A Spin Across the West with an Airstream in Tow

From the June 2021 issue of Car and Driver.

“This isn’t working,” said my wife, Dana, as the Airstream filling our rearview mirror waved like a flag in the absurd winds that often blow across this stretch of desert interstate. “Small movements. Don’t fight it,” I replied as if I knew what to do. But the massive pendulum hitched to the GMC Sierra 1500 had already found a swinging rhythm. “Shit,” my reliably imperturbable, confident life mate exhaled while fruitlessly sawing at the steering wheel. “Oh shit . . .”

There’s a pandemic. Go Google it. Whole dang year long and still going. And like everyone else’s, my family’s lives feel stalled. Cabin fever, boredom, irritability, and generalized anxiety seep from the unchanging walls that confine us every second, every hour, every day. The sheer frustration of immobility drove us to do something drastic.

“It’s about time we did this,” Dana remarked after I persuaded C/D that borrowing an Airstream trailer and heading up through the Mountain West would be worthwhile. “You never want to go anywhere. I want to go everywhere.” She drew up an itinerary that called for 10 days on the road from Santa Barbara, California, to the gates of Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and then back home. We were headed to one of America’s great treasures by way of another great American treasure: the interstate system and all it has inspired. Along the way, we’d stay in Walmart lots as often as possible. Or at Cracker Barrels. Or whatever was free, cheap, or easy.

“We’re going to hit the wall,” Dana groaned with resignation as the GMC’s tires broke traction and the combined contraption pivoted around the trailer hitch and across three lanes. “Stay loose,” I advised. The noise barrier that borders the freeway loomed large in the windshield. “Let the airbags do their job.” I imagined a mile-long pileup back to the Carl’s Jr. in Barstow where we’d waited out the winds minutes earlier. We should have waited longer.

The Airstream Classic is the polished-aluminum embodi­ment of American wanderlust. The top of Airstream’s travel-trailer line, the model I borrowed stretches 31 feet, three inches long; has a claimed dry weight of 7788 pounds; can sleep up to five; and, with a base price of $161,900, is decidedly not free. It’s a condominium on four alloy wheels. The Classic looked majestic waiting for us at Airstream Los Angeles. Neither of us had ever been RVing before, much less towed such a lengthy beast for so long.

Deputy director of testing K.C. Colwell warned that a half-ton truck wouldn’t be enough mule to pull the Classic, but nevertheless I borrowed a $66,320 GMC Sierra 1500 AT4 powered by a new turbo-diesel inline-six to lug the portable Marriott. At an Idaho truck stop, our traveling circus weighed in at 14,380 pounds. While that is below the GMC’s gross combined weight rating of 15,000 pounds, the trailer-tongue weight had overloaded the GMC’s rear axle, a condition that certainly contributed to Dana’s spin. Please don’t tell her it was my fault.

“We didn’t hit anything!” Dana exhaled. Sure, the truck was facing the wrong way, but everyone behind us had seen what was happening and prepared accordingly. “I’m done driving,” Dana declared.

“There’s city water, which is the hose going into the unit,” our neighbor Larry patiently explained on our first night, which we spent at Malibu Beach RV Park. “And you got greywater, which is wastewater from the kitchen sink and shower. Then there’s black­water, and that comes from the toilet. There’s battery power, generator power, and shore power, which is electricity you plug into.”

You don’t just own an RV or a travel trailer. You go RVing, similar to how you might go kayaking or climb Denali. This is a hobby, and if you’re going to enjoy it, you have to overcome a learning curve, because even in the Taj Airstream, you’re responsible for the sewage.

“Look, the screen in the trailer says the tire pressures are screwed up,” Dana noted that first night. “I’ll handle that. You take care of draining the blackwater.”

With traffic-control help from the gracious people who witnessed our pirouette, I took the driver’s seat and swung the rig across three lanes, righting the ship. Heading to the first exit, I tried to break the lingering tension. “You know,” I said to Dana, who was holding her head in her hands, “you won’t be able to criticize my driving for the rest of the trip.” With an incredulity perfected over 22 years of marriage, she shot back, “The hell I won’t.”

After a night enjoying the same Malibu view that Leo DiCaprio has, we continued on our way, hoping to make it beyond Las Vegas. But our J-turn on the highway in Barstow kept us away from the glowing temptations of the Strip. Instead, we boondocked under a giant Carl’s Jr. sign and between two semis. The romance of the road.

We returned to the highway the next morning, setting the gun-shy pace of a rookie spooked by snap oversteer. Driving a truck with a heavy trailer is the opposite of lapping a sports car. Instead of diving into every corner, braking as late as possible, rotating at the apex, and then bolting out, this dance requires braking way early, circum­navigating the apex, and crawling out, in our case using every last one of the 460 pound-feet of torque from the 3.0-liter diesel.

By the time we made it to Wyoming four days later, I was getting pretty good at truck-and-trailer management. And Dana had knit a sweater. Nerves had settled as we put miles between us and Barstow, but disconnecting the Sierra AT4 from the trailer still felt utterly liberating. We bounded along fire roads with the Tetons as a backdrop and thumped through small towns to hit up the shops that fascinate my wife and befuddle me.

We should have spent less time on the road and more time parked and exploring without the trailer. With its queen-size bed, two TVs, full kitchen, and radiant-heating system, the Classic was always comfortable, even though we never managed to get it to spit out anything other than lukewarm water.

It was a spin and win. A walkaround revealed that the truck and trailer were undamaged. We’d had our miracle. But our cups and dishes were now shards. “Hey,” Dana exclaimed, “let’s go to Pottery Barn!”

The winds picked up as we headed down the California coast toward home. Having learned this lesson already, we waited them out in San Juan Bautista. Opening the Classic unleashed a small flood from inside. The kitchen faucet had fallen off and spewed nearly the entire contents of the freshwater tank. Fortunately, we were next to the Betabel RV Park, which offered the luxury of full hookups.

In all, we averaged 14 mpg over 3049 miles, which left us feeling as smug as a Prius driver. The Sierra may have been operating beyond its intended limits, but the turbo-diesel inline-six and 10-speed automatic performed brilliantly.

Days earlier, at the Fireside Resort in Wyoming, our neighbor Kathleen had been sleeping alone in her Nissan Rogue. “It’s enough for me,” she told us, sitting in a chair as the snow came down.

There’s an axiom that Americans buy vehicles to do what they hope to do, not for what they actually do. That’s unfair. The country is full of people using everything from Nissan Rogues to Newell motor mansions to do exactly what they want. Americans work hard for a reason, and it’s not so they can afford to commute in leather-lined frustration. A hunger for adventure runs through the cars and trucks and toys we buy. Because Americans have two homes: the one where we park and the road.

Towing the Line

Safe towing isn’t just about keeping your trailer below the vehicle’s weight limits. Pearley’s truck-and-trailer combo came in under the Sierra’s 15,000-pound gross combined weight rating, but he still surpassed the trailer-weight limit by not using a weight-distribution hitch. Don’t pull a Pearley. Read the owner’s manual and check your axle weights before you’re 1000 miles from home.

Where We Stayed

• Malibu Beach RV Park (Malibu, California): The cheapest way to live like Cher.

• Carl’s Jr. (Barstow, California): It was there when we needed it.

• Cracker Barrel (Springville, Utah): Woke up to a full lot.

• Walmart (Meridian, Idaho): “The best thing about Walmarts,” Dana concluded, “is that the lots are flat.”

• Friend’s driveway (Eagle, Idaho): Household current barely kept the Airstream’s lights on.

• Fireside Resort (Wilson, Wyoming): After we roughed it without hookups, the shore power and city water were luxurious.

• Rest area (middle of nowhere, Nevada): The Airstream was a silver hot dog parked in a tractor-trailer bun.

• Betabel RV Park (San Juan Bautista, California): This sweet spot was right where we pulled off when the winds got nasty.