We rolled out of Hocking Hills under a steady October drizzle. Ohio weather can’t make up its mind, and this day was proof. What started as a simple three-hour drive to General RV in Canton turned into a soggy, windshield-wiper marathon. This was our third trip trying to get the refrigerator fixed. Third time’s the charm? Not quite. On the previous second visit techs said it was the controller. After replacing the controller six hours later, they came back with the update every traveler dreads: “It’s not the controller. The refrigerator’s shot.” The only thing cooling was my patience. Another five-and-a-half-hour return trip now sits on our calendar. Life with a house on wheels means the repairs roll right along with you. But, wait, there’s more.
By the time we pulled into Nimisila Reservoir Metro Park, night had swallowed the day. The rain kept falling, and our headlights danced off the wet pavement like disco lights at a funeral. The park was pitch dark—no glowing campsite numbers, just a black forest in the rain. We crept through the loops like a couple of raccoons looking for a trash can until, by some act of mercy, a park ranger pulled up. He probably saw our headlights zigzagging and figured we were lost souls. With a flashlight beam and a smile, he pointed us to our campsite. It wasn’t fancy, but we had electricity and a level pad. I took Service Dog Charlie out for his bedtime stroll, spotted a lone outhouse glowing under a single bulb, and thought, “Well, at least it’s lit.”
Back inside, we fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering on the roof while HGTV’s Beach Hunters whispered in the background. The sleep timer clicked off, but we were already in dreamland. Morning brought an apology from the heavens—a spectacular sunrise over the reservoir. The rain had washed everything clean, and the water was still as glass. Charlie and I took our morning constitutional along the trail. The weather app said it was thirty-nine degrees but “felt like twenty-seven,” which I confirmed personally during an unplanned pit stop at that same outhouse. It reminded me of growing up just thirty miles east—back when winter mornings were an adventure in frostbite, and we only had corn cobs and a Sears catalogue if you get my drift.
When Chris joined me later, we walked together by the water, surrounded by lily pads and late-season color. We agreed Nimisila was a hidden gem—quiet, simple, and beautifully spaced for privacy. A little later we packed up and eased back onto the road, winding through the backroads of northeast Ohio. The trees were putting on a final show—gold, orange, and crimson blazing against a gray sky. We talked about how every trip brings surprises: sometimes it’s a sunrise over the reservoir, sometimes it’s another appointment for a refrigerator that refuses to cooperate. But that’s the adventure of RV life—you roll with it. Every detour, delay, and downpour becomes part of the story, and if you can laugh about it later, you’re doing just fine.
