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A month ago, if I had heard the words “black water” in conversation, I’d have assumed the speaker was discussing an obscure movie, perhaps an Australian film (there are two by that name) or a Jean-Claude Van Damme flick I haven’t seen.

But after two weeks of driving across the country, the words “black water” immediately conjure images of RVs, wastewater tanks and, well, poo spilling out onto my feet (which we’ll get to later).

I know now that the first definition of black water is solid and liquid waste that must be dumped from an RV's holding tanks, because I am now an RVer.

To be more precise, I’m someone who has laughed, cried, sung very loudly, been carsick quietly (when I was sitting in the back, which is a much rockier ride), seen pink sunrises, viewed orange mountains, passed by hundreds of bison, made countless PB&Js and listened to hours of podcasts while riding along in a 25-foot RV across the country a few weeks ago with my boyfriend.

I’m one of the many people who decided to take

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