Above Photo: A logo-free Nellie for sale on the dealership’s website.

After a month on a fjord and beyond in northwest Washington, August was quickly coming to an end. In March, I had hoped that life would be returning to normal COVID-wise by this time. Instead, I would be staying put for the winter.

If you own a motorhome, you know they are built for moving and don’t do well sitting for too long. Other than an occasional overnight at a campground nearby my home base of Port Orchard, I was staring down the barrel of eight months or more of inertia.

After Nellie’s big main slide repair, a Facebook follower commented, “Sounds like it might be time to sell Nellie and get a new one.“ I scoffed at the mere suggestion. I would never get rid of Nellie!

But what if I did? I sat at her wobbly dining table, looking out at Canada across the Straits in those waning days of summer, and ran through scenarios in my mind.

The novel coronavirus had funneled scads of new consumers to the recreational vehicle market, all looking for self-contained, safer means of vacation travel. There would probably never be a better time to sell a used motorhome, and if I waited until 2021 to come to the same conclusion, Nellie would be a year older.

She was already 12 years old, and not in perfect condition. The stabilizing jacks had not worked for over a year. I kept meaning to drive to Iowa and cough up $6,000 for that job, but it hadn’t been a priority. The captain’s chairs were worn and balding from Rocket’s jumping. And then there was that wobbly table, one more on a rolling list of annoying little needed repairs that was only getting longer.

I could have listed Nellie on RV Trader in her current condition, humoring lookie-loos and tire kickers while still living in her. That sounded awful, and unlikely to fetch top dollar.

I could have moved back in to the Quaranteam’s house, paid for the repairs, and put Nellie up for sale online. That sounded like a lot of money and work, a too open-ended timeframe, and a strain on the relationship with my friends.

In any scenario involving selling Nellie myself, I knew that many people do not have the kind of cash to buy a Class A outright, even a used one, and financing for older rigs can be hard to come by.

At that moment, in those circumstances, with my rig, a trade-in was the best solution for me.

After Labor Day, summer fades rapidly in the Pacific Northwest. RV sales go pretty soft in Washington in wintertime, unlike the sunnier states. If I was going to make this happen, I had to get a move on.

I checked out of Salt Creek on August 30 and drove to Fife, an industrial and heavy trucking area on the edge of Tacoma. Along with truck stops, casinos and auto dealerships, Fife is a cornucopia of new and used RV lots, including a Camping World, Poulsbo RV (a regional favorite) and scores of smaller outfits and mom and pops.

That night, in a Wal-Mart parking lot (hey, might as well go out in style), I moved as much as I could out of the rig and into Toad to make it appear less cluttered. I cleaned every surface – both horizontal and vertical – and bagged the tchotchkes.

I visited four dealerships the first day. (No need to name names here, but PM me if you are considering doing business in Fife.)

The first two made offers that were ridiculous, and offensive. Are you ready? $25,000, and $30,000 respectively, with no trade. Be sure to do your research and know the range of true retail and resale values on any major item before wading into a viper’s pit.

The third stop seemed genuinely interested in Nellie. They even got a guy up on the roof, unlike the other two, who just stuck their heads in the door before lobbing lowball offers. I filled out a disclosure form listing Nellie’s blemishes, then walked around the lot in search of a worthy replacement.

I surprised myself by concluding I was not going to get another Class A right away, but it just made sense in the moment. It would be six months or more before I could move freely about the country again. Why not get something less expensive, pocket the difference, and regroup when restrictions were lifted?

I had forgotten how much more roomy it can be in travel trailers and fifth wheels without cockpits. Even at the same length as Nellie, the ones with opposing slides were downright palatial.

I knew whatever I chose was not going to be the next rig that continued this journey around the country. This was a stopgap solution. I wasn’t going to need a big towing vehicle in the short term. Still, I might have to move it from time to time, likely by renting a vehicle, and I was more comfortable doing that with a travel trailer than a fifth wheel.

I was walking that lot thinking about the big decision, but as is often the case, the decision was made for me. They had plenty of acceptable rigs to swap, both new and used, but the cashout offer was off – at least $10,000 too low by my estimation.

After another night of boondocking, I was back at it the next morning. The first place chewed up the hours as I looked at various rigs and we crunched numbers. I really thought I could make a deal with these guys, but the issue was the long waits in between the action. Labor Day weekend shoppers were already out in force. The parking lot was so packed I was asked to park Nellie on the shoulder of a busy road outside their gates. I sat in the motorhome for the better part of the day, watching traffic whizz by and waiting for someone to stop by or call. I finally left out of principle. They were calling as I pulled away.

I had heard and read horror stories about the next place, but I am perfectly capable of forming my own opinions and coming to my own conclusions. I didn’t let talk of indictments and bankruptcies and crooked deals deter me.

They made me feel right at home. Someone had taken the time to plant flowers, and even a little vegetable garden, on the lot.

They sold new Newmars – the only place I had visited so far that did – and they knew the value of my trade-in. They also carried a new line of travel trailers by East to West, a subsidiary of Forest River. They were inexpensive ($35,000-ish), lightweight, and roomy, with finishes that felt a bit more modern – less beige carpet and floral wallpaper borders, more shaker style cabinets and faux wood laminate flooring.

The salesman, the sales manager, and I were all in the manager’s office, far apart and masked up, to run some numbers. It was 5:00. I called for a time out and asked to spend the night in their lot. They agreed, which made me like them even more.

The next day was shake and bake time. The two previous lots with decent trade options had already left messages with new and better cashout offers. The sales office where I spent the night opened at 9:00. I had one more place I wanted to try, and I couldn’t make a decision until it was checked off the list.

I walked inside the last new place to speak to the sales associate I had talked to on the phone. No one was wearing masks. Another decision was made for me.

Back at the business with the shady reputation, negotiations got underway in earnest. I was still fielding phone calls from the other two viable options as well, which helped drive all numbers. The lawyer in me was in her element. It was kind of fun, actually.

When the dust settled I was the owner of a brand new 2020 East to West Della Terra 292MK. I put a nice chunk of change in my pocket, didn’t have to pay sales tax because the new rig was a trade, and I convinced them to pay the state title and registration fees.

After we put ink to paper I went back to the Della Terra to sit and think. I already knew its new name: Hunker Downs. Here’s a virtual walk-through you can take.

Here are the photos I took that day.

The whole rig shook as I walked up the steps – the difference between a 28,000 pound motorhome and an 8,000 pound “bumper pull.” The fit and finish was going to take some getting used to as well. It was hot inside, and I planned to open the side window by the recliner. It is not designed to open. I went to the roof vent in the kitchen. It cranks by hand and is not equipped with an exhaust fan. I sat down and cried.

Over the next two weeks I would say goodbye to my faithful steed as I unpacked for the big switcheroo. I’ll tell you all about that next time!