dirty6
Ranger
Apologies for the delays but I'm getting around to posting about our Alaska adventures now that we haven't lived in Alaska for almost a year.
Once upon a time we lived in a land very far from here and much colder than here.
But even before that, back when we lived on a discreet military outpost in the middle of the Caribbean, we got our hearts set on a new idea: a teardrop.
But even before that, back when we lived in Colorado, we had been a car camping/tent camping kind of family and we loved everything about tent camping. Everything, that is, right up until the point where I laid a mat down on the ground and laid down to sleep. We liked the being outside, the cooking outside, the sitting outside, the playing outside, the fire pit outside, everything but the sleeping on the ground. So when the idea of a teardrop crossed our screens, I was hooked right away.
The First True Love was a Vistibule. I adored the couch/bed combo inside, and the way that the sleeping position flipped around to take advantage of that huge picture window. Cosmo didn't do anything to talk us out of the idea as we absorbed all his videos. We were planning on moving from the Caribbean to North Carolina, and a Vistibule would soon follow. The kids would sleep on the ground in the tent (builds character), and Mom and Dad would get a bed on wheels. I was sold.
Then my branch manager called us with a little surprise. "I know we said you were headed to North Carolina, but it turns out we don't need you to go to that job and we DO need you to go to this job that's pretty similar and also 4500 miles away. In Alaska. In January. You'll be fine. Buy some warm boots."
With the Alaska orders, the idea of sleeping the kids on the ground in a bear burrito went right out the window. I was pretty bummed, but not so much that I could justify putting the kiddos in a position to be sleeping exposed and separate from us in an environment like that. We went back and forth over the next six months and generally settled on the idea of a travel trailer, even though I hated the idea. But we knew we'd want to camp in Alaska, and we knew we didn't want to do that on the ground. A travel trailer seemed like the unhappy compromise. I didn't want to store a TT, I didn't want to pull a TT, I was worried about towing a TT to Alaska in January, I didn't want to maintain a TT, I didn't want to deal with the way that a TT sucks the kids "inside" the camper instead of being outside, but I didn't have any better ideas.
At one point we were planning to become Airstream People, until we realized that an 85k Airstream was also going to require an 85k half ton diesel truck. 85k plus 85k is is enough k to make me dizzy. For awhile we had an order in for one of the smallest rPods that they make, but the sale fell through. We were resigned to buying a TT at exorbitant Alaska premiums (generally, +10k to cover shipping) and hoping we could get most of our money back out of it when we left.
Later, in December, enroute to Alaska, an obligatory Christmas family dinner event produced the spark that started the minds racing again. A distant uncle started a conversation about campers, and we shared what our thoughts had been. He lit up when we mentioned the Vistibule, and showed us his obsession: a Camp Inn 550. A quick visit to the CI website revealed the photo that ended the debate - a snapshot of a CI camper with a roof top tent on top if it.
Now, we had considered a RTT separate from a camper. The idea seems pretty solid for folks who camp without moving their primary vehicle. But, we tend to pitch camp and use the camp space as a 'base camp,' driving away from there to go do other adventures. The idea of folding up the tent every time we drive away from base camp seemed excessive. But...but....but....wait, hear me out on this one my love, what if we could put a RTT on top of a small camper?? Then the kids won't be sleeping in a bear burrito on the ground, they won't be as exposed, and if we do have a wildlife encounter the wildlife will at least be banging against the camper and we'll have an idea of what is going on....this could work, right dear?
So we drove to Alaska in January, which is a trip report in and of itself. And days after we got there, I was on the phone to ask some questions from a very kind fellow who answered the call and provided an abundance of information for us to consider. He never sold us anything - but I was sold by the end of that phone call. The down payment was sent soon thereafter, and in the midst of our first Alaskan winter we were warmed by the anticipation of a summer of camping across The Last Frontier in our new CI 560.
As you all know, there were lots of phone calls and updates and details to work out. Deliberations on air conditioning, a very long running discussion on how to get this thing to Alaska, some money details, very eager weekly photo updates as our camper was being built. As the snow began to recede from the yard in May, the details about our camper's arrival began to shape up. It would be on the way in early June! This was going to happen!
At long last, the days were getting quite long and the camper was on it's way. I don't want to say too much about how all that went down for a few reasons but I'll just make a hand wave and say: We got the full meal deal when it came to the CI customer service experience. And we didn't see that coming. Flabbergasted, would be an appropriate way to describe that.
The camper arrived quite literally the day before the summer solstice - how appropriate. I got the call to link up in a parking lot in town so we could escort the camper onto the military installation and off we raced to the designated parking lot (Costco? I think it was Costco).
We bought this thing totally blind. Having never physically seen any teardrop camper before at all, we were understandably a little apprehensive about whether we had made the right call. Right up until we saw our 560. There was a lot of anticipation ahead of time, which balanced out the apprehension...but it was love at first sight.
A short time later the roof top tent was installed on top of the camper - with one big problem. It wasn't the brand tent that CI sells, and so it wasn't "verified" as a good fit with the camper. Sure enough, it sat low enough on the roof rails that it wouldn't allow the vent fan to open up far enough to run the roof fan. Drat.
The Full Meal Deal CI Customer Experience kicked in and the team at CI quickly adopted "our big problem" as "their little problem." Days later we had custom fabricated spacers delivered to us, spacers that elevated the tent just enough to allow the fan to open and kick on. As we say in the Army, Problem Solved-Problem Staying Solved. My spouse and I looked at each other, "Seriously, who are these guys? Is this the Twilight Zone? Have we joined a cult? Is this a multi level marketing scheme and the other shoe just hasn't dropped yet? Who does this kind of engagement for a customer out of the blue?"
You all know the answer to that.
The day after the camper got to us was the summer solstice, which, is kind of a big deal in Fairbanks. The sun "goes down" after midnight but not far enough for the sky to even get sort of dark, and then it rises above the horizon again sometime before 3am. I had a friend coming in from Colorado for a week of Alaska fun and my spouse was on the road to Anchorage for a kid's baseball tournament that I couldn't attend because of a work obligation on the solstice. So what would two buds do in the magical space of Alaska's summer with a brand new camper? Yeah! We went camping.
I wanted to go camping in Denali, but that's a whole thing. More to follow on that saga. I was hoping to find camping space somewhere outside of Denali NP but close enough to Denali that we could get in the park for hiking. Short answer: there isn't much. I was hoping that my ability to park the camper in a tent camping space would seal the deal and help us find a spot. But here's the thing - very few people camp in tents in Alaska, so there's not an abundance of "tent spaces" like you might find at campgrounds and parks in The Lower.
On a whim, I called a phone number for a small rustic campground that I knew was defunct and out of business. I was hoping I could get through to someone who would let us park the CI for a night or two as long as we didn't expect any services like water or power. The girl who answered the phone listened attentively and seemed to have a solution - she said that she had a spot we could camp in just past their driveway. It wasn't normal, but it would be fine, and we could just give them some cash.
I was fully under the impression that we were talking about the driveway to the business that used to own the campground, which is still a white water rapids rafting tour company. This is not the driveway she was talking about.
So my spouse drives to Anchorage for baseball, my buddy flies to Alaska, we drink wayyyy too much (really, really good) Japanese whisky on the longest day of the year and go to bed a 3am when tomorrow starts. When we rouse, we load the shiny new camper up and head down to Healy, Alaska to park off the utility shed driveway of a rafting business.
Except when we pull into the place, there's no business. It's just a house. And if you know anything about this part of Alaska, it is R-E-M-O-T-E. This isn't a house just off the suburban shopping trail. There were multiple "turn off the paved road/turn off the improved road/turn off the dirt road" kind of directions before we pulled into what was CLEARLY the driveway to a sort of spooky chic modern cabin in rural Alaska.
But I called the number and the girl answered and we were in the right spot. How?
Turns out, when I heard "you can park your camper off the driveway of this business's utility drive" what had actually been communicated was "my house has a small driveway where you could park your camper and give us 20 bucks, sure, no problem." So I had driven with my friend from Civilization out nearly into the Alaska bush and was parking on someone's front yard. And the population density in this 100sq mile area of remote Alaska was approximately 17, now that we had arrived to bump the numbers up for a night.
The girl and her boyfriend appear from the cabin. They are clearly more high than the airliner my friend flew in on the previous day. I am pretty sure we are going to get murdered in the broad daylight of night.
They showed us around the property, complete with outhouse (very common in Interior Alaska that indoor plumbing isn't a real thing, particularly in cabins that are only used in the summer). I began to gather that the boyfriend's parents are academics from some university and they usually summer at this cabin as a magical getaway, but they couldn't come up this summer. So, the boyfriend and his girl have come up to do the same, and are working odd jobs to pad the bank account. And, they didn't say it, but they're also enjoying a lot of recreational herbal supplements that are legal in Alaska.
So we slept in the driveway. Did not get murdered. Did not encounter any wildlife. Had a nice campfire for awhile, but then an afternoon rain shower came and put a damper on that. We ran away to a restaurant near Denali NP for dinner and came back to hide in the awning of the roof top tent as the rain just hammered away at us. We were cold. We were wet. We were not actively being murdered. It was lovely to be alive.
After we got home (alive), we did some more deliberation on what to name the 560. We settled on "Muiriel," as sort of a play on the last name of John Muir. Muir doesn't have the loveliest of stories from a modern lens, particularly when it comes to racial conversations. At the same time, his fascination with the wilderness of the outdoors has been hugely influential on our country, and on the ethos of my family's descendants who grew up leaning into the kinds of adventuring he advocated for.
So this is Muiriel, and these are his/her stories (name intentionally not gender specific).
Once upon a time we lived in a land very far from here and much colder than here.
But even before that, back when we lived on a discreet military outpost in the middle of the Caribbean, we got our hearts set on a new idea: a teardrop.
But even before that, back when we lived in Colorado, we had been a car camping/tent camping kind of family and we loved everything about tent camping. Everything, that is, right up until the point where I laid a mat down on the ground and laid down to sleep. We liked the being outside, the cooking outside, the sitting outside, the playing outside, the fire pit outside, everything but the sleeping on the ground. So when the idea of a teardrop crossed our screens, I was hooked right away.
The First True Love was a Vistibule. I adored the couch/bed combo inside, and the way that the sleeping position flipped around to take advantage of that huge picture window. Cosmo didn't do anything to talk us out of the idea as we absorbed all his videos. We were planning on moving from the Caribbean to North Carolina, and a Vistibule would soon follow. The kids would sleep on the ground in the tent (builds character), and Mom and Dad would get a bed on wheels. I was sold.
Then my branch manager called us with a little surprise. "I know we said you were headed to North Carolina, but it turns out we don't need you to go to that job and we DO need you to go to this job that's pretty similar and also 4500 miles away. In Alaska. In January. You'll be fine. Buy some warm boots."
With the Alaska orders, the idea of sleeping the kids on the ground in a bear burrito went right out the window. I was pretty bummed, but not so much that I could justify putting the kiddos in a position to be sleeping exposed and separate from us in an environment like that. We went back and forth over the next six months and generally settled on the idea of a travel trailer, even though I hated the idea. But we knew we'd want to camp in Alaska, and we knew we didn't want to do that on the ground. A travel trailer seemed like the unhappy compromise. I didn't want to store a TT, I didn't want to pull a TT, I was worried about towing a TT to Alaska in January, I didn't want to maintain a TT, I didn't want to deal with the way that a TT sucks the kids "inside" the camper instead of being outside, but I didn't have any better ideas.
At one point we were planning to become Airstream People, until we realized that an 85k Airstream was also going to require an 85k half ton diesel truck. 85k plus 85k is is enough k to make me dizzy. For awhile we had an order in for one of the smallest rPods that they make, but the sale fell through. We were resigned to buying a TT at exorbitant Alaska premiums (generally, +10k to cover shipping) and hoping we could get most of our money back out of it when we left.
Later, in December, enroute to Alaska, an obligatory Christmas family dinner event produced the spark that started the minds racing again. A distant uncle started a conversation about campers, and we shared what our thoughts had been. He lit up when we mentioned the Vistibule, and showed us his obsession: a Camp Inn 550. A quick visit to the CI website revealed the photo that ended the debate - a snapshot of a CI camper with a roof top tent on top if it.
Now, we had considered a RTT separate from a camper. The idea seems pretty solid for folks who camp without moving their primary vehicle. But, we tend to pitch camp and use the camp space as a 'base camp,' driving away from there to go do other adventures. The idea of folding up the tent every time we drive away from base camp seemed excessive. But...but....but....wait, hear me out on this one my love, what if we could put a RTT on top of a small camper?? Then the kids won't be sleeping in a bear burrito on the ground, they won't be as exposed, and if we do have a wildlife encounter the wildlife will at least be banging against the camper and we'll have an idea of what is going on....this could work, right dear?
So we drove to Alaska in January, which is a trip report in and of itself. And days after we got there, I was on the phone to ask some questions from a very kind fellow who answered the call and provided an abundance of information for us to consider. He never sold us anything - but I was sold by the end of that phone call. The down payment was sent soon thereafter, and in the midst of our first Alaskan winter we were warmed by the anticipation of a summer of camping across The Last Frontier in our new CI 560.
As you all know, there were lots of phone calls and updates and details to work out. Deliberations on air conditioning, a very long running discussion on how to get this thing to Alaska, some money details, very eager weekly photo updates as our camper was being built. As the snow began to recede from the yard in May, the details about our camper's arrival began to shape up. It would be on the way in early June! This was going to happen!
At long last, the days were getting quite long and the camper was on it's way. I don't want to say too much about how all that went down for a few reasons but I'll just make a hand wave and say: We got the full meal deal when it came to the CI customer service experience. And we didn't see that coming. Flabbergasted, would be an appropriate way to describe that.
The camper arrived quite literally the day before the summer solstice - how appropriate. I got the call to link up in a parking lot in town so we could escort the camper onto the military installation and off we raced to the designated parking lot (Costco? I think it was Costco).
We bought this thing totally blind. Having never physically seen any teardrop camper before at all, we were understandably a little apprehensive about whether we had made the right call. Right up until we saw our 560. There was a lot of anticipation ahead of time, which balanced out the apprehension...but it was love at first sight.
A short time later the roof top tent was installed on top of the camper - with one big problem. It wasn't the brand tent that CI sells, and so it wasn't "verified" as a good fit with the camper. Sure enough, it sat low enough on the roof rails that it wouldn't allow the vent fan to open up far enough to run the roof fan. Drat.
The Full Meal Deal CI Customer Experience kicked in and the team at CI quickly adopted "our big problem" as "their little problem." Days later we had custom fabricated spacers delivered to us, spacers that elevated the tent just enough to allow the fan to open and kick on. As we say in the Army, Problem Solved-Problem Staying Solved. My spouse and I looked at each other, "Seriously, who are these guys? Is this the Twilight Zone? Have we joined a cult? Is this a multi level marketing scheme and the other shoe just hasn't dropped yet? Who does this kind of engagement for a customer out of the blue?"
You all know the answer to that.
The day after the camper got to us was the summer solstice, which, is kind of a big deal in Fairbanks. The sun "goes down" after midnight but not far enough for the sky to even get sort of dark, and then it rises above the horizon again sometime before 3am. I had a friend coming in from Colorado for a week of Alaska fun and my spouse was on the road to Anchorage for a kid's baseball tournament that I couldn't attend because of a work obligation on the solstice. So what would two buds do in the magical space of Alaska's summer with a brand new camper? Yeah! We went camping.
I wanted to go camping in Denali, but that's a whole thing. More to follow on that saga. I was hoping to find camping space somewhere outside of Denali NP but close enough to Denali that we could get in the park for hiking. Short answer: there isn't much. I was hoping that my ability to park the camper in a tent camping space would seal the deal and help us find a spot. But here's the thing - very few people camp in tents in Alaska, so there's not an abundance of "tent spaces" like you might find at campgrounds and parks in The Lower.
On a whim, I called a phone number for a small rustic campground that I knew was defunct and out of business. I was hoping I could get through to someone who would let us park the CI for a night or two as long as we didn't expect any services like water or power. The girl who answered the phone listened attentively and seemed to have a solution - she said that she had a spot we could camp in just past their driveway. It wasn't normal, but it would be fine, and we could just give them some cash.
I was fully under the impression that we were talking about the driveway to the business that used to own the campground, which is still a white water rapids rafting tour company. This is not the driveway she was talking about.
So my spouse drives to Anchorage for baseball, my buddy flies to Alaska, we drink wayyyy too much (really, really good) Japanese whisky on the longest day of the year and go to bed a 3am when tomorrow starts. When we rouse, we load the shiny new camper up and head down to Healy, Alaska to park off the utility shed driveway of a rafting business.
Except when we pull into the place, there's no business. It's just a house. And if you know anything about this part of Alaska, it is R-E-M-O-T-E. This isn't a house just off the suburban shopping trail. There were multiple "turn off the paved road/turn off the improved road/turn off the dirt road" kind of directions before we pulled into what was CLEARLY the driveway to a sort of spooky chic modern cabin in rural Alaska.
But I called the number and the girl answered and we were in the right spot. How?
Turns out, when I heard "you can park your camper off the driveway of this business's utility drive" what had actually been communicated was "my house has a small driveway where you could park your camper and give us 20 bucks, sure, no problem." So I had driven with my friend from Civilization out nearly into the Alaska bush and was parking on someone's front yard. And the population density in this 100sq mile area of remote Alaska was approximately 17, now that we had arrived to bump the numbers up for a night.
The girl and her boyfriend appear from the cabin. They are clearly more high than the airliner my friend flew in on the previous day. I am pretty sure we are going to get murdered in the broad daylight of night.
They showed us around the property, complete with outhouse (very common in Interior Alaska that indoor plumbing isn't a real thing, particularly in cabins that are only used in the summer). I began to gather that the boyfriend's parents are academics from some university and they usually summer at this cabin as a magical getaway, but they couldn't come up this summer. So, the boyfriend and his girl have come up to do the same, and are working odd jobs to pad the bank account. And, they didn't say it, but they're also enjoying a lot of recreational herbal supplements that are legal in Alaska.
So we slept in the driveway. Did not get murdered. Did not encounter any wildlife. Had a nice campfire for awhile, but then an afternoon rain shower came and put a damper on that. We ran away to a restaurant near Denali NP for dinner and came back to hide in the awning of the roof top tent as the rain just hammered away at us. We were cold. We were wet. We were not actively being murdered. It was lovely to be alive.
After we got home (alive), we did some more deliberation on what to name the 560. We settled on "Muiriel," as sort of a play on the last name of John Muir. Muir doesn't have the loveliest of stories from a modern lens, particularly when it comes to racial conversations. At the same time, his fascination with the wilderness of the outdoors has been hugely influential on our country, and on the ethos of my family's descendants who grew up leaning into the kinds of adventuring he advocated for.
So this is Muiriel, and these are his/her stories (name intentionally not gender specific).
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