Our RV wasn’t just a vehicle. It was a symbol of our love, our freedom, and all the adventures we shared. We left on our honeymoon right after signing the papers – just the two of us, no clear plan, a full tank, and a roadmap on our lap. We slept by lakes, roasted marshmallows under the stars, and argued about where to head next. It wasn’t just transportation – it was our home on wheels. Inside were a tiny kitchen, mismatched mugs from different states, photos on the wall, and a map full of pins. We fixed it up the best we could and even gave it a name: Charlie.
Then life got smaller. Our son was born, we got a mortgage, full-time jobs. At first, we promised ourselves the road trips would continue, that the RV would be part of this new life. But instead of new destinations, there was daycare, bills, and the constant lack of time. Charlie stayed parked in the driveway – a memory too precious to let go. But eventually, it stopped being joyful. It became a burden.
Years passed. The tires went flat, the windows grew moldy, and inside there was the musty smell of time standing still. The fabric had rotted, the wires rusted. We avoided looking at it. Every time we stepped into the yard, it stared at us – like a reminder. We kept telling ourselves we’d fix it. Or sell it. Or give it away. But that “someday” dragged on for seven years.
Letting go of the RV wasn’t easy.
In Portland, it turns out, finding a reliable RV removal company in Portland, OR isn’t as simple as you’d think. We combed through dozens of ads and forums before realizing who could really help.
Eventually, we came across RV Removal Pros – a team that specializes in junk RV removal in Portland and dismantling and hauling RVs. They didn’t ask unnecessary questions, didn’t complicate anything. Just said, “Give us the address.” They showed up quickly, handled everything carefully, and even gave us a few tips on fixing the lawn after the removal.
When the crane lifted Charlie onto the flatbed, I saw snails crawling out from under it – like even they had grown used to its presence. I felt a lump in my throat. Not because I missed the vehicle. But because it felt like a piece of our past was leaving with it. That version of us – carefree, wide-eyed, and in love with the road – was gone. And that hurt. But at the same time, it was a relief. Like we had finally accepted that chapter had ended.
That evening, we had a picnic right there, where it had stood. We set a table, lit some candles. Our son drew a little camper in chalk – with all three of us inside. We talked about future trips – not in an RV, maybe in a tent or a rental van. That was the sign: our freedom isn’t about wheels anymore. It’s about being together. About knowing how to let go. About understanding that sometimes, to move forward, you have to remove what stopped moving long ago.
