Freezing Our Water Gear in Idaho
Winter is coming, and we need to check the forecast more often.
On our first morning in Stanley, Idaho, I rolled out of bed to do the first I do every morning, traveling or not: I went to the bathroom to pee.
The peeing part went fine, thank you for asking. But when I turned on the sink to wash my hands, nothing happened. No water came through. I couldn't even hear it running through the pipes.
"What the hell?" I grumbled. We had a water hookup in Stanley, which is rare—for us, anyway. On this trip, we're almost always boondocking; I can count the number of times we've had hookups on one hand. Boondocking's cheaper, but every once in a while, we relish having hookups. They're supposed to make things easy.
Grousing, I stomped over to the front door and shoved on my sandals. Someone must have shut off our water hookup, I thought. Probably as part of some prank. I just wanted to wash my hands, but no—the world was out to get me.
I trudged to the spigot outside. Reached for the handle, turned it. But it wouldn't turn anymore; it was already on. That's when I noticed the gauge on our water pressure regulator.
For the non-RVers out there: We have a water pressure regulator to protect our trailer's pipes. Water pressure varies from campground to campground, so when we have hookups, we use our regulator to ensure water enters the trailer at a safe pressure, usually around 40 psi.
This morning, though, the gauge on the regulator didn't show 40 psi. The little needle had spun all the way around to the opposite end of the spectrum, to 120 psi.
I turned off the spigot and tried to remove the regulator. It wouldn't budge. I tried to remove the filter attached to the regulator, and then noticed that the filter's blue plastic shell had cracked all the way around.
It was frozen. The regulator, the filter, the hose running into our trailer—the water inside all of it had frozen overnight.
It was September 24. The day before had been relatively warm, a classic early-autumn day where the sun gently bakes your skin, like it's pressing a warm loaf of bread against your face. It didn't cross our minds once that temperatures might drop overnight.
But drop they did. Our weather app showed that outside temperatures had dived to 34°. No wonder our gear had turned into popsicles.
Fortunately, the trailer's pipes were fine. Our furnace had spared them from the same fate. Aside from our cracked filter, the rest of our outdoor water gear thawed throughout the day, no worse for wear. Our hose even gifted us with dozens of cylindrical ice cubes.
We're from Southern California. The land of traffic and tourist-packed beaches that sees just two seasons a year: summer and less-warm summer. Only after this incident with our water gear did I realize that, for the first time in our lives, Jason and I will get to experience all four seasons within a year.
That's both a gift and a lesson. We've learned to pay better attention to forecasts and look after our hookups since Idaho. Now, going deeper into autumn and eventually winter, we'll make sure to drain and pack up our water gear at night.
Unless we want ice cubes in the morning, that is.