Just Get Her Home.
On April 22, 2022, my life took an adventurous turn with the decision to build and purchase a skoolie in progress. It was not exactly a split decision made on this very day—rather a (questionably) well-thought-out course of action. What I mean by that is–I debated over other more or less practical options such as a Jeep or truck, a motorcycle, and even a horse. It all came down to what made the most sense to me to be able to tote around gear and dogs when I go on my little expeditions.
It’s nice to have a basecamp, but one that’s locked in place often gets limiting. My dogs and Ophie (my iguana) being a big part of my adventure, I can’t always get too far from home for a lack of willingness to leave them behind. A skoolie made sense. Like a turtle, I can carry my home on my back and provide my dogs with a truly forever home that opens a wealth of explorative opportunities.
See? Totally thought this out. Plus, I searched for the right bus for many months before landing on Freeda. That was a daunting search, too—if I may say. At times I had saved listings for over 30 buses within a 200 mi radius (I also considered RVs needing a little TLC).
I reached out to many and arranged meetings, but I finally came to find Freeda—a 1998 International 3800 school bus that was no ordinary vehicle. I found her in Tennessee, and as you can imagine with her robust 7.3-liter V8 Navistar diesel engine, she came equipped with a story filled with charm and layers waiting to be peeled back.
Once the beloved transport for kids in the Tallapoosa County school system of Georgia, Freeda had seen 24 years of laughter and learning, logging 80,000 miles filled with youthful energy. Yet, just as every adventure should end in a magickal treasure of memories, this retired school bus was ready for her next calling—a skoolie transformation.
After retirement, she fell into the hands of a couple I’ll refer to as “The Peabody’s” in Tennessee, who attempted to convert her. Let’s just say, their craftsmanship was questionable at best, but they did take care of some of the less glamorous parts: they stripped her of her seats, tossed down some flooring, and added makeshift furniture—none of which was properly secured. Though I had asked for these items to be removed before I picked them up, the Peabody’s indicated the crap came with the bus. (It would cost me another $300 to dispose of their bedroom furniture). In any event, I came prepared with tie-downs.
Other items that would turn up needing to be addressed–the roof had received a hasty coat of Rust-Oleum in patches, and a poor caulking job over old caulk lent to the demise of the particleboard floor when a leak from the hatch carried on for months over the summer. At a glance, it seemed that Freeda’s debut as a skoolie was off to a rocky start, but still manageable. So FAFO, right?
The Journey Begins: Escaping Tennessee
As the story unfolded, Freeda’s fate deepened in drama. I caught a ride with a diving buddy of mine who was headed to another part of Tennessee to pick up some gear. He was dropping me at a mutual friend’s place for the night which was nearby to the pickup location where Freeda was parked. Even better, they worked for the school system and had friends in good places for dealing with buses. Even mo’better—they wanted to join me for the pick up to ensure everything went smoothly.
I didn’t expect this level of support or willingness—especially without having to ask! It was genuinely a moment for me. A loner. A DIYer. A never-asks-for-help-er.
Everything started well enough with financial exchanges and moving the bus about. Just when I was starting to feel like everything was working out for the best something happened. I don’t know what. If I did, we wouldn’t be slowing down.
As I was getting off at an exit to get my passenger home something that occurred would cause the bus to stop accelerating and even stop revving. Was it on? Are we coasting?! We’re coasting. Oh Shoot. There’s no easy steering. The brakes thankfully still work.
Freeda suffered a breakdown—just shy of 20 minutes from the Peabody home. My passenger hops into action grabbing the wheel with me at the next upcoming opportunity, a slightly harsh right into the driveway of some shipping facility. We come to a stop right at their gate.
Yep, the gate with signs that read ‘do not block’ and ‘violators will be towed’; even signs that have me convinced we’re at some government facility. Crap!
Despite our efforts, Freeda refuses to start. She doesn’t even sound like she’s considering it. Literally—What. The. Fudge. I reach out to the Peabody’s for insight. Surely after owning the bus for a year they might know something.
No response. Ha! Go figure. Maybe busy spending the cash I just dropped on them and didn’t hear the notification. Try calling. Nothing. I see how it is.
There are numbers to call at the gate. We call, but there’s no answer. We leave a voicemail hopeful to receive someone to either alert to the situation or to maybe offer a solution to more helpful service providers.
As it stands, we can’t get her started and she’s blocking a large shipping facility with questionable freight. Clearly, it’s tow truck time, and guess what? Every tow service in the area is busy. Of course. When I finally find someone willing to come get her, they’re 2 hours out. While this was not the ending that I wanted, I’m indebted to the folks helping me and all we can do is let happen what was happening. I would soon enough hear from the facilities manager and the tow driver. One wanted to know why my bus was blocking his facility and what I was planning to do about it. Clearly he didn’t listen to the voicemail I left. The tow driver wanted to let me know the bus started without any issues. Sigh. Of course.
By that time, I already had my own rescue en route, and since it made sense to have her more professionally inspected, I decided to have him proceed with towing her as planned. Freeda would be stuck in Tennessee for a minute while her situation was unfudged. As noted, it was fortunate that the mutual friend I was staying with had bus mechanic friends. They let me have the bus towed to the shop, assessed the malfunction, and kept her safe until I could come back and get her.
Their assessment? Potentially a clogged fuel filter—a common occurrence on school buses according to them. Later, I would discover on my own the actuality of why the tow truck operator had no issue starting her and the real issue she suffered from. Once confirmed that she was ready, I made a plan to attempt the rescue of Freeda again. On May 14, Kevin—The Dirty Bison—and I set off toward Tennessee, again.
Finally, I sat behind the wheel of Freeda again. With the expanse of miles to cover playing out over and over in my head, my heart raced in tandem with her diesel engine’s hum. Our plan was laid out for Dirty Bison to follow and checkpoint stops every 50, 75, and 100 miles to monitor Freeda’s condition. We took radios to make communicating easy, but over the roar of her engine that wouldn’t work out.
One of the warnings we received since the suspect issue at the time was a clogged fuel pump was to make sure we track fuel usage and don’t trust the gauge to be accurate. So our first stop was the gas station. It’s here that I have my first reality check. It’s not just a bus; it’s a big bus. Standing there, staring at the pump, I realize I have no idea how this works. Picture this, there are pumps on both sides, but only one has a payment reader. I don’t even see how to start the one on the side that I need it on.
The station clerk I’m sure is instantly suspicious by now.
At this point, my solution is to turn the bus around and make the clearly working pump on the proper side. This wasn’t exactly easy in the gas station parking lot, and my circling the block to get in from the better angle was probably the icing on the cake. However, as I hopped out to get fueling up, the station clerk over the speaker said “do you need help?”
Clearly, no-the-fudge I don’t. Got this.
I didn’t got this one bit, but I wouldn’t be called out for it again until the next gas up—which at a time when diesel fuel was hitting $5.22 a gallon, I certainly wasn’t looking forward to it. We survived this one though, and it was open road ahead.
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back: Highs and Lows
With Freeda refueled, we felt the thrill of our journey reignite. Freeda surprised us with her strength as we cruised along, the open road ahead and the wind whipping through her windows—it felt like magic. I apparently had the stupidest grin the entire ride.
The first leg of the trip went better than expected. Freeda’s handling well, and I’m starting to relax. We stopped frequently to check on her, just like we planned. The gauges can’t be trusted, so I keep a mental log of everything: heat levels, fuel consumption, even the way the engine hums. Freeda feels solid. We make another stop for gas—this time at a real truck shop, ’cause I drive big rigs now—chyea!
It’s really just another opportunity for me to showcase exactly what I don’t know because I certainly didn’t think to pull into this one the right way. It seems like now is a good time to get to know other drivers—especially truck drivers. So I peek over at the driver filling up next to me who seems to even be using one dem there special pumps with no doohickies for paying. Hey, uh… how do you make that pump work?
He laughs. I laugh. I get informed, and we hit the road hopeful that I remember how to do this at the next one.
Everything is going really well. I indicated a minor concern with the temperature gauge, but everyone seems confident that it’s normal. So we press on—in the midday. In the south.
We approached Atlanta’s well-known Spaghetti Junction where 285 and 85 conflict–I mean merge. She’s still holding up, and I’m still paying attention to the elevated pointer pointing toward the reddest end of the display. It’s really hot, but we’re so close.
We’re ten miles from our destination, the uneasy feeling settled back into my gut—a sudden noise and a felt thunk beneath my foot got my attention. It’s rush hour at this point. I radioed to Kevin “Did you see anything come from under the bus?”
He responds in the negative. I explained what occurred, but we carried on, pushing through our doubts, only to have them confirmed moments later when I clearly saw smoke coming from the hood.
We’re 5 miles from our hometown shop—her intended destination.
When I lifted her hood, the discouraging truth was laid bare—her belt had given way, and the coolant hose had been dislodged. It was a sobering reminder that every adventure has its hiccups and this was just part of it.
Our momentum shattered, and Kevin quickly made a call to a local towing service he held a good rapport with. They also happen to have some of the best-looking technicians, so win-win. However, it’s another tow for Freeda Ramble.
It took weeks for Freeda to undergo her next inspection and repairs—nearly a month, delayed by the pandemic’s interminable backlog—but oddly, I didn’t mind. Instead, I found peace in the waiting. It was a free parking spot for the moment. Once wrapped up with the local shop, I relocated her to another temporary parking nearby. I visited frequently, coaxing her to life each week, or making sure she came back to life depending on how you view it.
Eventually, I ventured into asking my landlords about moving her to our backyard. My heart raced for their reply, and when they agreed, she would now be not only close to home, but somewhere I could work on her. Plus, at 11 acres of space, she has plenty of legroom to stretch without ever hitting the main road.
Home Sweet Home
Finally, on the bright morning of July 30, 2022, the stars aligned—the day Freeda was coming home! Once again, Kevin is going to lend me a hand. We were up early, determined to roll out before traffic picked up. There were two challenges I did not want to face with lanes of traffic. First, driving at all in a small town. And, second, making the tight turns to get into my driveway—one of which was a u-turn across 6 lanes. I could also have driven 6 additional miles out of the way to turn the bus around via left and right-hand turns to avoid the u-turn, but the opportunity presented an open road, so I just used all the lanes to swing her wide.
The final challenge was navigating through a narrow gravel driveway flanked by an electrical pole on one side and a wooden post on the other, winds, and getting through a very narrow cow gate. We did it though. Unscathed, at that.
The moment was monumental—after all the bumps and breakdowns Freeda was home. She’s finally here after months of planning, setbacks, and moments of sheer doubt. Every hiccup along the way—fumbling at the gas pump, braving Atlanta traffic, and dealing with the breakdown—has only made this moment sweeter.
Freeda has a long road ahead before she’s fully transformed into the Skoolie of my dreams, but we’ve already come so far. For now, it’s enough to know she’s home, resting on 11 acres of open land, ready for whatever comes next.
Standing in the quiet of the morning, I can’t help but smile. This is just the beginning.
wow now thats a journey to get her home.all that from the beginning to where shes at now.Its a progress you made with her.Lots of adventures ahead with her hopefully.I Love this story learning all about her from the beginning
Thank you.
Happy Trails to you both.