After an exhausting day of oil leaks, nervous moments, long hours examining the underside of the Jeep and yet more driving, I poured myself into a bed in Pooler, Georgia. It felt great to know that one more potential problem had been solved though, and that I was only a 45 minute drive from the trailer. I’d hitch up at 10 the next morning.

7:30 a.m: Sun up. I headed straight for the South Carolina border, passing the exit to Hilton Head Island and crossing several bridges through Low Country, as it’s called. Soon I was at TrailerWorks, in Beaufort, South Carolina.

There it sat. I imagined it looked almost identical to the day it rolled off the assembly lines in Jackson Center, Ohio – the 102nd Globe Trotter built in 1962. The original owner, an apparently meticulous man from North Canton, OH, had kept everything tucked away in the drawers and closets throughout the trailer. The original warranty, manuals for the fridge and oven, even a catalog with black and white photos of every accessory that could be bought for an Airstream.

I wandered the lot for a few minutes, taking photos of the other trailers in varying states of completion and decay. While some were shiny and modernized, and others gutted and useful only for parts.. ours had a wonderful “untouched” quality about it.

The employees and I hitched it up to the Jeep and stood back; half gauging how everything was sitting, half just plain admiring the setup. “Back of the Jeep is a bit low – let’s try again with the weight bars cinched tighter. Better.”

I tightened the tow mirrors onto the fenders, made about dozen little hops in and out of the driver’s seat to minimize the blind spots, and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. It felt great, like these two belonged together all along. A minor problem with the wiring of the trailer’s brakes was soon fixed down the road, and then I rolled onto the highway – towards North Carolina, and home.

The remainder of the trip was pleasantly uneventful in any dramatic sense. The first night was my first ever in a trailer. I pulled into a Wal Mart parking lot in Asheville, NC and grabbed 7 hours of sleep. (Wal Mart parking lots are a rite of passage for modern RV’ers.) The next day I got to see what I’d driven through the night before: the Blue Ridge Mountains. After several tunnels carved through mountains, switchbacks and countless beautiful valleys with little streams and farms, I drove through Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, and finally home: Chicago. It was almost 1 a.m., but it felt fantastic to be back – even after hitting every single pothole on Lake Shore Drive.

We’re looking forward to spending plenty of time in our little rolling vacation home this summer. Even Nell loves this thing, literally leaping inside to claim the front couch as her own. I guess when you’ve got your dog’s stamp of approval, you’re in good shape.

Just as I was leaving for Texas, my mom sent us this incredible sweater tailored to Nell’s svelte dimensions. Say that ten times fast.

Mom is not only unmatched when it comes to knitting, crocheting and being a wonderful teacher of both – but she also adores our greyhound even though they haven’t met. The result is “the perfect storm” of handmade crafts: a special, elegant piece that will always remind Melissa and me of Mom’s love.. and limitless talent.

There’s a matching snood which we didn’t have with us this morning, but I’ll get a shot of that posted soon – it’s really worth seeing.

When the oil drip had compounded to a certain point, it threatened to seize the entire engine. The situation crystalized in just a few seconds on a mostly empty highway in Georgia: the high speed knocking sound that I’d tried to convince myself was there all along suddenly snapped into focus. A passing semi momentarily blocked the low sun in my rear view mirror, letting me see the wisps of smoke frantically swirling out the back window. I immediately looked at my oil pressure gauge and saw the needle plummeting.

In a single moment I looked up, saw an exit and veered towards it, not even knowing if there was so much as a gas station at the bottom.

Luckily, there was – down the road about a mile. Throwing open the hood, a sick feeling came over me as I listened to the hissing engine – black oil spattered over the freshly painted valve covers and new spark plug wires.

Calling the handwritten number in the window of the gas station, I interrupted a father of three as he was sitting down to his Sunday dinner. Explaining my situation and assuring him he shouldn’t hurry over, he nevertheless rolled into the gas station 10 minutes later and crawled under the Jeep. I already felt a thousand times better, even without knowing what had gone wrong.

A few grunts, disconcerting hmmms and mutterings later, he’d cleaned off the bottom of the oil-soaked engine and poured fresh oil into the top. I drove it up the country road and back, and we shimmied underneath once again to look for the source of my leak.

“I’m thinkin’ a bad gasket on this oil pan,” he said in a matter-of-fact drawl, pointing to where it connected to the engine case. He proceeded to say that I’d be back on the road in a couple hours. “Follow me, I’ve got a lift over at my place.”

Did he ever. Bouncing along two miles of bumpy, rutted mud road past little shacks and double-wides, I couldn’t imagine what kind of facilities to expect. But sure enough, I emerged from a canopy of trees into a clearing where he’d hopped out and was waving me into an old, low-slung barn. Inside was a poured concrete floor and bright blue hydraulic lift, obviously his pride and joy. A southern rebel flag hung limply in the quiet evening, and the mechanic’s two young boys ran up to me, the younger of which had his arm in a camouflage-patterned cast.

“Fell outta that boat,” he said pointing towards the large pond when I asked about his broken arm, adding, “the boat wasn’t in the water when I fell out, though.” The older boy, about 9, came over wearing a rubber monster mask and a plastic sheriff’s badge. I thought to myself, “These kids probably aren’t used to much company stopping by.”

So there I stood for the next three hours, having the entire underside of my new truck explained to me by this young dad – bolt by rusty bolt. We removed and cleaned the gunk and sediment out of the oil pan, examined the inside of the engine block and the timing chain, checked the fluid levels in the front and rear axles and even the air pressure in the tires… for good measure.

As the sun dipped below the trees and large mayflies began clumsily bouncing off our arms and legs, we buttoned everything up and I was on my way. I cranked up whatever static-laced gospel music I could find to keep me company, and swore that no matter what – if the engine in this thing was running… I was picking up that damn trailer the next day.

Meet the new Airstream tomorrow!