Inquire
I keep this small on purpose. Most every trailer I sell goes to somebody who heard about me from somebody else — a neighbor, a cousin, a fella at the feed store in Powell Butte, a gal from the Prineville Saturday market. If that's you, your introduction already knows how to reach me. Just ask 'em.
I don't run ads, I don't ship, and I don't do sight-unseen. Trailers go home with folks who come shake my hand over the tongue jack and watch me light the fridge on propane. That's not a sales technique — it's how I sleep at night after putting my name on a twenty-eight-year-old rig.
Mid-November through the back half of April the lot gets soft after a thaw — pack-gravel on top, wet clay underneath, and a one-ton dually will put ruts you can lose a chihuahua in. In that stretch I'll only roll a trailer out after a hard freeze overnight, usually meeting buyers around 9 a.m. before the sun comes over the ridge. Gate code changes the week the frogs start in the borrow pit; your introduction will have it.
Coffee first. Then a walk-around of whatever trailer you came to see, with the folder in hand. Then I climb up on the roof and you climb up after me, if you want. Then I fire up the systems one by one and you watch. Then you crawl underneath. Then we sit in the dinette and I answer whatever's left. Budget about two hours. Wear pants you don't mind getting dusty.