Dave Hoekstra - The Camper Book: A Celebration of a Moveable American Dream

Copyright 2018 by Dave Hoekstra

Foreword 2018 by Jeff Daniels

All photos 2018 Jon Sall unless otherwise indicated

All rights reserved

First edition

Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated

814 North Franklin Street

Chicago, Illinois 60610

ISBN 978-1-61373-820-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Hoekstra, Dave, author. | Sall, Jon, photographer.

Title: The camper book : a celebration of a moveable American dream / Dave Hoekstra ; photographs by Jon Sall.

Description: First edition. | Chicago, Illinois : Chicago Review Press Incorporated, [2018]

Identifiers: LCCN 2017051161| ISBN 9781613738207 (trade paper) | ISBN 9781613738221 (kindle) | ISBN 9781613738238 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: CampingUnited States. | Recreational vehicle livingUnited States. | Outdoor lifeUnited States. | Recreational vehiclesUnited States. | Campers (Persons)United States.

Classification: LCC GV191.7 .H64 2018 | DDC 796.54dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017051161

Cover design: Marc Whitaker/MTWdesign.net

Cover images: All photos by Jon Sall except Bluebird photo by Wendy Love

Interior design: Jonathan Hahn

Printed in the United States of America

5 4 3 2 1

For Doug and Jude,

May every trail bring new light to your hearts.

The sun sets along Interstate 40, somewhere in America.

We were driving through the Black Hills of South Dakota because I wanted to. The movie company had arranged for first-class airfare, but five days before I was supposed to be in Vancouver to begin shooting the film RVyes, Id have paid themI turned to my wife, Kathleen, and said, Lets drive it.

I like first class.

Obviously they have no idea Im a professional.

Professional what?

Ive got over a hundred thousand miles behind the wheel of various recreational vehicles. Ive mastered every facet of how to maintain my vehicles engine, generator operation, proper execution of how to extract and retract my sewer hose, not to mention the ability to expertly feather a Jake Brake down the Rockies in a snowstorm.

You left me at a truck stop.

How long will I be paying for that?

How long is eternity?

I dont know why it wasnt a Harley. Or a Corvette. Or why I didnt take flying lessons like every other actor with too much time between movies. I heard the calling that came when I drove past my local RV dealership and, for reasons Ill never fully understand, literally watched myself pull in. Since that fateful day, Ive been through a 28 Jayco, a Dolphin with an actual dolphin swimming down the side of itlike that made any sense going down I-80and all but lived in my beloved forty-two-foot Gulf Stream Quad Slide Out Diesel Pusher, which I purchased as is off a retiree who kept it in great shape until the day he handed me the keys, at which point it instantly broke apart piece by piece by piece, including the day the entire muffler fell off on the Dan Ryan Expressway, clinging for dear life as I dragged it a good half mile before some Chicagoan pulled up next to me and screamed, Yer dragging yer muffler, ya &%$*& idiot! Tiring of the seven miles per gallon and constant service calls, I traded in my Gulf Stream for my current magic carpet, an Airstream Interstate Sprinter Van with enough black leather in it to qualify as a gentlemans club.

Maybe it has to do with controlling our own destiny. Or choosing to no longer endure the indignity of being patted down by an overly patriotic TSA agent. Or maybe its the freedom that comes with not knowing where were sleeping on any given night. A hotel in Joplin, Missouri. A truck stop in Norfolk, Virginia. An RV park in Quartzsite, Arizona. The northeast corner of a Walmart parking lot in Terre Haute, Indiana. Down a dirt road behind some trees off Route 2 in northern Minnesota. Behind a restaurant/convenience store/strip bar in Chinook, Montana. Each one its own adventure. When we drive an RV, wherever we stop is home. Only RVers know what it feels like to expertly maneuver our building on wheels through yet another construction zone, at night, in horizontal rain with a broken windshield wiper flailing back and forth, back and forth, back andWATCH OUT FOR THE ORANGE BARRELS!! And the flashing yellow caution lights throb at you as a bulldozer backs up toward the road, toward your lane, toward you, surely hes going toWATCH OUT FOR THE ORANGE BARRELS!! And now a heavenly white-hot strobe light right out of a Spielberg movie illuminates everything everywhere and there, in that bleached-out asphalt hellscape is a man in a hard hat staring up at you, through the night and the rain and the broken wiper, and in that fleeting moment you realize why hes looking you dead in the eyes. Because up ahead, its even worse.

The producer had called several times. I didnt pick up until wed made it over the Rockies. Nothing puts the fear into a Hollywood executive like not knowing the whereabouts of one of his lead actors two days before shooting begins. He asked me where I was.

Good question.

Please tell me what it is you think youre doing.

Just under seventy.

We arranged first-class airfare.

Yeah, you should cancel that.

A Canadian Teamster was dispatched to meet me at the border. My British Columbian Jimmy Hoffa gave me a personal escort all the way to Vancouver, where our two-vehicle caravan made a beeline straight for Lionsgate Studios. As I pulled onto the lot, I could see various orange cones set up in what looked like a poor mans obstacle course. Someone in a boxy RV was trying to slalom their way through the orange maze. Whoever it was took out the first orange cone like they were aiming for it. After a violent turn of the steering wheel that almost put the RV up on two wheels, they hit the next one head-on. Cones number three, four, and five bought the farm like little plastic ducks at a carnival shooting gallery. Somewhere under that RV, five orange cones were being skinned alive.

The producer with the first-class airfare was gesturing at me like he was parking Delta Flight 892 at Gate 28. Had he not gone into producing, he could have been in the Village People. I pulled my thirty-four tons of diesel-fueled manhood forward. He beckoned me with his fingers, keep comin keep comin keep comin, until up went the closed fist a good inch from the back of the soundstage. Another perfect landing. He looked at me like he wanted to kill me. Thats when I hit the air brakes.

Psssssshhhhhhhhhhh!

Hitting the air brakes on a forty-two-foot Gulf Stream Quad Slide Out Diesel Pusher serves only one purpose. You are announcing your arrival. Your adventure is complete. Your mission accomplished. Columbus probably felt something similar when he landed in America.

Those of us who have chosen the RV lifestyle can relate. Sure, our covered wagons may have a kitchen, an espresso machine, running water, and satellite television, but make no mistake, we are trailblazers. Lets bed down up here for the night may have been a common phrase during the Gold Rush of 1849, but its also whats said after a fourteen-hour drive with Oklahoma finally in our rearview mirror because just up ahead are the lights of a Loves truck stop calling our name.