How I work
Mostly through word of mouth. An old-timer in Sisters thinks his grandson might finally be done camping. A widow up in Burns is cleaning out the yard. A fella at the Crooked River Roundup knows another fella. I drive out, take a look, make an offer that's fair to everybody, and hitch it home. Never bought one off a website, and I don't plan to start.
At least forty miles with water in the fresh tank and weight in the cabinets. The Powell Butte loop is 38 miles of mixed washboard gravel, one decent grade, and a stretch of Highway 126 where the crosswind will tell you everything you need to know about a trailer's sway. Bearings tell on themselves pretty quick at 58 mph. So do leaky P-traps and loose cabinet doors.
Two things kill trailers: water coming in from above and water pooling below. Both get a Delmhorst BD-10 moisture meter and a pair of eyes. I pull the fridge vent cover, the bathroom skylight shroud, and the rear clearance lights. I prod every seam around the shower pan. If the soft spots are fixable, I fix 'em — new luan, new 3/8" plywood, new Dicor self-leveling lap sealant on top. If they're not fixable, she doesn't make the lot. She goes to the salvage yard in Madras.
Propane leak-tested at the regulator (11 inches water column, held 3 minutes) and each appliance. 12-volt tested at every light, pump, ceiling fan, and roof vent. Shore power run through the converter — I check output voltage loaded and unloaded, because a weak converter will cook a battery slow enough that nobody notices. Water lines pressurized to 40 psi and held overnight. Gray and black tanks filled, drained, flushed through the proper ports.
Not detailed like new — it ain't new. But scrubbed, waxed with Meguiar's marine formula, vents wiped, fridge aired out with an open box of baking soda, mouse business dealt with (and there is always mouse business). I wash the awning with dish soap and a soft brush, and I replace the caulk wherever the sun has cooked it. Rooftop AC shroud comes off, gets washed, goes back on with fresh butyl tape.
When you come see the trailer, I hand you a folder — a manila folder with the lot number written on it in Sharpie. In the folder is everything I found, everything I fixed, and everything I left alone and why. Receipts for anything I paid somebody else to do. A printout of the DOT date codes on the tires. Title in there too. You keep the folder.
Not the whole clipboard — I'd bore you. But the spine of it.
† A "w.c." on that manometer line stands for water column. Propane regulators in RVs run about 11 inches of water column — it's how we measure pressure when it's too gentle for a pound gauge.
I don't haggle much and I don't play games. My price is what I need to make this worth doing, plus what it cost me to get the trailer right. If you want the cheapest trailer you can find, that ain't me — go look at the side of the highway out past Millican. If you want a trailer you can hitch up and use next weekend without worrying, well, pull on up.
I'll take cash or a cashier's check. No personal checks, no wires, no apps, no weird holding companies. Title transfer happens in the DMV in Prineville with both of us standing there. That's the whole business of it.