People and trailers

On the road in Upper Midwest.

In southern Wisconsin, somewhere along I-94 between Madison and Wisconsin Dells, a large, dark pickup truck up pulled beside me. The driver rolled down his window and started yelling and pointing at my travel trailer. I pulled over and he pulled in front of me.

“You’re about lose your left wheel,” he told me, as he walked around his truck, cars and 18-wheelers whizzing by at 80 miles an hour. “It’s leaning real bad. I think the bearings must be shot.”

We walked around the trailer and examined the wheels. Both leaned inwards. They’d been that way for a while, but they may have gotten worse. I couldn’t tell for sure. I had the bearings replaced last year, though I worried about the axle. Scamp, the manufacturer, recommends replacing them every 15-20 years and this axle was going on 40 years old.

I told the guy I was heading to the Scamp facility in northern Minnesota to get the axle replaced. He was skeptical I could make it. We talked for a few more minutes and I told him I would stop in the next town and find a mechanic to check it out. He wished me luck and headed back to his truck. I pulled onto the highway first and he gave me a big wave as he sped past.

The next town was Tomah, Wisconsin, a place so small I don’t even remember it from all of my previous trips down that stretch of highway. I googled “auto parts stores” and figured that was a good place start. The GPS was guiding me down a stretch of divided highway lined by industrial sites, used car lots, and convenient stores when I noticed a building on the left with a sign that read “Truck and Auto Repair.”

I made a u-turn and pulled into the parking lot. The man at the counter listened to my story. He was sympathetic, but said he was covered up and wouldn’t be able to get to it for at least a day or two. He agreed to look and give me his opinion as to whether I should keep going or not.

He almost winced as he looked at the wheels. I asked him whether he thought I could make it another five hours. “I doubt it,” he replied.

I told him the bearings had been replaced a year ago. He reached down and put his hand of the wheel hub and said, “It’s not even a little hot. If it was the bearings, it would just about burn your hand. But I don’t know why it’s leaning like that.”

After that, he seemed a little more optimistic. “Maybe jack it up and see if the wheels are loose. If they’re tight, I guess you keep going.”

I thanked him and headed to the interstate. I never checked the wheels. I just kept going. Five hours later, I pulled into the AmericInn in Jenkins, Minnesota. I wished I could tell those guys I made it.

I dropped my camper off at the Scamp shop at 7am on Friday morning and went back to the motel to catch up on last minute business and figure out my next move. I booked a campsite just South of Brainerd at the Crow Wing Lake Campground.

The folks at Scamp were impressed with my trailer. The interior is mostly original and they didn’t see many that age in such good condition. They said to call them if I ever wanted to sell it. Somebody in the shop would probably want to buy it.

Over the next few days, I hung out at the campground and hiked around Crow Wing State Park. I met a guy fishing in the Mississippi who told me his goal was to stay in every state park in Minnesota before he turned forty years old. A woman in the campground stopped by my site and spent a solid fifteen minutes talking without a break. She told me she had seen the ocean three times, twice in Jacksonville, Florida, and once in Maine. She wasn’t interested in seeing it again. She was saving to go to Yellowstone next summer.

Sunday morning, I loaded up and headed out on my new axle and wheels. I was heading to Minneopa State Park, about three hours from Crow Wing and ten minutes west of Mankato where I would pick up my kids before heading to the Badlands. I pulled into the park around 2pm and stopped at the self-registration booth.

A large truck was leaving the park as I was entering. A man hung his head out the driver’s side window and yelled, “Hey, you remember me?” There sat the guy I had met for ten minutes three days earlier on the side of the interstate highway in rural Wisconsin, 200 miles away. I don’t know his name and doubt I’ll see him a third time, but I’m glad he knows I got there.