Aerial survey

I look down on RVs. Dozens of them every day. As a commercial seaplane pilot based in Seattle, I'm amazed at the number of motorhomes and trailers I notice in driveways or back yards as I make my aerial rounds. They seem to be everywhere. Over some neighborhoods I can count 10 or more at a glance: A travel trailer here, a Class A there, a couple of fifth-wheels on that street.... Is that an Airstream in the cul-de-sac?

I shouldn't be surprised, though, for the Recreational Vehicle Industry Association reports that almost eight million U.S. households now own an RV. That's about one in 12. The RVIA says the average RV owner makes $68,000 a year, an income that's reflected in the middle-class houses abutting the great majority of RVs I see. Although some hovels have an RV nearby, I rarely spot one parked by a mansion. Maybe rich folks travel mostly in private jets and luxury cruise ships. Or they can afford to garage their RVs out of sight.

In western Washington, where I do most of my flying, towables and motorhomes appear to be equally represented as I look around below. My eyeball survey notes few truck campers.

Of course, frequency of use is impossible to gauge from the cockpit, but I can make some judgments about care. One trailer might have tire and air-conditioner covers, its body sparkling from waxing, while a neighboring one shows black streaks on the sides and green mold on the roof.

Sometimes I fantasize about pulling into an RV park on a trip and noticing, in one of the sites, a distinctive rig I had often seen parked in a backyard. "Hi there," I say to the owner while walking the dog. "I see you added a second solar panel to your roof." The owner frowns. "How did you know that? It's not visible from the ground." I small and walk on.

Memorials in the desert

Pets may lack human status in our legal system, but in a household they're cherished members of the family who in some ways are treated as if they were human. Owners talk to their pets, feed them, provide them with medical care, buy toys for them and play with them. No wonder, then, that when pets die owners honor them with a human-like burial.

While boondocking in the Arizona desert between Bouse and Quartzsite, I went hiking one day and came upon these grave markers, presumably for pets. The markers did not indicate whether Jake and Rudy were dogs or cats, or when they died. The markers appeared to be relatively new, but they might have been replacements for older ones. Were Jake and Rudy contemporaries, like siblings? Or was one a successor to the other? No question arose, though, about the owners’ sentiments.

The scene reminded me of burying my first dog, Anchor, a spaniel-Pekingese mix, for 10 years my own old friend, my own little buddy. One December night, when we lived in Ketchikan, Alaska, a Black Labrador Retriever trespassed and Anchor bravely tried to defend his turf. His 16 pounds of grit were no match for the Lab, and Anchor died the next day in the local animal hospital.

I chose a quiet spot in the woods where we had often hiked and dug a deep hole. I've always considered myself a logical man not given to superstition or irrational behavior. Yet, before saying a final farewell, I took off my T-shirt and placed it under Anchor's nose so my smell would comfort him in his long, lonely sleep.

After a while the desert sun compelled me to move on. So long, Jake and Rudy. Keep each other company, and know that you too were loved.