After thirty-six hours of rain, the camper slid backward down the unpaved driveway tipping into an embankment.  A Dodge Travco, red and cream tones with silver trim.  One of the other cabin renters.  (The resort had sold out, but during the entire week, we had never seen any of the other renters in person.)  I had seen the Travco when we had first arrived at the rental, and until now, the RV had awakened my long dormant desire to sell everything and ride out the last fifty years of my life on the road.  The next morning, we drove into town and saw that, rather than waiting for the rain to stop and dealing with the issue after the ground had firmed up a bit, the owner (presumably), had poured concrete beneath the back of the camper where it had become stuck, perhaps thinking that the concrete would dry and they could drive it out with no issues.  By the time we had returned late that afternoon, we stopped to check out the progress.  It was not good.  First, the concrete had grabbed the wheels, gripping the Travco fast to the top of the embankment.  Secondly, the concrete had been poured on unstable ground, so there was no guarantee the Travco would not slide further.  Looking inside the RV, the table had been turned over, the cupboards emptied and kitchen utensils scattered about, the glove compartment open and papers strewn about the front seat.

I didn’t even know concrete could dry in the rain.  Even seeing this with my own eyes, I had go back inside and look it up.