The Campground Effect: Where Disgruntled People Disappear

Last week in Nashville, I met a fellow full-timer named Mike who was camped next to us. Over a couple of days, we fell into that easy rhythm that happens in campgrounds: borrowed his RV cleaning supplies, shared stories, visited back and forth the way neighbors used to do before suburban privacy fences went up.

Then Mike said something that's been rattling around in my head ever since.

"I've never met disgruntled people in a campground."

I stood there holding his cleaning solution, letting that sink in. Never? In 15 years of full-time RV living, I've certainly encountered my share of negative people in the world: the perpetually unhappy, the contrarians who argue just to argue, the folks who wonder why they have no friends while simultaneously pushing everyone away. But Mike was right. I haven't encountered them in campgrounds.

Not once.

The Tampa Test

Right now, we're camped at the Florida RV SuperShow in Tampa, and if there was ever a place designed to test this theory, it's here. This campground is far from ideal. They've squeezed us in so tight you can stand between your rig and your neighbor's and touch both slide-outs with your arms extended. It's the RV equivalent of airline economy seating.

Last night, it dropped to a chilly 47 degrees. Not exactly the Florida winter we advertised in the brochure.

And yet.

It was almost 10:30 before folks stopped visiting. Total strangers who, five minutes after meeting, were bonded as friends. Smiling, happy people wandering from site to site, sharing stories and laughter in the cold.

No one complained about the tight quarters. People just smiled, shrugged, and made the best of it. Resilient. Optimistic. Choosing to see the packed-in proximity as an opportunity rather than an inconvenience.

Surely, statistically speaking, there must be some disgruntled campers here. The law of averages says so. But we haven't seen them.

The Great Disappearing Act

So where do all the negative people go?

Maybe they're home, scrolling through social media, finding things to be outraged about. Maybe they're writing angry reviews of hotels where the pillow wasn't fluffy enough. Maybe they've convinced themselves that travel is too hard, people are too difficult, and it's just easier to stay put and stay miserable.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here in campgrounds, packed in like sardines, freezing our tails off, and having the time of our lives.

There's something about the RV lifestyle that seems to filter for a particular mindset. It's not that RVers don't have problems: we deal with mechanical breakdowns, weather delays, reservation snafus, and all the small indignities that come with dragging your house down the highway. But somewhere along the way, we've chosen to see these things as adventures rather than catastrophes, as stories rather than complaints.

The Choice We Make Every Morning

I pity anyone who can be negative when so much is to be gained by considering everything an opportunity.

Think about what they're missing. The borrowed cleaning supplies that become the opening line of a friendship. The too-tight campground that forces you to actually meet your neighbors instead of hiding behind your slides. The cold night that gives everyone an excuse to gather around somebody's campfire.

Every inconvenience is an invitation. Every problem is a story waiting to happen. Every stranger is a friend you just haven't met yet.

The disgruntled people aren't banned from campgrounds. They're welcome here anytime. But I suspect they don't come because being disgruntled requires a very particular environment: one where you can control everything, avoid everyone, and maintain a carefully curated list of grievances.

Campgrounds don't allow for that. Weather happens. Things break. Neighbors exist. Plans change. And you can either rage against all of it, or you can laugh, adapt, and discover that the detour was better than the original plan anyway.

The Campground Covenant

There's an unspoken agreement in every campground, a silent covenant among people who've chosen this life. We've all decided, independently but unanimously, that happiness is a choice we're going to make every single day.

Not toxic positivity that ignores real problems. Not fake cheerfulness that papers over legitimate concerns. Just a fundamental decision that when faced with two ways to interpret a situation, we're going to choose the one that doesn't make us miserable.

Your neighbor's too close? Great, easier to borrow tools. Weather's not cooperating? Perfect excuse to stay inside and read. Campground's not as nice as you hoped? Doesn't matter, you brought your own house.

Mike was right. We really don't see disgruntled people in campgrounds.

Maybe they're out there somewhere, but they're missing one hell of a party.

And honestly? That's their loss, not ours.

We'll be here, packed in tight, freezing or sweltering, breaking down or breaking through, making friends out of strangers and stories out of setbacks.

Because that's what we do.

That's who we are.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.