I think we all know what it means when someone says “oopsie” – a mistake has been made.  And I’m guessing that you can figure out what it means when a camper refers to a “poopsie” – an unfortunate excrement error has occurred. (Last year’s urine incident doesn’t count – a mulligan on Day One of RV ownership.)

I was leaving the KOA in Cardinal this morning (which by the way, is quite the campground!  Pools, splash pads, sandcastles, pizza stand, you name it) and decided to use their dumping station at the exit. 

Unusually, it supplied its own sewer hose, instead of being expected to pull mine out.  Okey doke. Rubber gloves on, watch off.  I opened the cap on my RV and slotted on their hose. 

Now any camper will tell you – always empty the black (icky) water tank BEFORE the grey (soapy) water tank, so that the hose ends up getting a rinse out with old sink and shower water.  But my Dad always liked to start for 10 seconds or so with the grey tank outlet, just in case of any gaps in the connections.  Well thank heavens for Bill Reid, because yes, I hadn’t firmly attached the campground hose to my sewer connection, so when I opened the valve, soapy soupy water spilled all into the hose compartment.  Ugh. Just imagine if I had followed all the ‘experts’ advice & opened up the black valve first (blech – it does not bear thinking about).  So I corrected the attachment and tried again, and all was good to go. 

So not so much of a “poopsie” as a “soupsie”, still a bit gunky and gross, but a far cry from what it could have been.

(No photos)

The whole point of buying a not-too-inexpensive, Canadian-made, folding bike was so that I’d  be able to park in a Walmart or Loblaws parking lot easily in the outskirts of a town, then cycle in to do my sightseeing, shopping, etc.  Then, I’d get back to the RV, fold the bike up, and pop it into the storage compartment in the back of the rig.  It had simply never occurred to me that a bike with 18” wheels, might not easily slide into a 19” outer compartment.

Well, Jim spent a good thirty minutes in my driveway last week folding & unfolding, wriggling & jiggling, and jockeying my bike into the storage space.  I have no idea how I’m going to get it out by myself.  And now, it is taking up the room that other items could be using, dammit.

Barb suggested a bike-rack attached to the rear hitch.  Excellent idea. Off I toddled to the Canadian Tire in Morrisburg and lo and behold, they had exactly one rack for under $200 in stock.  Great – just one problem – I can’t lift said rack due to my torn rotator cuff (not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to play this woe-is-me card, but it worked in Cdn Tire!).

So I asked if a mechanic could assemble and install it for me then and there.  The clerk looked a little perplexed, but I assured him I’d pay for the time worked.  They had an opening later that afternoon, so for the first time in their Cdn Tire location’s memory, one of their mechanics stood with the instruction manual and assembled and attached a bike rack to the back of a motorhome. 

It pays to ask.

The movie was cute, but I enjoyed the book more.  If you remember, the start of each day’s diary read something like: Weight: 9 stone, 4 lbs; Cigarettes: 14; Alcohol Units: 5.   These were all numbers she felt she should be improving upon.  Well, I don’t smoke, my alcohol consumption is both low and consistent, and under no circumstances am I writing my weight down anywhere – hell, I don’t even know my weight; I don’t look when standing on the scale at the doctor’s.
But I am trying to move more and eat less – I’m walking the campground each morning.  So maybe I’ll start reporting my steps/day as a way to stay on top of them.  We’ll see how long this lasts. 

This morning: Steps: 5,123 (and it’s only 7:29am).

We’d had two weeks of great weather – granted there were a couple of hot nights, but overall sunny skies and warm weather.  On our last night that broke.  The rain started in the night – and for those of you who have been in a tent or camper in the rain, you know the lovely sound it makes, especially at night – I don’t know why, it just seems cosier.  But it did mean I was doing the morning take-down in waterproof jacket, boots, and hat.

We wanted to be in Milton at a decent hour, so BN could get home to her family, and I could get back on the road to eastern Ontario. We were on the 400 by 8:15, and in Milton by 9:30.  There had been some tense moments around Barrie & Canada’s Wonderland as the rain really intensified, but we made it unscathed.

Aside: thank you JL & BN for all your work getting my bike, bbq, etc stuffed into the compartments – not sure what I would have done without you.

I pulled out of my driveway at 11:15 and the torrential downpour started at 11:16.  Of course it did.  It was coming in waves – dear God.  Then I got a text from BN (my car plays texts aloud – all is hands-free): tornado warning.  Tornados?  Seriously?  It seems the best advice for RVers in a tornado is to shelter under an overpass. 

Okey-doke.

Now the only food I’d had all day was a spoonful of peanut butter at 7:30am. I was starving and had planned on lunching in Bowmanville.  But there was no time for food, dammit – food is for wusses, Lainey – you’re trying to outrun a tornado! So I soldiered on. 

Fortunately, by the time I hit Port Hope, all weather threats were gone.  Trenton On Route: 5-min power nap (I was tired), chicken sandwich from the convenience store, a Timmie’s coffee, and back on the highway.

But the fun was not done yet.  I was cruising in the right lane and saw a ways ahead of me that there was a white truck (bigger than a panel van, smaller that a 16-wheeler) kind of drifting on to the shoulder and/or slightly into the middle lane.  Other vehicles were going around it, but I was worried that as I overtook it, it might sway into my lane so I was hesitating.  Then I realised it didn’t have any license plate.  So I got past it, then told my car phone, “Hey Google, call OPP non-emergency phone number”, and reported the truck for reckless driving and lack of license, on the eastbound 401 at km marker 472.  (Yes, I know, I’m a clype, but seriously – he was a threat to safety)

Anyhoo, made it to the campground, made a cup of tea, and watched Last Holiday before bed.  What a day.

This is an FYI for anyone interested – do not feel obligated. But just to let you know I have finally uploaded all of last year’s blog – my first year with the RV.

It covers the purchase, my maiden voyage, the ups & downs of newbie-RVing, and, for those of you who have asked, The Great Urine Incident of 2025.

You can scroll back if interested.

Did you know Norman Bethune was born in Gravenhurst?  I didn’t.  Did you know Gravenhurst has a main street? I didn’t.

I have been to Gravenhurst many, many times, most recently staying with my cousins at Taboo resort.  Other visits included a bizarre weekend spent at my then manager’s cottage – now that is a story worth retelling, but I have spent the last 17 years trying to blot that period of my work life from my memory (horrible woman), so we shall move on – plus a wedding on the Seguin boat, and sightseeing visits every couple of summers.  For each of those visits, I never got past the Gravenhurst Wharf, so I thought that was the sum total of the town.  But it turns out that no, Gravenhorst has a bustling main street with shops, boutiques, and cafés. Who knew?  Well, presumably the locals.

We stayed in the parking lot of the Sawdust Brewery – what a terrific HH site!  The place closes at 9pm, it’s in the middle of a quiet residential neighbourhood, and the food is excellent – I strongly recommend you check it out.

And just around the corner was a large Parks Canada building, with a lot of Chinese signage – it was the Norman Bethune museum, attached to his birth home.  What an impressive museum – well worth the visit.

We also caught up with RV friends of BN & LL, who live in the condos at Taboo.  They brought us up to date on all the local scuttlebutt.

A great two-day visit, and I learned stuff, too.

About to get a tad judgy and critical here.  Yesterday evening a young family (Mum, Dad, Toddler, and Grandma) set up across the way from us.  Just before 7pm Dad started a fire in the fire pit.  Well, that’s not quite accurate. He attempted to start a fire.  The campground warning signs indicate that the locale is dry, with a Moderate chance of brush fire, the bundle of wood he picked up from the shop would have been bone dry, he had tons of newspaper, and the campsite’s firepit has a low metal ring with air holes around it.

Easy, right?  Crunch some newspaper, set on some kindling, arrange three or four split logs in a criss-cross or tent shape, and light a match.

From our dining table we could see this all playing out.  At first the lack of flame and smouldering was just mildly amusing.  But after watching him futz and fuss for hours (yes, I say hours) straight, generating nothing more than smoke (most of which seemed to go straight into Grandma’s face – his MIL, perhaps?), it became truly painful to watch.

Now I’m no Bear Grylls or Grizzly Adams, but even I, a city dweller my entire life, understand the basics of a campfire – the need for oxygen, the need for patience, the need for structure.  I know it sounds like I’m droning on about this poor guy and picking on him, but I mean really, the photo below was taken over two hours after he had started the fire, and this was it at its peak.

They should offer lessons, or pamphlets showing the best fire layout. 

People are different. And that’s a good thing.  My sister has a friend from school whose career was that of high school English teacher and whose hobby is metal working.  He makes the most amazing swords, blades, and decorations.  He made my sister a metal penguin for her garden and she commissioned him to make me a giant hedgehog.  Granted, she hadn’t expected it to have 80 2” cast iron spikes on its back – we named it the Hedgehog of Death and until recently, the Hedgehog of Death has lived where he could not impale or blind anyone.  Now that Scout is gone, it has a place of honour under the pear tree in my back yard.

But the high school teacher whose work we saw yesterday takes unusual hobbies to a whole new level – if ever you are driving north on the 11 and have an hour (or more) to spare, you must check out the Screaming Heads of Burk’s Falls.

A massive field (well, fields, really) of metal geodesic domes, carved stone buildings, concrete animals & hands, and acres & acres of concrete screaming heads.  Don’t miss it.

So far on this trip I’ve booked the Chi Cheemaun Ferry for the wrong day, told BN our trip was ending on the wrong day, confused the towns of Sundridge & Katrine when planning sightseeing, and spent the last three days convinced we were spending tonight at a full-amenities campsite.  Wait, not so fast on that last one, Lainey.

We have Environment Canada warning us of an impending heat wave, but not to worry, our Parry Sound KOA has electricity, and we have AC.  Again I say, Wait.

It suddenly popped into my head – we’re not at a KOA. We’re staying in the parking lot of a brewery right in the middle of Parry Sound.  Crap.  Will there be complaints about our generator?  What about our AC? Will we melt in the 26+ degree nighttime heat?

I can’t.  I just can’t do it.  And BN feels the same way.  But, I may well be getting a reputation as the Harvest Host member who keeps cancelling (I refer you to last year’s broken toe and broken generator, both of which caused me to cancel several HH stays).  At each one I cancelled at least 48 hours in advance, but a point comes where that many cancellations could count against you.  But it’s hot. Really hot.  So we formed a cunning plan – a plan so cunning you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel (IYKYK).

Step One: I quickly booked us in last minute at the local KOA.  Step Two: we headed over to the HH brewery/pub we are expected to stay at.  We identified ourselves to the host, who confirmed our parking spot.  Barb asked when the pub closes (10pm) and re-opens (11am) and then most disingenuously said, “Oh, I hope it’s okay that we come back later than 10pm tonight; we’re visiting friends and will be quite late.”  The host assured us that would be no problem and nodded when I said we’d probably be gone by the time they came to work the following morning.

Now the main reason companies agree to be hosts is so that people will buy their products. Hence Step Three: we picked up a selection of their craft beers and made sure the cashier knew we were Harvest Hosting. 
Step Four: we toddled off (purportedly to visit our ‘friends’) to the full-amenities KOA, set up camp, turned on the AC, and popped a bottle of sparkling wine.

And finally, Step Five: to fully reinforce our deception, I have just left a glowing review of the brewery on HH’s website, confirming that we appreciated that we were allowed to return late at night to the parking spot and take off first thing in the morning.  (Technically these are not outright lies; everything I said was true. And the main thing is: the brewery got our business and a 5-star review, I kept my HH guest status intact, and we slept comfortably through the night. So sue me.)

After a delightfully tranquil day at the KOA in Sturgeon Falls, it was time to move on.  BN packed up inside; I unhooked the outside and slid in the slide outs.  Then I did what I always do, I picked up my Leaving Check List and went from the back of the RV to the front, checking off each item as I went.

We pulled out of the site and slowly drove out of the campground.  Something sounded a tad odd, but I feel that way most days when I first start driving.  BN heard a different noise and then out of my window I saw a man (which his shorts only half done up, I might add) haring along behind us, waving frantically.

I rolled down the window and he pantingly gasped, “Your awning is out.” OMFG.

So much for the checklist. It was bound to happen. But it will not happen again.