About
I grew up tagging along on my granddad's fishing trips, which always started the same way — him in the driveway at 5 a.m., cussing at a trailer jack. By the time I was twelve I could back a bumper-pull into a campsite blindfolded. By the time I was twenty-five I figured out I liked fixing 'em up a whole lot more than whatever job I was supposed to have.
So in 2009 I started buying tired trailers off folks who were done with 'em. Fixed what needed fixing. Sold 'em to the next family. Word got around the feed store in Powell Butte, then around the coffee shop in Prineville, then further out to Sisters and La Pine. Never advertised, never had to. It's been sixteen years of that now, and I reckon I'll keep at it till the knees give out.
I'm not a dealership. I don't have a finance department, I don't have a showroom floor, I don't wear a tie, and I don't sell trailers I wouldn't lend to my own brother. Some weeks I've got four on the lot and some weeks I've got one. That's how it goes when you do it right.
I'm not a mobile RV tech, either. I won't come out and fix your rig — there are good fellas for that, and I'll point you to 'em. Marcus in Bend is who I send folks to for slide-out troubles. A lady named Ruthann down in La Pine does the best reupholstery work I've ever seen on a dinette.
A fella with a gravel lot, a propane leak detector, a Delmhorst moisture meter, a '99 three-quarter-ton gas truck with a Reese weight-distribution setup, and a lot of patience for old silicone. If you find your way here through somebody who's bought from me before, I'd be pleased to show you around.
It's about three quarters of an acre of packed gravel, graded level, with a 30-by-40 pole barn at the back that I call the shed. Two 30-amp pedestals for hooking up and running systems. A potable water spigot. A dump setup I built myself out of 3-inch schedule-40 and a good deal of cussing. A ponderosa I sit under when the sun gets direct. That's the whole operation.