Spring and Summer are Coming

I can't wait for spring and summer. Who can't, right? But I can't wait for reasons that are quite different from the ones cited most.

There is nothing quite as peaceful as living in a Winnebago during the summer months. In my location, clouds are lower to the ground and thunderstorms are almost a daily occurrence, preceded and followed by sun showers and clear skies.

What that means for me is the sound of raindrops hitting a thin roof, creating an extremely soothing sound that rocks the endorphins and can put you to sleep in minutes.

The other thing it means is windows open all day, every day. In a house, it often takes a bit for the smells of the outdoors to reach the center of the house. Not in a Winnebago. The smell of rain hits like you were standing outside in the rain.

Spring and summer mean no more worrying about heating, snow, ice, and energy bills. Instead, it means warm days, open air, the sound of rain on a thin roof, cool nights, and the thrill of seamless integration with the elements.

Summer is almost here.

Living in a Winnebago: An Introduction for the Unfamiliar

My lifestyle is sometimes hard to explain. I say "I live in a Winnebago" and many common images come to mind for those who just meet me. One common one is that they picture me parked in an empty field outside of town in a 1970's vintage van or dilapidated RV, yellowing and disintegrating. Couldn't be further from the truth. If you've met me, you know that you never would have guessed my lifestyle from my appearance. So, for those new to this, here are some explanations to jump-start your understanding of my lifestyle.

1. It's a tiny house

If you've heard of the tiny house movement, there is an entire movement about living in homes that can be built quickly and within one's means. This movement is largely in contrast and reaction to the bursting of the housing bubble years ago and excessive home prices that require huge, long-term mortgages in order to attain. The tiny house movement is a group of people moving into spaces that allow them to live simply and without mortgages that lock a person down for upwards of 30 years (more if refinancing happens). It is also a reaction to rent markets and landlords. It's a way to own a home, but to actually own it -- not to lease it or mortgage it.

2. It's entirely mobile

When you hear "mobile home" or "trailer," mobility is implied, but trailers, like you would see in a trailer park, aren't really that mobile. They're not even a good deal or way to live. Not only does the structure lose value, but the lot rents, even in a shitty town often start around $400/mo. So, my RV is the answer to that. It's entirely mobile. And I wanted it that way. RV lot rents are month-to-month or even day-to-day leases. When I'm ready to leave my college town, I call my landlord and tell them I'm pulling anchor tomorrow, and as soon as tomorrow comes, my lease is terminated without any penalties. My lot rent includes all utilities, except propane, and is significantly less than that of the trailer lot rents -- perhaps in large part because I'm taking up 26'x8', rather than 20'x40' on their property. If I get a job in Bozeman, MT tomorrow, I unplug my house and drive it to Bozeman, MT.

3. No chains

There's a common misconception that young people are free. Well, they're kinda free. But most are locked into year-long leases. They are also subject to market shifts in rent costs on apartments. An apartment in Laramie, Wyoming that rents for $400/mo would rent for $1,500/mo in Boulder, Colorado. RV lot rents are not as volatile, in large part because there aren't many people year-around dwelling in tiny houses or RV's, so there's not a huge market for it.

4. Living is vastly simpler

Okay, it's not for everyone, but some things have become simpler. Namely, instead of having 500 square feet (a tiny apartment) to clean, I have 200. I can vacuum, sweep, and mop my entire house in 20 minutes. Who wants to spend time cleaning a 500, 1000, 2000, or larger house as a single, young person? There are some contrasts to this, like all the things I had to invent that make this lifestyle both possible, but safe and comfortable. Once those inventions were in place, everything else became simple.

5. It's financially responsible

I have financial goals. I didn't take this project on because I'm a lazy slob. I took it on because I knew I was functional and durable enough to do this and do it right. I realized the importance of financial independence and freedom and realized that the difference between the rich and the poor is that the rich own their things outright, the poor pay huge interest rates that allow the rich to own their things outright. Not being rich myself, I realized that I had to find a lifestyle that was entirely financially sustainable and this was it for me. Did I find it? Absolutely. My financial plan includes getting a job, paying off all of my student loans, and getting a significant down payment for another house.

6. It's fun

Most people's living spaces are apartments that never seem to feel like or become "home." My space is distinctly a home space and it is my home space. It's also incredibly fun. My summers are spent rolling between friend's houses and being able to go anywhere I want without much notice or thought. How many houses have a steering wheel? Not very many, but I think more should.

7. It's bizarre (in a good way)

Some people think it's weird to live in an RV. It is -- but in an outside-the-box sort of way. Instead of dealing with shady landlords, looking at bunches of crappy apartments, and always borrowing my home space, my home space is mine. And it's all mine. Not many can say that, not even those who "own" homes with mortgages. So, is it weird to live in an RV? Maybe, if you haven't thought much about how weird it is that banks own our houses or that profiteering landlords own our apartments. I have all the same amenities as an apartment: Stove, oven, microwave, TV, stereo, toilet, shower, sink, refrigerator, freezer....

8. It's safe

Most people in apartments are at the mercy of working utilities. Not me. I have a 4,000 Watt generator (enough to run more than 60 60Watt lightbulbs at once) and backup batteries, a water tank, and waste tanks. When floods happen, people in houses abandon their houses. When floods happen to me, I drive my house to higher ground. When a furnace goes out in a house, people in apartments wait for the landlord. When the furnace goes out in my house, I turn on a couple small electric heaters and repair the furnace. Most reactions to my living situation include concern and fear for my wellbeing -- the truth is, everyone else is in bigger danger than I am, pretty much at all times. In an apartment building, neighbors can start fires that can burn the entire structure down. In my RV, I am the only one who can burn the place down.

9. It's part of a great future

Combining multiple items above, my next steps are flexible and fun. My plan is to live in the RV for one more year while I pay off a more than a decade's worth of student debt going back to when I was 18 years old, then sack a down payment for another house. I have to admit, there's a relationship element to this that makes the plan highly flexible: If I don't happen to be in a relationship at that time that warrants cohabitation, I intend to stay in the RV either until I am or until I have enough cash to pay for a house outright. Either way, the next phase for the RV after that point is the fun and great part. It becomes my cabin. Not just any cabin, but a cabin I can put in any town I like that has RV lots. What that means is that I get to drive out to my rolling cabin during summer weekends and have a base to shower and play from. It's an extra expense, but it's better than the 'bago rotting in an RV lot. And it means I have a new cabin property every year until the 'bago becomes uninhabitable. Who ever would have thunk of such a plan?

Anyway, that's a rough intro to the RV situation. Probably not a list of items that most would think of, but that's because of ridiculous cultural expectations for how to live and stereotypes created in media accounts. So few realize or can comprehend what I am doing, but as those who know me understand well, I'm not doing this because I couldn't do well at apartment living -- it's because so few could make this work as well as I do. It's free and it's financially responsible. But it's not for everyone.

Developing New Habits of Thought and New Ways of Living

I have been living in my Winnebago for a year and a half now. The things I’ve learned and the problems I’ve solved have been an incredibly fun journey. From rolling into my college town in my recently purchased ‘bago, to making my own RV skirt system in a panic while starting grad school, to weathering my first and second winters in a very harsh environment, or parking in front of friends’ houses all summer instead of paying lot rent, or even having to rebuild my furnace in sub-zero temperatures in the dead of winter, the adventure has been fun. I realize that many might not find much of that fun, but it’s fun in a different way – it’s the creation of an adventure in daily life. It’s also an entirely new connection to wilderness.

Living in the Winnebago, I have developed new habits of mind. Working quickly, but precisely. Planning for every eventuality and planning for the unknown. Being resourceful and self-sufficient. I had these skills before, but this lifestyle has led to an amplification of these skills. The threat of the elements is powerful in the place I live, so responsibility and precision are critical in all actions. Frozen pipes, flooding from frozen pipes, or malfunctioning heating systems are just an impossibility in a place that can hit negative 40 in winter.

For those in houses or apartments, isolation from the elements is essentially guaranteed. Furnaces are reliable, reliable electricity is always on hand, heating gas comes from a pipe in the ground and not a tank. The RV is just a little closer to the very environment that we isolate and insulate ourselves from in order to survive better for longer. Rather than 4-6” thick walls with fiberglass insulation, the walls are 1.5” thick Styrofoam. The vehicle is intended for 1.5 season use in mild climates, not year-around use in a place that is winter for over half the year.

Wilderness is a legal designation for a place. But the legal designation is born from a place in the collective consciousness of westerners that is different from the human or domestic space. Whether that line can ever be crossed or whether that line exists at all is a question worth pondering. Pertaining to life in a Winnebago, I am closer to whatever that wilderness might be on a daily basis only because of the fine line that exists between the risk of failure and the elements that would normally threaten life.

Am I at risk? Not really. Am I closer to “wilderness”? Maybe. But it’s not the wilderness that is designated legally. The wilderness I end up closer to is cold temperatures, frozen pipes, and a house that is almost an inside-out version of a foundation house. My water pipe is outside in open air, my sewer line hovers above the ground, and my picture windows are a windshield that is now insulated only by creatively repurposed quilts that dramatically change the r-value of the single-pane glass windshield.

I now live as naturally in a land ship as anyone else does in a brick and mortar house. It has created a new habit of thought about what a home is, what wilderness is, the role of adventure in our daily lives, and a deep understanding and respect for the fragility of life. Perhaps most of all, it has led to an understanding of the inextricable reliance on technology and energy for life in just about any place north or south of the tropics. Technology is as much a part of the human as it is the wilderness in these spaces because we could not survive here in the way we do without it. Even in a Winnebago, I am insulated from primal nature through technology and energy – I am only inches closer to whatever that environment is by choice and new ways of living that provide me the privilege to pay rent at-will and to go anywhere I want to live at a moment’s notice.

Furnace Failure and Working Backup Plans

Negative 18 degrees for a low is a bad time for a furnace to go out in any domicile. Depending on heat from a breakable system of fans, control boards, ignition systems, switches and relays is a recipe for an eventual critical situation. In an RV, the situation is slightly different because the walls are 1.5” thick Styrofoam and only retain vital heat for so long. Since I just experienced this situation, I realized it was a story worth telling. Thankfully, through all of my planning and forethought, I had backup plans in place that allowed me to experience this calmly and without damage.

The Suburban SF-30 furnace that came with my RV failed on a frigid February morning. It actually silently failed overnight, but I didn’t notice until the evening that day. The only way I noticed was that the cabin was a couple degrees colder than normal when I came home and the furnace didn’t appear to be firing. The only way the cabin wasn’t stone-cold was that I have electric heaters with thermostats that come on at a finely tuned temperature. With the electric heaters as a backup, everything was saved.

The furnace failure was quiet, but marked by obvious signs – signs which I caught onto quickly and responded to. The signs were a cooler than normal internal temperature and no sign of furnace firing when it should be. Once I realized what was going on, I entered into my first phase of emergency backup plans. The only way my first layer of backup plan was different than what I was doing anyway was to install a small, personal heater in the water compartment under the bed, so the internal water pipes didn’t freeze. The rest of the cabin was warmed by electric heaters on a supplemental basis anyway, so this one step was quite simple.

Since I realized the failure around 6pm on a February night, it had already been dark for an hour and was already quite cold – negative 11 or so when I checked. In my preparedness, I pulled on my arctic-insulated Carhartt bibs, a fleece coat, an expedition-weight down coat, a wool hat, and wool glomitts. This insulation was necessary because the furnace is accessible only from outside. I grabbed my volt meter to test relays and power to the motor, and a few other tools, and started testing the device. Before I put on my deep-cold winter gear, I looked at the manual and came up with theories for what was wrong first – the schematics give enough information to get an idea of how the device works and what could be wrong.

Truth be told, it took me a while to narrow down what went wrong, but that first night spent outside until 10pm in negative 18 degree temperatures allowed me to begin forming hypotheses to test the next day – mostly, it gave me an opportunity to familiarize myself with the device and to sleep on my experience.

The next morning, I went out and started testing my hypotheses with a written plan of things to test. I even came up with theories for what tests would determine what part(s) were the cause of the failure. Once I found tests that were falling into my range of theory of what was wrong, I was able to start gathering parts that needed replacement. My theories were pretty rough estimates at best, largely because I was unfamiliar with this device and how it worked – I had never seen the internals of the furnace before, or any RV furnace for that matter.

My tests revealed that the “time delay relay” was likely out due to a failed voltage test with the thermostat on and calling for heat. Then, the motor simultaneously was not showing continuity where and when I hypothesized that it would have continuity. Whether the motor was actually bad is something I didn’t actually care to test further – the motor was likely original and almost definitely on its last legs anyway. The furnace in my coach is 15 years old this year and I have put year-around-dwelling pressures on it. As a 12 VDC motor, it was likely to go bad any time.

Upon finding the likely candidates for failure, the next phase was to figure out how to extract the guts of the furnace to work on it and to locate parts. My location doesn’t have a parts dealer, so I had to go to the nearest city, over 40 miles away. The commuting time for such travel added roughly three to four hours to an already long day, which included a lengthy diagnosis and learning period already.

All the while, I learned that each propane-dependent device did not have its own shutoff valve. That meant that if I wanted to service the furnace, my water heater and stove become non-operational. In a full-time living situation, that’s not practical or safe. So, another project got added into the mix: The project of adding a shutoff valve to the furnace’s propane line. That also meant learning how to do this correctly and safely.

The cold snap that both triggered and increased the severity of this failure led me to have to learn systems quickly and to pick up new skills fast. I had to learn how to make flare fittings in copper gas line, how to properly install gas fittings, and how my furnace worked in order to get the right parts. Being able to pick up these skills fast was critical, but was underlain by a long history of working with vehicle electrical and mechanical systems that made these skills fast and easy to pick up.

Safety in this case was critical. Working with gas lines and valves becomes dangerous and I can only hope that I did it all as well as I think I did. Failure to set new gas fittings properly could lead to explosive consequences, which I believe I avoided by doing my work right. I suppose time will tell.

In the end, the lesson is that it is always good to have backup plans on top of backup plans and to respond quickly and effectively to these kinds of critical failures. When I rebuilt the furnace, I made sure to clean every part, lubricate anything that moves, and to preemptively replace something if it is destined for failure. The blower motor and the time delay relay had to be replaced, which required a nearly total disassembly and reconditioning of the furnace. The time delay relay was even discontinued, but I was saved by the presence of an aftermarket model that will likely outlast the original by a number of years. In the end, I spent hours outside in sub-zero temperatures, but was never uncomfortable or concerned for my safety through extensive preparation for such an event. I had hoped that I would never have to see such a circumstance, but now that I have, I realize that my preparations were fantastically appropriate and that it could have been worse and I would have been unscathed. That’s a pretty incredible statement considering the complexity of the job and the weather extremes that I was faced with.

A Home Doesn't Have To Be A House

After a year and a half in the Winnebago, I realize that it's now the place I call home. Not the town I live in, the trailer lot, or even my own little lot. The lot isn't my own and my connection to the town, though solidified in my history as an important one, is a fleeting connection. Upon completion of my degree, I will only likely return to visit remaining friends, a walk around campus, or lunch at a familiar establishment for memories. The Winnebago has become home -- which is nice because home can now be anywhere the wind takes me.

When I look back on how this project got started and how it has continued, I realize that I have done something unique, fun, and have done it all very well. In that, I've turned a recreational vehicle into a full-time living arrangement that actually works. I guess I can't scream victory yet, but after something like 600 days spent in my 26 foot rolling home, I'm actually happier than the day I moved into it.

One reason this life experiment has been so great is that it has social, economic, and personal dimensions that I didn't necessarily anticipate.When I started, I thought I would become a pariah for living in an RV and that people would find a way to look down on me. The entire opposite has been true. Instead, I spent a lot of time dragging myself down as if this was a too strange of a choice to fit in with the rest of society, but my experience has been overwhelmingly positive. The economic potential of the project has been fantastic -- though expensive over a short term, I walked into this with a 3-year plan in mind. That third year was intended to pay off all of my student debt.

The personal dimensions of the project have grown with me over time. Looking back to the beginning, the plan was born from the economic instability of the late '00s and a clear need to change my view of my own financial picture based on the national shakedown that was occurring. One thing I realized was that my Grandparent's generation didn't seem to be in as much trouble as my own generation is projected to be in for. I spent hours, days, and months churning over how to create financial stability out of a system that appeared to be heading toward greater and greater instability.

My answer to the question of how to deal with likely economic hardship in my future was to look back to the past. When I look at the humble beginnings of my Grandparents, I realized that they had it right: Live simply and within your means early in life. While the idea was not directly hatched from this inspiration, it was part of my cultural memory and something I had heard from time to time growing up -- Grandma and Grandpa lived in a tiny trailer with wheels when they were in college and a few years following. They had it right: They lived within their means.

Living within one's means is a very subjective concept today. Loans, mortgages, and easy money make borrowing a very simple and powerful financial tool. But I realized that debt makes my skin itch, it brings down my psyche, and keeps me chained to payments. In today's world, debt is unavoidable for all, but the well-to-do. But I aimed to minimize being tied to such a system as much as I possibly could and I am doing it all through personal interest, familial inspiration, and skills that I have uncontrollably embedded in me from my family.

The system isn't perfect. It isn't even always fun. Sometimes, it could even be dangerous -- many of these systems aren't meant for extreme conditions and year around, continuous use. Given that it has worked great so far, one of the greatest things I've learned is that a home isn't a house -- a home is a space. It's a state of mind. And it is the peace that comes from security, safety, and the creation of memories that will last a lifetime. My house isn't perfect, it's even a little odd. It's an idea born from my parent's parents, but it has led me to realize that you can't buy a home -- you can only buy a house, but it's the way you live and think about the space that makes it a home.

Negative 31 Degrees Fahrenheit

According to the National Weather Service, my location hit negative 31 degrees Fahrenheit for the low during a cold snap. It was negative 31 for only a couple hours in the early morning, but then the highs the following day were not even above zero. The days surrounding had similar lows in the negative 24 to negative 28 degree range. Trailers in my neighborhood were flooding the streets from frozen and cracked pipes. University buildings were suffering frozen pipes. And many other houses in the town had frozen pipes. I didn’t! 

My winterizing work really got tested during this cold snap and it all turned out to be a smashing success. My remake of my heated water hose turned out to be great. It should be good down below negative 40, but hot water came out of my faucet after negative 30, so that’s a major win.

Because of the ultra-cold temps, I did drain my tanks before the snap and pour RV antifreeze into the waste tanks. The purpose of this was to keep the pipes and valves from freezing and splitting. Since the water closet compartment is heated by both the furnace and an electric heater, I wasn’t worried, but wanted to cover all bases. Whether it was necessary to add RV antifreeze, I’m not sure, but my guess is that it didn’t hurt. 

Inside the coach, I was able to keep it at 59 degrees F even during the coldest moments in the night because of the good insulation that this model has and because of my use of both a propane furnace and electric heaters to supplement the propane furnace. My electric heaters were set to their lowest setting and I only use them to spread heat and to keep the furnace from running constantly. At their lowest setting, the two electric heaters consume 725 W. That’s more energy than I would care to admit is needed, but in the grand scheme it’s a tiny amount of energy to heat a house in negative 30 degree F temperatures.  

I made it through the first major cold snap with ease. The problem is that winter had not even arrived when these temps arrived – it was still fall. So, as winter begins and then progresses, we’ll see how many more of those ultra-cold days are still in store. The condition that has me concerned is the possibility of the power going out during a major cold snap. If the power goes out, I have an emergency plan in place, but it will require me to be home for the outage and to recognize the outage in time. In double-digit negative temperatures and a power outage, my heated water hose has about 15 minutes before ice crystals will start forming in the pipe.

Tiny Houses Make the News, RV's Don't

Browsing Facebook, I came across an NPR story, "Architect's Dream House: Less Than 200 Square Feet." The story is about an architect who lost her house to foreclosure and couldn't get another mortgage. She decided to build a "tiny house" by herself and spend only $11,000 on it. Her house is now under 200 square feet. Great idea!

The thing that caught my ear was that she lives in Idaho and said that she didn't live in an RV because RV's aren't built for the climate. I beg to differ.

The tiny house movement is great and it's a step in the right direction for bucking big banks, life-long mortgages, and rent-market ripoffs, but why all the new materials? There are RV's bigger than this lady's tiny house sitting on lots, rotting, all over the country. With a few nifty inventions, the right RV is good down to at least negative 31 Fahrenheit by my experience.

My gripe here is that when people build something resembling a house on a flatbed trailer, it makes NPR. When someone repurposes a Winnebago, people get dismissed as redneck, trailer trash. Is it because people have been re-purposing RV's for decades in situations of individual poverty? Is it because it's now stylish to try to buck the system by living in a tiny house? It seems that there are some class issues and stereotypes at work for how these sorts of lifestyles are covered.

My RV-dwelling choice is rooted directly from the tiny house movement -- I just chose to repurpose something that already existed and was going to just go to waste, rather than building something new with new building materials. Gladly, I won't be making the news, but it sure is odd that the well-to-do build a house on a flatbed and it makes news, but those of us recycling and doing the exact same thing for the same reasons get no such attention -- instead we just get assigned a stereotype.

Here's the article, it's well worth checking out:

http://www.npr.org/2013/12/27/257560971/architects-dream-house-less-than-200-square-feet