Family motorhoming

By Michelle Wallis

Caravans, campervans and motorhomes are often considered the domain of those over 55, and the stereotype seems to ring true in magazine advertising and superannuation commercials. My family, however, has had a rather different experience.

Babes on the road

Our first motorhome (I say ‘our’, though I wasn’t actually born when it was built) was the aluminium body of my Dad’s old work truck fixed to the back of a Holden one-tonne cab chassis. It was furnished with the insides of a scrapped caravan that Dad got for $200 and, eventually, a bassinet for my older brother, Daniel. For obvious reasons, I don’t remember the early days of this vehicle, though I have heard about the weekend (yes, weekend) when, unencumbered by children, Mum and Dad drove to Darwin and back from Newcastle, NSW for a beer can regatta. They won – or at least that’s how they tell it.

As Daniel grew to the crawling stage and things started to get a bit cramped, Dad constructed ‘Cape Sprat’, a little bedroom over the top of our new Mazda T3000 cab chassis. This refinement carried through our successive motorhomes, with the addition of a divider to create two separate bunks, and prevent my brother and me from fighting.

Eventually, the old body was passed on to my uncle and aunt, and we had a new Winnebago body built onto the Mazda cab chassis. It is in this vehicle that my memories of motorhoming begin.

Instant extended family

As a young family in a motorhome we were definitely a novelty in the 1980s, but I can’t imagine why it wasn’t more popular.

One of the many benefits that come to mind is the hundreds of pairs of ‘instant grandparents’ we acquired when we joined the Campervan and Motorhome Club of Australia (CMCA). I remember roaming the small chapter meetings and the huge national rallies with great freedom, exploring the possibilities of the new environment our motorhome had landed us in.

Since I was the sort of child who did this rambling at the fastest speed my bike was capable of, it was a good thing so many practised Nanas were looking out for me. There was always a friendly face to pick me up and wheel my bike back to the van, and I’m sure that my mother would never have had a moment’s peace without all those watchful eyes looking out for us.

We won a van full of raffle prizes and my brother and I were champion damper makers (he in the savoury category, I in the sweet). Either that or the Nanas were rigging the votes. And I will never forget Bill Hatton, the former chapter president, raffle ticket seller and all-round fundraiser. Never without his collecting tin, he fined my aunt for melting an aluminium jaffle iron off the handle in our campfire, and me for exporting a tick from Lake Macquarie.

The show’s on the road

Eagerly anticipated events in a motorhoming year included the Easter Op-Shop Debutante Ball, trips to Riverwood Downs and the regular Christmas sojourn to Fingal Bay Caravan Park, NSW. But the crowning adventure of my young motorhoming life was the 1989 Explorers Trail Rally.

I watched with glee as Dad affixed large, black stickers with our vehicle number to the cab doors, ready to depart. I’m not sure if I realised at this stage that all the other numbered vehicles were of the rally car and 4WD variety, but I remember feeling quite sorry for them when I found out.

They had to pitch tents every night, after driving all day, cook on fires and go to the toilet in the bush. We cooked on fires too, but mostly for the novelty value. Their habits seemed rather uncivilised – and I’m sure they got a terrible view from those low-slung cabs. The course of the rally, which took place mostly on dirt roads from what I can remember, showed the comparative advantages of motorhome vs rally vehicle in quite dramatic ways.

First, there was the tempest. As we headed into the Warrumbungle National Park heavy rain turned the dirt road to mud. The motorhome started aquaplaning – all four or five tonnes of it – creating a lovely weightless feeling at the base of our stomachs as we fishtailed our way round each corner. Dad was wrestling the steering wheel and blowing the horn to get everyone out of the way: if we had stopped, it would have been impossible to get going again.

My brother and I were enjoying the ride immensely, bouncing up and down and waving at the thoroughly bogged rally cars at the side of the road. I’m sure my parents have less pleasant memories, and I hate to think what would have happened if someone didn’t get out of the road in time.

But we made it into the camping area unscathed, unless you count the mud bath the motorhome got. The little Honda postie bike we had mounted on the back was so covered in mud it was completely invisible unless you stood side-on.

That night, the storm really got going, and as we lay snug in our Winnebago (we didn’t even have to leave to use the loo) tents flooded or blew away, and our fellow explorers were soaked to the bone.

As day broke, they huddled miserably under our awning, tents spread over our bullbar to dry, as Mum made endless amounts of toast and tea to warm them up. I think at this point, everyone appreciated the superiority of motorhomes. We did, after all, take out the Best Presented 2WD Vehicle category.

Shake, rattle, unroll

Not all of the roads we explored were so kind to us. Later in the rally, we were travelling along the dry, stony Bridle Track which seemed determined to destroy us by simply shaking us to pieces.

The going was slow and we could hear the cutlery rattling in the drawers and cans jumping in the pantry. Then the track began to climb. Soon it was nothing but a dusty notch on a cliff face, with a sickening drop-off on the driver’s side. I remember gazing down at the creek far below before Mum yelled for me to get back from my window.

All was fine until we encountered a slight overhang, well above the height of most vehicles. The awning caught and was ripped off, the supports twisting with a horrible screech of metal on rock. It was beyond repair, but the motorhome itself was mostly undamaged.

More trouble was waiting up ahead in the form of a tight corner. Amid dire warnings that we would never make it, Mum made us all get out before Dad attempted to get the motorhome round the bend whilst keeping all wheels on the narrow road.

Many careful manoeuvres later, he was around. We (and the motorhome) lived to tell the tale – but those rally cars had won points for manoeuvrability.

This trip was only the beginning. The word ‘motorhome’ soon meant ‘adventure’ for my brother and me – it still does. Thanks to our motorhoming, this city kid has a bit of the bush in her, and a great appreciation of what this country can offer. So don’t leave the fun to the boomers – grab the kids and let them discover Australia with you.