OMG

First there was this...

the prepping.

In a small space with one thousand drawers and doors and corners. I don't normally like painting or it's evil cousin prepping, but I soldiered on.

and then there was this....

The backyard as work station. Thankfully I got almost everything back in the trailer before it rained. 

Yes, rain. 

In June.

In California.

In the middle of the night.

That was me moving doors and table into the house at 3 AM.

No harm done. 

Everything is extremely blue at the moment. I began the stencilling today, something I was kind of reconsidering after soaking up all that blue and wondering just how much blue a human eye can absorb before seizures or unconsciousness occurs. Apparently, alot as I'm pleased with how it's turning out but then I have a high tolerance for bold color.

  

The stencilling was much easier and harder than I'd imagined. I thought the actual stencilling itself would be difficult but after a few minutes, I found a rhythm and it went somewhat quickly. It's the contortions you must get your body into when working in such a small space, that really puts the hurt on you.

At least I got most of the doors and drawers back on. 

over and out.

Baby Got Back

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So, this is what we started with. Wood rot so bad you could crumble the framing between your fingers. Whoever designed these things is some kind of crack-smoking fool.

Nevermind what kind of fool buys them used and then tears into them looking for bad news.

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The whole back end was rotted out, along with the back half of the overhead and the street side back wall. So everything came out, and we put in all new shiny healthy wood.

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Like this.

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Gave her some new insulation, too.

Then buttoned her back up nice and tidy.

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New butyl tape for the drip edging and the window frame, reinstalled the edging and the window. Brake lights go back on tomorrow, cuz we're both freakin' wiped out.

Started demo on Thursday and she's all buttoned back up on Saturday, spanking new.

Not bad for a couple of amateurs.

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Namaste.

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What We Done

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So, I was supposed to be spending the next month or so in trial- a long, messy, difficult case to put on. A lot of folks had put a lot of work into it, not least of all myself. A good case, solid, but just an enormous pain to put in front of a jury.

Last second, the guy took a deal. 

Soon as the ink was dry, I ran into my boss's office and told him I was taking the next week off. 

Next day, we hit the road.

On The Road Without Jack Kerouac

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We hit a few spots on the beach, up and down the coast.

Let me tell you, it were a blast.

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Had a little ocean front home there for a few days. Read good books, ate good food, went for lots of long walks, lazed around a whole lot, and generally had fun. Learned a little bit more about our rig, and what we need and don't need, etc. Fine-tuning as we go. I gotta say, that woman is a hell of a traveling companion. Even-keeled, unflappable, generous, kind, happy, and just fun to be around. Her little dog, too.

It was deeply good. Restorative.

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And speaking of restorative:

This is how she sits as of this morning. We spent yesterday on the demo of the entire back wall, and the ceiling in the back half of the Nomad. The previous owners had done some bad things to her that left her open to the elements along the roofline and other places, so she had gotten some serious water damage.

So off came the skin, and out came the rotted walls and ceiling.

Today we'll find out if we can put her back together in somewhat better shape.

Lots to learn.

But I'm having the time of my life.

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Namaste.

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Taking Stock

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After the shakedown cruise it was time to get down to business.



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Taking stock. A more careful, methodical poking around to come up with an initial list of what needed to be done, and in what order. Here's just a peek at what we found:

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This, I guess, could be filed under "Well intentioned, but stupider than shit." The previous owners were fond of the desert, and they understandably wanted some shade, like from a nice awning. The Nomad had no awning, so they found one for sale and bolted it on. 

After removing the drip edging from the curbside roofline so they could get it to fit. Screw in a couple of eye bolts front and rear, wrap a couple of bungie cords around the support arms, no problem, lovely awning.

And as long as you stay in the desert where it never rains, you probably don't even mind that you've left a nine foot long hole for water in the top of your rig. And added thirty-two new bolt holes in the roof that you didn't bother to seal. And added about a hundred and fifty extra pounds to one side of a structure made out of rotting balsa wood and held together with spit and bailing wire.

And there was more.

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One of the things that wood likes to do when you soak it is to swell. Here's the street side front corner where the whole seam has split from top to bottom, letting in yet more moisture and crap.

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Here you can see the trailer end power cord, wrapped in duct tape. Why? Because the cord is too long and drags on the road as you drive. If you look closely, you can see another bungie cord that was used in an attempt to keep it off the asphalt. It probably worked okay for a while, until the cord got old and saggy.

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Checkin' out from undaneat.

Here you can see our blackwater tank. If you look near the frame by the wheel you can see a big glob of runny sealant on the tank, and another one in closer to the midline.

If a little sealant is good, a lot has got to be better!

Despite all this globby mess, she still leaks nasty shitwater.

This. Is. Bad.

I look around there, trying to figure out how to pull the tank without having to rip out the floor above it, but I'm stumped. This is going to take someone with a little more knowledge than I've got.

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On and on like this. I'll spare you the rest of it.

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So, here's the plan we came up with:

1. Take her someplace to get the wheel bearings, brakes, axle, tongue, hitch, and electrical sorted.
2. Get the propane system inspected.
3. Get the blackwater tank replaced.
4. Get the heater, hot water heater, pump, and toilet inspected.
5. Get her legal in California.

After that comes the stuff we can do ourselves:

1. Replace interior foam and upholstery.
2. Replace dining table.
3. Rebuild front gaucho and rear dining seats/bed platform.
4. Remove rear top storage shelf for more headroom for the man.
5. Replace trailer end plug and cord.
6. Eventually, rip out the whole rear wall and rotted overhead. Reframe, put in new siding, new insullation, seal up the holes.
7. Take off the awning and repair the roof, replace the drip edging, replace the worn out vents, make her sound and watertight.
8. Then tackle the front end, same thing: skin off, demo the wall, replace paneling, framing, insulation, reskin her.
9. Scrape, wirebrush, prime and repaint the frame, tongue, and rear bumper.
10. Replace the propane tanks, or get these inspected and repaint them.
11. Replace awning with a light-weight vintage style awning.
12. Paint the interior and exterior once she's all shipshape.
13. New flooring.

Longer range:

1. New water heater to replace non-functional, thirty year old original which is no longer manufactured and I can't find parts for.
2. New Shur-flo water pump.
3. New toilet.
4. New cabin heater or rebuilt the original.
5. New inverter and solar panels to support longer-term boondocking.

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That's about the size of it.

Wish us luck.

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Namaste.

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San Simeon Campground, Upper Washburn primitive area

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So, the first order of bidness after we got her home was to take her out on a shakedown cruise. We picked this place because it was close to home and came highly recommended.

I bought a new marine battery at Sears and hooked it up. We bought a cooler and a couple of camp chairs. Outfitted the galley with some pots and pans and cutlery. Bought some oak firewood. A metric shit-ton of food to cook and eat. Beer and vodka to kill the pain. Books to read. A bulldog to torment.

With more guts than brains, we loaded up and headed north!





Six miles later, we had arrived.

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The campground offers no hook ups, but does provide a nice fire ring, running water, a picnic table, wide, spacious, private spots, and expansive views of the surrounding Hearst Ranch lands and the Pacific to the west. Sparsely occupied, quiet, serene, it felt like heaven. We couldn't stop grinning at each other as we were setting up, and that pretty much continued non-stop for the whole trip.

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Lu, however, was a little unsettled by the whole change of routine and let us know she was ready to go home whenever we were:

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All in all, we had a blast. It might not be obvious, but we are not exactly expert campers. In our twenty five years together, we've been car camping one time, the sum total and extent of our experience. So we really had no concrete idea if we'd actually enjoy what we'd just committed to with our little Nomad.

But we took to it like fish to water.

There's just something magical about stepping out of your normal life and finding yourself out in a new world, surrounded by nature and also not surrounded by any of the million things that call out to be done when you are trying to chill out at home.

Nothing to do but read, go for a walk, cook some food, drink a beer, pet the dog, sit by the fire.

Ah, yes.

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I think we're going to like this gig.

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Namaste.

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1979 Nomad Travel Trailer and The Start of The Grand Adventure

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So, here she is as we found her. And by we, I mean, my wife. After being thwarted on her long-dreamed of trip to Japan for some serious yogini training when the earthquake and tsunami hit, she shifted gears and decided that she wanted a little vintage travel trailer to explore the world in. So she hit Ebay and Cragislist and scoured the left coast from tip to top, and a couple of weeks later the two of us were driving five hours south to sunny San Diego to meet a lady in a parking lot.

The woman was in love at first sight, and I knew it. The rig had a lot going for it, I'll be the first to admit. She was only 13 feet long and came in at a svelte 1500 lbs dry. This was really the whole enchilada, because we had to be able to tow her with our little four-banger Toyota Tacoma, and she had to fit in our narrow driveway with our truck and my work car.

So far, so good.

She was relatively clean, and registered out of state, but registered. Clean title. She had a reefer and a stove top and an oven, water heater, toilet, shower, sink, the works. I poked around and did my best to be the rational one, pointing out that the ceiling sagged and showed signs of serious water damage. Ditto with the back wall. I knew there was a lot worse stuff we couldn't see, and what we could see scared the living shit out of me.

We poked around some more. There were bungie cords tying every other item off, another danger sign to me. The trailer end power cord was duct-taped in the middle where there had been a little road-rash incident.

And I knew nothing about what I was doing, or looking at. Less than nothing. I completely neglected to look underneath her, or to climb up on a ladder and check out the roof. Didn't test any of the systems, look for leaks, nada.

The woman heard me out on all my doomsaying, then nodded and said, "I still want to buy her."


And that's what we did.



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This blog is going to be our restoration diary and our road trip journal. It's mostly for our own amusement, but you're welcome to tag along. We'll let you in on where we're going and where we've been, and we'll post lots of pictures of what we've done to the Nomad to bring her back to life.

She's already brought us back to life in a big way, so I figure we owe her the same in return.


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Keep checking back, and feel free to share your own stories, too.


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namaste.



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