust spirit within me never disappeared.  My husband and I thrived on spontaneous adventures; from middle of the night trips to the lake, to driving to Chicago on a whim when our son was only three months old, we were always going somewhere.  We made it our goal to teach our children that life lessons, cultures, and history were best learned through the hands-on experiences gained in travels.

The dream of RV ownership was contagious too.  The whole family was certain that our version of freedom and adventure came only when we were able to travel with an RV in-tow.  For years we would envy the families that were not tied to the expense and limitations of hotel stays.  We also knew that one soaking wet, freezing cold tent-camping trip was enough for us.  We were certain that RV ownership was the answer.  However, we never expected to end up with a 1971 Dreamer Travel Trailer.  She was quite the beauty when we first laid eyes on her: parked in the middle of the woods, she had been used for base camp during hunting season and aesthetics were not a necessity.  While it wasn’t love at first sight, we could see past the dark paneling, hordes of dead bugs, and overwhelming smells, to the potential that lie beneath the surface.  Even though the sellers affectionately referred to her as “The Nightmare”, we settled on an offer we couldn’t refuse, and began the journey towards a revised dream.

The Dreamer came to us with a history of tales from the previous owners: some almost unbelievable, some that made you laugh, and others that inspired you.  For instance, we learned that eight cowboy boot wearing, worn-out girls could easily sleep in a camper conservatively designed for four.  That is, if these eight girls had spent twelve exhausting hours on the backs of horses navigating the hills of the Ozarks.  We also learned that it was possible for the Dreamer to break free from its towing vehicle, skidding into a middle-of-nowhere Kansas field, and yet still end up back on the road within an hour, thanks to the kindness of strangers and fortunate timing.  We envisioned ourselves on the same camping trip to Colorado that scored the Dreamer’s previous owners a plethora of fish and some envious neighbors.  As the previous owner Mike stated, “There’s still plenty of memories waiting to be made in the old girl”.

We had spent countless hours touring every dwelling on wheels, monopolizing the time of eager salesmen, in search of the perfect fit.  The amenities that modern RVs offered enticed us to get serious about our dream.  Our kids cheered us on as we gathered at the desks of hopeful salesmen to discuss the financial details.  Our kids booed as we walked away empty handed.  Each time we crunched numbers, financial responsibility quickly called us back to reality like the teacher snapping her fingers in front of the daydreaming student. We tried to reason out places we could trim from our already squeaky-tight budget, but neither of us could, in good conscious, convince the other to sign on the line.  We were learning that big dreams and a little budget were working against each other, and our goal slipped through our fingers like handfuls of sand.

The dream of owning an RV faded into the background.  It seemed the timing wasn’t right for us, and we dismissed it as one does a chronic backache; it was something we ignored as we went about our daily routines.  What my husband thought was a casual conversation with a co-worker serendipitously led us to the Dreamer.  Mike knew we were handy, and learned that we were itching to satisfy the desire to upgrade from the unpredictability of tent camping and budget-busting hotel stays.  He suggested to my husband that we come and take a look at an old camper that he had parked on his land to serve as base camp during hunting season.  He was sure to not oversell the Dreamer, but knew there was hidden potential under the dark panels that encapsulated the interior.  “I purchased the Dreamer in ’84, as a 13 year old camper, and knew she had many more miles ahead of her,” he recalled as he penned out the ownership transfer on the back of the title.  “I think that if you guys put a little elbow grease {and a lot of paint} into her, she’ll be as good as new,” he half-sarcastically chuckled.

The first weeks of the renovation were filled with enthusiastic family members, ready to lend a hand with spray painting or deep cleaning, but as the newness wore off, so did the stream of eager helpers.  My husband was left to battle the frustrations that come from taking a 45 year old aluminum and plywood box on wheels and turning it into a vintage beauty.  He quickly learned that windy days and spray painting were a bad combination.  More spray paint blew back on his face than what stuck to the faded sides of the camper.  He dodged a swarm of red wasps that took great offense to the relocation of their nest which was secretly placed in the air conditioner.  He dripped with sweat as he transformed every nook of the dark brown paneling into a sparkling white palace.  However, nothing compared to the pool of blood that gathered on the retro carpet as it disappeared under a fresh laminate floor, proving that box cutters can cut more than just boxes.  A trip to the urgent care, then a hand surgeon, and many stitches later, the floor was laid and our “Nightmare” was beginning to look like a Pintrest- worthy remodel. 

Vintage campers seem to be quite trendy for penny-pinching visionaries like ourselves.  From the robust Tin Can Tourists, a club that offers camp outs, shows, and a community, to the Great American Country Network’s Flippin RV’s, we discovered that it wasn’t just a budget proposition that brought RV’ers to the older models.  It was a culture.  In fact, the idea of retro camping became so trendy that entrepreneurs started snatching up these swanky digs and filling campgrounds with them.  For instance, in the heart of Oregon’s wine country, The Vintages Trailer resort offers guests accommodations in their choice of the finest Airstream, Shasta, Avion, or Oasis, complete with sumptuous terry cloth robes and exotic pour-over coffees.  It’s an experience so memorable, so unique, that they’ve been featured in the Los Angeles Times, Huffington Post, and The Oregonian, to name a few. 

The kids were already dragging out blankets and pillows long before it was time to settle in to the camper for our maiden voyage, which we determined to be our driveway, ‘just in case’.  The Dreamer had transformed from ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.  The once darkened panels gleamed bright white.  The scratchy, faded pumpkin-orange curtains and cushions were replaced by baby blue chevrons curtains, gray suede seats, and funky flower-patterned cushions.  It was the vintage RV that would certainly cause camper envy in our upcoming adventures, and we were all very proud of what the Dreamer had become.  Our techie-driven son wired a flat panel TV and DVD player so that a pre-bed movie could be enjoyed.  The smell of fresh popcorn now permeated the camper, and we settled in feeling right at home.  It seemed a fitting culmination, and our eyes fell heavy dreaming of the adventures that were just around the corner: snow-capped mountains, sugar-sand beaches, and the many miles that lie between them were now attainable in the camper that was once only a shadow in our mind’s eye.  What adventures lie ahead for our intrepid family and our vintage camper?  That was a dream yet to be dreamt.  One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to limit my dreams to my fit my expectations.

We are planning an upcoming trip to _____________.  This is my dilemma, the blank space.  I know, I know, there are people making really tough decisions in life.  I don't mean to marginalize those struggles.  Mine is trivial.  My husband and I are about to celebrate 15 years of marriage, and we are going on our first vacation without the kids.  Just he and I, the Dreamer (our vintage camper), and the open road.  Residing in the middle of the country has its advantages.  Unique adventures in all regions are within reach.  Here's my working list:

Aspen Viewing in Colorado- Although I was just there a few months ago, I can't help but long to return.  Before my first visit to the Rockies, I had no clue just how hard I would fall for those mountains.  The air is intoxicating, so pure and fresh.  The feeling you get when you're sitting at the base of massive rocks is only matched by the exhilaration of climbing to the top.  While I've visited this beloved state several times, I have yet to experience the splendor of fall.

Minnesota's North Shore- I've been highly intrigued by this possibility.  It seems there are so many activities that appeal to both my husband and I: biking, hiking, fishing, waterfalls to explore, and wildlife to see.  Although there aren't mountains to climb, it seems outdoor adventures in Minnesota are plentiful.  The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources reports peak fall colors are timed perfectly with our travel dates, making it the icing on the cake.

Getting Away in the Natural State- I often wonder why I have yet to explore the abundance of recreational opportunities in Arkansas.  It is a very short drive for us, and their slogan speaks volumes for what you can expect in this state.  Waterfalls, mountains, lakes, hot springs, eclectic towns, and over 250 day hikes means I will satisfy the wild inside of me.  

Discovering More in the Land of Lincoln- Another neighboring state that I wouldn't normally think of when trip planning.  When I think of Illinois, I think of getting to the other side.  It turns out, there is more to see between the farm fields east of the Mississippi and a big lake to the north.  Starved Rock State Park and Matthiesssen State Park boast waterfalls, rocky bluffs to conquer, and a quiet reprieve close to home.

Putting our Toes in the Water and Sand- This one is totally for the hubs!  Although, I still have a piece of my heart on the beaches of Florida.  With so many state parks dotted along the Panhandle, it may be best to give one more salute to summer and spend our few days alone salty and sandy.

What do you think?  What is your favorite fall vacation?  We love spontaneity, and will likely surprise everyone with our choice.  Here's to 15 years of marriage, loads of adventure, and a lifetime of memories! 

Words cannot adequately describe the anticipation we had as we boarded our train on a perfectly crisp summer morning in Durango, Colorado. Our son's affection for "steamies" lingered past the toddler days where he constantly wrapped his tiny fingers around Thomas the Tank Engine or constructed wooden track that spanned the entire length of our living room. He wasn't the only one in our family whose fondness of steam engines brought us to the beginning of our adventure. We could hardly contain ourselves; our energy was much like the iron horse's boiler, full and ready for action. Our dream of riding a steam engine through the "Wild West" was about to come to fruition... only we didn't expect it to truly get wild.

Everything about the Durango-Silverton Railroad is authentic. From the costumes of portrayed passengers to the railroad crew, all involved were committed to bringing history to life. With a call to action, "All aboard!", and a final whoosh of steam, our journey began. The conductor was heard before he was seen. A request for tickets, followed by a quick click-click-click signified his approach. We presented our proof as our coach car swayed gently side to side. The sun drenched everything in its morning glow. The meadows lining the Animas River were ablaze with wildflowers that stretched to the foothills surrounding us. Conversations began to rise within the confines of the coach. Strangers became new friends, and travel stories were swapped as we began to ascend from the valley floor.

Not too far into our journey, we came to our first stop in the mountains. New passengers came aboard dressed in hiking gear, and fragrant with the aroma of triumph. They had just finished a fourteener- backpacker slang for mountains of at least 14,000 feet elevation. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy, as that goal still remains unchecked on my bucket list.

We linger well after the hikers board, and my curiosity is piqued by the urgent way a brakeman climbs along the edge of the engine, peering down as if to inspect the mechanical elements. He scurries back, returning to his rightful place inside. The train rolls back a minute, then abruptly jolts to a stop. Nothing is said, and we soon begin our journey further into the mountains.

As the broad ground surrounding the tracks narrowed, passengers began to squirm in their seats.   We clung to the edge of the rocks while the river's rapids raged in the canyon perilously far below us. Everyone subconsciously leaned towards the mountain, as if our weight would prevent the train from tipping towards danger. All except a daring few who peered over the edge, myself included. We were of course perfectly safe, but the element of danger made our hearts race as we continued on.

We pulled up next to the remains of some wooden box cars and the now eye-level Animas River.  It was quiet in this part of the forest, and the stop gave us a moment to drink in the serenity.  Only this stop became an hour long wait, as we learn our train's air brakes had failed.  Man, were we all glad to learn this on level ground!  Our crew has determined the safest solution was to hitch up to another engine that was hauling its unsuspecting passengers up the  mountain behind us.  Watching the men and women of the Durango-Silverton Railroad problem solve for one hundred year old equipment made the time pass quickly, and most guests were so engrossed in the process that the delay brought few complaints.  As our conductor boarded our car to apologize, he summarized it best, "You didn't purchase a ticket to Silverton, you paid for an experience".  His words were the gospel.

Arriving in Silverton was like arriving on Ellis Island.  We were strangers to this land; weary from our long journey yet hungry for possibilities, we stepped off the platform with enthusiasm.  In a city whose population is a whopping 629 people, one wouldn't expect to find many options.  However, with the railroad being a major source of revenue, there were many restaurants and stores that catered to the daily influx of guests.  We decided that BBQ good enough for Guy Fieri was good enough for us.  Thee Pits Again had limited seating and a line out the door, so we knew we had chosen the right place.  Settling along the wall at a long table, there was room for more than our family had occupied.  A couple from Texas gave us a big "howdy" and asked to join our company.  We obliged and dug into the smokey, sticky ribs.  I encourage everyone to invite a stranger to dine with them.  In a world of isolation, it is wonderfully refreshing to connect with people while breaking bread.

We boarded the Durango-bound train with a mix of thoughts over what the next leg of our journey would hold.  Although we had already taken the same route, traveling the opposite direction opened our eyes to even more wonders.  The San Juan National Forest could possibly be my favorite chunk of ground in all of Colorado.  It is that splendid.  I chose to ride in the open car for most of the trip back, which proved to be another great decision.  The conductor stood beside me and shared treasured stories and hidden facts that only enhanced the magnificence of the mountains.  It was evident that he too loved his job and those mountains.  It seems that many people have stories like his.  They've left the "normal" world because they got an elevation high that they craved again.  The more I visit them, the more I agree with Muir; those "mountains are calling, and I must go".​