Years ago when my husband and I were first married, we’d take road trips to camp, backpack or stay in motels along the way as we wended our way to faraway destinations.  Over the years, he drove a Cadillac Seville, a Chevy pick up, a Lincoln Continental, a Mercedes Benz, and most memorable of all, an El Camino he bought off a job site for $1.00 that wouldn’t die.  (In fact, the El Camino departed our family when it was stolen off a Bart parking lot in the East Bay.) 

Back then, he’d ogle RV’s rolling down the open highway usually operated by an older gent in a baseball cap.  “Someday I’d like to buy one of those little beauties and travel around the USA!” he’d say.

“Not me,” I’d reply.  “I’d hate that.  Cooped up in a box on wheels.  Staying in KOA campgrounds.  Cooking on a little stove.  Wearing matching jackets and caps.  Yuck, how boring.  I’ll never do that.  Count me out.”

Fast-forward almost twenty-five years to last January when we flew to Tucson, Arizona, and rented a car to travel south through the desert, head east through hot springs country to Truth or Consequences and then back up to Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Our plan included stops along the way to renew bonds with old friends who had relocated to the glorious southwest.

In Tubac, Arizona, almost to Nogales on the border, we visited Don and Mary who had hand built an adobe on a five-acre parcel carved out of an open range cattle ranch where the doggies still roam and the tumbleweeds blow.

After they showed us their house and we visited awhile, Don couldn’t wait to reveal their new acquisition.  “Come on,” he said.  “Wait till you see this.  Oh, baby, she’s one sweet ride.”

He led us around the property, skirting by a small trailer pulled up snug to the adobe and glinting under the winter sun.  In fact, she looked tiny under the vast blue sky.  We read her insignia, in royal blue letters,  “Airstream Bambi.”

Unexpectedly I remembered a Bambi from years ago that had been on display at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco.  As part of a Form and Function exhibition, Design Within Reach had polished the little Airstream to a mirror shine and renovated her interior.  My sister and I climbed aboard and oohed and ahhed at her retro chic and  seamless fit of all the necessities of a wanderer’s life on the road—bed, bath, kitchen and sitting area.   She was even outfitted with a striped awning that pulled out to make an outdoor shady spot for relaxing.

Don hurried by the Bambi.

Ron called out.  “Hey, Don, what’s this?”

“That’s our old rig,” Don answered over his shoulder.  “It’s for sale.  Check out our new one, a Safari
Airstream.  Much bigger and better.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mary said under her breath.  “We’ll have to see about that.”

Ron and I lingered by Bambi’s side.  A warm gust of sage-scented wind blew off the mesa.  It wasn’t exactly love at first sight.  But it was close. Bambi’s rounded curves gleamed, a royal blue running stripe circled her smooth aluminum skin.  Engraved on a small oval metal disc near the door, we read, “70th Anniversary Edition, 1931-2001.”  My protestations of “never” flickered and faded.

After admiring their new purchase, we wandered back across the road. Don and Mary unlocked Bambi’s door and gave us a tour.  I stood mutely inside the interior.  Even with the four of us, the floor plan was cozy, not cramped.  Not only was she just as I had remembered, but Don had outfitted her with a state of the art sound system, television and even a solar panel.  Although the cabinets and upholstery weren’t Design Within Reach issue, Mary had kept her spotless.  Second owners, they had traveled all through the states with Bambi while searching for a location for their new home.

I looked at Ron.  He looked at me.  He raised his eyebrows.  I shrugged.  By the time my foot hit the dirt and Don locked the door behind us, the words popped out of my mouth.  I guided Ron aside while Don and Mary walked toward the porch.  “What do you think?” I asked.  All the hotel and motel rooms we had rented, inns and lodges we had stayed in, homes and cabins we had leased, airplanes we had flown in, trains and boats we had booked, somehow shrank in comparison to Bambi’s charms.

“You like it?” he said, surprise breaking across his face.

“Pretty cute,” I answered.  “Behind the wheel we could be in command of our destiny.  Gone would be the disappointment of air travel, lumpy beds, noisy neighbors, lukewarm showers and bad food.” 

“I could hitch it to the truck,” he said. 

“We could take off in an instant, let our noses lead us, perfect the art of slow travel,” I said.
“We could tow her to state parks or federal lands in the dessert, up into the mountains or by the ocean,” he said.

“I’d cook nutritious and tasty meals.  And when the spirit moved us we could dine out.”

“Why not,” he said.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

“Hey, Don, wait up,” Ron said.  “How much do you want for this rig?”


In March, we met Don and Mary in Palm Springs to fetch Bambi.  After a few days of visiting poolside in a mid-century motel, and getting lined out on all the mechanical features, it was time to shove off on our own.  We hooked Bambi to Ron’s Toyota Tundra, waved good by to our friends, and headed for the Bay Area. We drove straight through for twelve hours.   Why we didn’t stop, I’ll never know.  Maybe we just wanted to get her home and ponder what we had done. 

While I stood outside on the street in the dark giving Ron hand signals, he backed her expertly into the site of a former shed under the oak trees at the bottom of our 1880 property. Bambi fits into that space just like it was meant for her. 

In April we set off to Santa Cruz for Sunset State Beach on a maiden voyage.  People honked and waved from their cars as we rolled down the coast.  The occasion was our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  Ron claims he knew when we purchased Bambi that the giving of silver marks twenty-five years of marriage. 

In the hush of a sherbet sunset in the Dunes campground, I cooked a simple gourmet meal of canned brown beans, Nieman Ranch hot dogs and fresh corn on the cob.  Ron popped a bottle of Champagne.  On the couch next to the table I snuggled up to him as we gazed out the window across the deserted campground through the pine trees to the top of a misty rise that led to the beach.  “This is very nice,” I said.  “How do you think the KOA campground would compare?”

“I’ll never figure you out,” he said, pulling me closer.


        Sunset State Beach:  http://www.santacruzstateparks.org/parks/sunset

        Airstream Travel Trailers:  http://www.airstream.com

    Photo's Courtsey Christie Nelson
Ó Christie Nelson 2008