Out Of Georgia. Tribulations. Bad Sentences.

The photo in the last post captioned 'Forrest Gump's Alabama' represents only a miniscule snapshot of the marathon drive back to Texas after finishing in Albany. We set a personal best that trip; we hauled our house EIGHT HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIVE MILES that day, all the way to Greenville in North Texas, before calling calf-rope. Conclusion: fifteen hours is way too much, and there is a darned good reason why most RVers cap their travels at about 400 miles daily.

Anyway, we arrived at the Greenville KOA at about 10PM, fighting through intermittent thunderstorms all the way across Mississippi and Louisiana, and got set up and in bed by 11. At about 30 minutes past midnight, the tornado sirens in the vicinity all sounded at once, so I unhitched the trailer in the pouring rain and we vamoosed in the truck to the dubious protection of the nearest underpass. We took a family vote, and the consensus is that we don't wanna be in that 5th-wheel when it does its impression of an upended turtle.

8AM, no visible damage to either us or the house, and back on the road; we needed to be in McKinney TX by 9 to drop off the trailer at McClain's RV (our home dealer) for some yearly maintenance (bearing pack, A/C service, seal lubrication, etc.) and minor warranty work. We still had to pick up the little Bayliner (see the post about hauling that thing all the way from Maine) and we were due at a waterfront hotel called Lake LBJ Resort that afternoon. Had a suite and a boat slip waiting, and we really needed a little break from the (inevitable, I have concluded) slight but well-defined claustrophobia resulting from living in 200 square feet...

Got to Chad's (brother-in-law) office, where boat is stored in the back lot since we brought it back. Find that Plano had BIG hail in the same storm from last night; find boat's starboard glass shattered. Boat unusable as it sits. Haul it over to Chad and Michelle's to attempt patchwork repairs. Realize that ALL MY TOOLS ARE IN THE TRAILER. Repairs, even basic ones, logistically impractical. Blood pressure, adrenaline level and heart rate spike to stratospheric heights. Give up in disgust. Call the resort; they have a ski boat we can rent. AARRGH.

Call Bryan (that's Scotty's son, for the casual reader) in Fort Worth; ask him if he wants that stupid boat. He reacts enthusiastically. Hitch up boat, dogs, suitcases and wife, and haul currently-worthless boat 60 miles. Drop off boat. Notice with mild disinterest that he really has no room for boat. Wonder vaguely what the hell he was thinking. Decide I don't care and park it in his driveway with trailer tongue blocking the (public) sidewalk in front of his house.

At last, we were on the way to the Hill Country!