Our First Day in the RV (What Went Wrong and What Went Right)

They say the first day of RV life is always the hardest. What they don’t tell you is just how heavy it feels when you realize that the dream you’ve been chasing might slip through your fingers before it even begins.

We thought our journey would start with excitement, maybe a few nerves, and the kind of joy you remember forever. Instead, it began with exhaustion, a crash that rattled our bones, and a long, silent drive into the unknown.

This is the story of how our dream nearly collapsed on day one.

The Countdown

We had a plan. Leave the house by noon, maybe two at the latest. That would give us a three-and-a-half-hour cushion to drive south and roll into the campground with the last of the daylight.

But leaving a house for the last time is never simple.

The morning stretched into chaos. Scrubbing floors that had collected years of dust and dirt. Hauling heavy bins to storage until our backs ached. Watching as strangers from a charity company carried out our couches, our bedframes, and the dining table where we’d once lingered for hours. Every task took longer than it should have, and each minute felt heavier than the last.

By the time we finished, sweat-soaked and weary, the clock mocked us: 4 PM.

Sunset was at 7.

We had already lost the race. And yet, underneath the frustration, there was still excitement humming like an engine waiting to start. This was it. This was the beginning. Nothing could stop us now.

Or so we thought.

The Crash

The neighbors had gathered, curious and kind. They waved, offering well wishes as we prepared to roll away. One even raised their phone to record what should have been our triumphant moment—our official sendoff.

I checked the hitch, tugged forward just enough to feel the resistance. Solid. Secure. We were ready.

We climbed into the cab, hearts pounding but smiles wide. The truck growled to life. I eased forward.

And then it happened.

BANG.

The sound was sharp, violent—like a gunshot in the still air. The truck convulsed beneath us. My chest tightened as if the world had caved in.

We slammed to a stop. The silence that followed was deafening.

When we stepped out, the sight made my stomach twist. The fifth wheel had dropped.

The nose of our brand-new home lay pressed against the truck bed rails, metal gouging into metal. Both sides dented inward, the tailgate scarred and crumpled. It looked like someone had taken a hammer to our fresh start.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

And then came the worst part: our neighbor had caught it all on camera. The milestone memory we thought we were leaving with turned into a reminder of one of our biggest mistakes.

The moment our fifth wheel broke free and crashed down on the truck, captured by our neighbor.

We scrambled to lower the jacks, lifting the RV off the truck’s wounds. When the pressure lifted, I braced myself for the worst. But somehow, by some miracle, the RV was untouched. The truck was battered but still drivable.

Relief collided with shame. I had done the tug test, but I had left the front chocks in place. The RV hadn’t budged, and I had convinced myself it was locked in. A rookie mistake, plain and simple.

A mistake that left scars in the metal—and in my pride.

The Long Drive Into Darkness

We didn’t say much after that. The truck hummed down the highway, but inside the cab, it was quiet. Just the sound of tires and the steady drum of doubt.

Three and a half hours stretched like a lifetime. Every mile carried the weight of what had happened. Every bump in the road made me flinch.

By the time we pulled into Encore Pioneer Village in North Fort Myers, night had swallowed the world whole. It wasn’t just dark—it was the kind of black that makes the air feel thicker, heavier, almost alive.

We pulled the welcome packet from the after-hours box and studied the map under the weak glow of the cab light. The paper felt flimsy in my hands. The lines blurred.

We drove slowly, straining to see street signs that hid in the shadows. We passed our road once, then circled back through lanes so narrow they felt like traps. The RV loomed behind us, hulking and unfamiliar, every turn a test we weren’t sure we’d pass.

And then we found it. Our site. Tight. Narrow. No light to guide us. The kind of challenge that feels almost cruel when you’re already worn thin.

This was it—our very first attempt at backing in.

Failure didn’t feel like an option.

We steadied ourselves. Breathed deep. Moved slow. And with a little luck—and some neighborly training on how to back up the RV we’d been given a few days earlier—we eased the rig into place. The wheels kissed the curb, the RV straightened, and for the first time all day, we exhaled.

Leveled. Hooked up. Alive.

The Emotions That Lingered

We sat there in silence, surrounded by darkness and the faint hum of campground life around us.

The weight of the day pressed down—scrubbing, hauling, rushing, breaking, driving. The truck bore the scars, and so did our spirits.

There was no laughter that night. Only relief that we had made it. Only exhaustion. Only the quiet realization that this life we had chosen wasn’t going to give us easy victories.

But in the morning, with the sun warming the RV and the night behind us, perspective began to seep in. The truck was dented, but it worked. The RV was untouched. And we had survived our trial by fire.

What We Learned That Night

• Slow down. Rushing leads to mistakes that can leave scars.

• Check everything. Twice. Especially your hitch. The tug test isn’t just a routine—it’s your lifeline.

• Don’t overload departure day. Moving out, cleaning, donating, and then towing an RV? Too much.

• Arrive before dark. Shadows hide everything.

Most importantly, we learned that RV life isn’t about perfection. It’s about patience. It’s about persistence. It’s about learning when things go wrong—and they will go wrong. It’s about exploring new places, embracing the adventure even when it’s hard, and meeting amazing people along the way who remind you why it’s worth it.

Final Word

Our first day was messy. Stressful. Painful. And unforgettable.

It wasn’t the smooth start we wanted, but it was the beginning we needed.

Because RV life isn’t just about the miles you drive—it’s about the moments that test you, the mistakes that teach you, and the strength you find when you push forward anyway.

And on that first night, battered truck and all, we discovered something important: the journey had truly begun.