RV Having Fun Yet? : Despite Small Hassles, Renting a Recreational Vehicle for a Foreign or U.S. Vacation Means Having a Hotel on Wheels and Sightseeing at Your Own Pace : Alaska

It was the last night of a magical journey that had taken us 1,100 miles across Alaska’s vast, pristine wilderness, and we were about to spend it in the Campground From Hell: a rutted mall parking lot in downtown Anchorage that looked more like a Winnebago dealership.

We jounced past row after beige row of recreational vehicles, jammed pin stripe to pin stripe, before resignedly jockeying our own 27-foot “Minnie Winnie” into a potholed slot that clearly had been rejected by the RV cognoscenti.

But if we three novices had learned anything during our week piloting a rented Winnebago land cruiser, it was to be adaptable. We’d also cleverly delayed this dispiriting moment until close to midnight by sightseeing en route to the city, lingering over second helpings at the Old Anchorage Salmon Bake, then going to a movie. Now we merely needed a place to sleep until it was time to catch our morning plane, so who cared if the view was of a multiplex theater and a construction site?

Despite the ups and downs of RV life, however, we discovered it’s the ideal solution for independent travelers in this state where the tourist season is barely three months long, hotels are few and far between and even the campgrounds start hanging out “No Vacancy” signs by the first of June.

Because our RV was “self-contained,” as they say in camping circles--in other words, it was equipped with battery-powered lights, propane-fueled appliances and tanks to hold fresh and waste water--we never needed to seek out formal campgrounds with “hookups” to provide these utilities. We could pull off the road and legally set up housekeeping virtually whenever and wherever we wanted, so in addition to the Anchorage mall, our seven-day jaunt, which ended July 4, had included overnights on the banks of rushing rivers and in a wooded valley a snowball’s toss from a massive Ice Age glacier.

Besides the serendipity that RV travel offers, families or friends who typically vacation together via rental car but who require more than one hotel room might do well choosing RV travel for economy, as well. Our tab for transportation and lodging came to roughly $1,350, including about $150 for gas--not bad for seven days, especially if you’re able to split it two or three ways. We could have saved a lot on meals, as well, if we’d cooked more than coffee instead of frequently sampling restaurants.

Our 27-footer turned out to be just about the right size for me and my two traveling companions, my longtime pal Phoebe and her husband, Peter. They used the “bedroom” in the rear, and I slept on a fold-up mattress above the driver’s seat--adequate for one reasonably limber adult but intended, I suspect, for a couple of 7-year-olds who’d giggle rather than grimace when they turned over and found their noses a half inch from the sloping roof. The benches of our dinette booth somehow turned into a bed, too, but sleeping in the middle of our common area seemed even less appealing than launching myself from a seat back each night in order to get into the over-cab bed.

Since the dinette benches and two facing easy chairs were all equipped with seat belts, as many as six passengers could sightsee comfortably within conversation range of the driver and co-pilot. Except for a lack of clothes hooks, the RV was ingeniously designed, shiplike, for maximum space and comfort. Behind the living-dining area was a full-size refrigerator-freezer, a four-burner stove with oven and a small double sink. Between the kitchen and the bedroom was an airline-style bathroom as well as a shower, which Peter pronounced the RV’s only challenge for his 6-foot 2-inch frame. Storage space consisted of several small closets and airline-style overhead bins, some taken up with kitchen equipment, bedding or other RV paraphernalia.

There were screened skylights and plenty of wide windows, all fitted with some sort of blinds or heavy curtains to shut out the subarctic midnight sun (which actually set about 11 p.m. but left the sky almost bright enough for snapshot-taking throughout the remaining few hours until dawn). There also was a gas-fired furnace, which despite nighttime temperatures in the 40s we cowardly campers never turned on for fear that it would somehow malfunction and leak gas and we would succumb to The Big Sleep.

Before we were allowed to solo, we were instructed in painstaking detail about the vehicle’s various gauges and switches by a rental agent at Great Alaskan Holidays, one of the RV rental companies clustered near Anchorage’s international airport (and the only one of those I called in March that could promise a 27-footer when we wanted it at the end of June). Then, after a ride around the block so we could experience the RV in action, we were sent on our way with a couple of common-sense driving tips--essentially, remember that you’re 27 feet long and 11 feet high.

We’d decided to head first to Denali National Park, the huge wildlife preserve about 240 miles inland that National Geographic magazine has called the Serengeti (National Park in Tanzania) of the North. The drive took us 12 hours.

We proceeded slowly, about 50 m.p.h., pulling over as Alaska law requires whenever we’d gathered a trail of five cars--which at first seemed like every few miles. We also detoured into several small towns (once on purpose), paused to inspect Frisbee-sized Queen Anne’s lace (energized by 18 hours of daylight) and made several other stops: once to shop for food, twice to eat, then once again to restack the dish drainer after Phoebe noticed the carving knife was aimed at her neck.

The two-lane highway never seemed to get us any closer to the snowcapped mountains that marked our goal, and we began to grasp the mind-boggling scale of the 49th state, which occupies a fifth of the area of the Lower 48--99% of it uninhabited.

We finally reached Denali sometime after midnight to find the park campgrounds full, but a mile farther we spotted several RVs parked on a gravel turnout overlooking a stream, and we were soon being lulled to sleep by rushing rapids. We’d been forewarned about Denali’s crowds, so we weren’t surprised the next morning when we learned we’d have to wait a day and a half for seats on one of the free backcountry shuttle buses (the park’s narrow 97-mile road is off limits to private vehicles beyond the paved first 15 miles).

We would have liked to have stayed in the park for the ambience of evening campfire chats, but could only find space at one nearby private campground. Some of those we looked at had the kind of resortlike amenities we imagined attracted gung-ho RVers like those in the monster motor home that had passed us earlier, blaring the synthesized strains of “On the Road Again.” But we were content with quiet Grizzly Bear Campground, where we could better pretend that we, too, weren’t copping out on a true wilderness experience. At least we didn’t have a TV.

On the bus trip the next day, 42 pairs of eyes vainly scanned the mossy tundra for bear and moose, bringing the bus to a halt several times in the first half hour with false alarms that binoculars revealed to be distant rocks or logs. In addition to wildlife, we were also hoping for a clear glimpse of Mt. McKinley, the snow-covered peak that Athabascans called Denali--the High One. At 20,320 feet, it’s North America’s highest mountain.

“The Mountain is out,” our tour driver suddenly shouted as the bus reached the top of a mountain pass that focused our eyes across a wide green valley. Ahead was a scene that belonged in the Himalayas, its centerpiece the massive bulk of Mt. McKinley glistening against a clear blue sky. “The Mountain,” as it’s simply known locally, remained out of the clouds during our three-day stay at Denali--a rare occurrence, we were repeatedly told.

We left Denali the next afternoon for the coastal Kenai Peninsula south of Anchorage. True road warriors now, we zipped back in only six hours and decided not to stop in the city. We finally parked for the night along a spur road leading to Portage Glacier, Alaska’s most-visited attraction. The next morning we walked along the iceberg-choked lake formed by the melting river of ice and chatted with a Japanese tourist who had admired our “rig,” exchanging cameras long enough to document each other’s visits. Then we followed the serpentine Kenai River another six hours to Homer, a sort of Alaskan Key West with the same sort of funky, end-of-the-road appeal.

At the true end of the road--on 4-mile-long Homer Spit--seaplanes were pulled up on the sand like dinghies; yachts and fishing boats crowded the harbor and hundreds of RVs had set up camp to enjoy the 360-degree mountain panorama.

We retreated to a campground that overlooked the scene from a wooded hilltop, but we were determined to do something suitably Homeresque the next day, which was the Fourth of July. So we joined a pancake breakfast at the local Elks Club, then took a day trip to a private island called Halibut Cove, where a handful of fishermen and artists live.

En route to Halibut Cove, the Kachemak Bay ferry idled for 15 minutes near a rock pile called Gull Island so we could photograph some of the thousands of sea birds that live there, including colorful puffins. At Halibut Cove, we strolled the long boardwalks, visited artists’ galleries, enjoyed smoked-salmon chowder on the deck of the Saltry restaurant and chose which of the picturesque houses we’d like to own.

Back in Homer we loaded up with souvenirs at the Alaska Wild Berry Products store--the best alternative we’d seen to the Kenai’s ubiquitous gas station/bakery/ laundry/art gallery/bail-tackle-ammo and T-shirt shops. Then we started back to Anchorage.

The small state park campground where we stopped that night unexpectedly yielded our most exciting big-game sighting. While we were having coffee the next morning, Phoebe suddenly shouted, “It’s a bear.” It had lumbered across the road 50 feet from where we were parked, she said, before disappearing into the woods. Peter made a quick foray to warn tent campers nearby who had a puppy with them, but the bear hadn’t been seen again by the time we left for the city.

Our last night in the RV, at the Anchorage mall, we replayed the trip over and over as we packed away our road maps and cleaned out the refrigerator.

We congratulated ourselves on how we’d adapted to RV life, informally sharing most chores as they presented themselves. And if we’d ever gotten on each others’ nerves because of the close quarters, we didn’t let on. So with a bottle of club soda, a half-empty container of juice and a can of beer we toasted old friends, new experiences--and the merits of being self-contained.

GUIDEBOOK

Renting an RV in Alaska

Types and styles: The most practical type of RV for Alaska is one that’s “self-contained,” so you can park anywhere camping is allowed instead of reserving ahead for campgrounds with utility hookups. RVs in this category, such as Winnebago’s “Minnie Winnie,” are smaller motor homes with a van-type front and sleeping area over the cab. They range from about 20 feet (sleeping three adults or two adults and two small children) to 30 feet or slightly less (sleeping six). Larger RVs, built more like a commercial bus, with the cab and living area all one unit, run anywhere from about 22 to 40 feet and can be unwieldy. Most RVs have automatic transmission, power steering and typical auto amenities. Rental rates: Summer basic rates run $115-$185 a day plus 15-20 cents a mile; off-season rentals (September through early June) usually save $20-$30 a day and often include some free miles. For June-to-September rentals, reserve by February for best choice.

A waiver to reduce the insurance deductible (typically $500 or $1,000) might add $10-$12 a day to the tab, but ask about details. Damage to tires, roof and undercarriage--as well as damage that occurs on specified “restricted” or “prohibited” roads--usually is excluded. Some companies also ban pets. Kitchen equipment and bedding may be included or you might have to buy a “housekeeping package” for about $25 per person. Gas mileage is low (5-15 miles a gallon), but stations are plentiful on main roads. You’ll pay up to 30 cents a gallon more in remote areas.

Rental companies: Most major rental companies advertise in the free vacation guide from the Alaska Division of Tourism. The Recreation Vehicle Rental Association, (800) 336-0355, has a booklet of tips called “Rental Ventures,” available with orders for its membership directory ($6.50). Association members in Anchorage that offer airport or hotel pickup include Great Alaskan Holidays, (800) 642-6462; Clippership Motorhome Rentals, (800) 421-3456; Sourdough Camper Rentals, (800) 770-3268, and Murphy’s RV Sales and Rentals, (800) 582-5123.