Chapter 3 of The Camping World Saga
TLDR; This is the practical chapter. What I know now that I wish I knew then — not just emotionally, but operationally. How a competent service system should actually work. What documentation matters and why. When to escalate, and when to stop going back. This is the chapter I’d want someone to find before they drop off their RV anywhere.
I want to start here because it’s the most important thing in this entire series, and it’s the thing nobody says out loud.
At some point — probably around month three or four — I started quietly wondering if I was the problem.
Not dramatically. Just the slow creep of: am I too picky? Is this just how RV service works? Maybe I’m being difficult. Maybe this is normal and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it.
You can see it in my emails. The way I kept softening my language. The way I thanked them for updates that contained no actual information. The way I kept offering to pick up the unit and bring it back, as if I could solve their communication problem by being more flexible. In one email I literally said something like: I get it, nobody wants to work right now, we’re all busy — you don’t even have to have an answer, just let me know you haven’t forgotten me.
And they still didn’t respond.
Meanwhile, water was literally running through my dashboard.
That disconnect — between what you’re experiencing and the story you’re telling yourself to stay reasonable — is something I’d call out to any RV owner reading this. The shop isn’t going to tell you that you’re being gaslit by their process. The service advisor isn’t going to say “actually you’re right, this is unacceptable.” You have to trust your own read of the situation.
Here’s a simple test: if you walked a non-RV-owner through your situation and described it plainly — my unit has been at a shop for five months, nothing has been done, the roof has turned black from sitting outside, and it’s now raining through the dashboard — would they say you were being too demanding?
No. They’d ask why you hadn’t left already.
Which brings me to the next point.
This is the lesson I’m hardest on myself about. Not because I was stupid — I wasn’t. But because I kept trusting a process long after the evidence told me the process was broken.
I went back six times. Each time I convinced myself the next visit would be different. Each time there was a new assurance, a new promise, a new timeline that sounded reasonable. And each time I left having discovered something new that was wrong, missing, or broken.
Here’s what I understand now that I didn’t then: large service operations — not just Camping World, but any high-volume service organization — can inadvertently optimize for what I’d call settlement fatigue. Not necessarily by design. But structurally.
The longer a dispute drags on, the more likely the customer is to:
Every reassurance that “we’re almost there” resets your internal clock. Every new promise of a Friday callback gives you a reason to wait one more week. Every partial fix — we got the windows, we’ll work on the floor next time — creates the illusion of forward progress while the core problem stays unresolved.
I’m not saying this was a deliberate strategy. I’m saying the incentive structure produces the same outcome either way.
The moment to leave is earlier than you think. Specifically: the first time a unit is returned to you with new damage that wasn’t there at drop-off, and the shop doesn’t immediately own it and commit to a specific resolution. That’s your signal.
I had that moment on August 17th, eight months in, when I walked out to find an awning hanging three feet down the side of a unit that had just been declared “complete and ready.” I should have taken the unit, documented everything, and found a different path forward that day. Instead I left it with them again.
I understand why I didn’t. They sounded reassuring. They had explanations. They acknowledged the issues. It felt like resolution was close.
That feeling, it turns out, was the trap.
This is the practical part. A checklist I wish I’d had.
Do a full video walkthrough before you hand over the keys. Every surface. Every wall. Every floor section. Every seal. Inside and out. Open the slides. Walk the bathroom. Narrate as you go — “this is the back patio as of [date], floor is firm, no soft spots.” Date stamp the video. This is your before state and it matters enormously if something goes wrong.
Photograph every existing scratch, dent, soft spot, and seal. Even the things you’re not asking them to fix. Especially those. If you don’t document it, you can’t prove it was pre-existing.
Get the work order in writing before you leave. Read it. Make sure every item you discussed is on it, with enough specificity to be actionable. “Check windows” is not the same as “seal driver and passenger windows, test for leaks.” Specificity protects you. Verify if you’re being asked to sign or agree to contractual terms, and read them – understand those and how they may impact your experience.
Confirm storage in writing. If they tell you it’ll be kept inside or covered, ask them to put it in an email. If they won’t, note your own concern in writing: “As discussed, I’m concerned about weather exposure given the known leaks. Please confirm the unit will be stored indoors or wrapped.” This creates a record.
Ask specifically: who is my point of contact, and what is your standard communication cadence? Get a name. Get a frequency. “We’ll update you weekly” is a commitment you can hold them to.
Show up unannounced. You have every right to visit your property. Not to be adversarial — just to see what’s actually happening. Five months in, I drove out and found cobwebs in the tire wells and water on the dashboard. That single visit changed everything about how I approached the situation. Go earlier.
Call the warranty company yourself. Don’t assume the shop has initiated the claim. Call the warranty company directly, give them your VIN, and ask: has a claim been opened? When? What was approved? What are the national labor rates for this repair? You are entitled to all of this information. In my case, I found out the claim was called in three months after diagnosis — and approved the same day. One phone call I could have made myself at any point.
Track every commitment with a date. When someone says “I’ll call you Friday,” write it down. When Friday comes and goes, follow up in writing: “Just checking in — you mentioned you’d have an update by today.” This feels awkward. Do it anyway. You’re not being difficult. You’re creating a paper trail.
If your RV has cameras, don’t mention them. I want to be careful here — know your local laws, and cameras shouldn’t be in any space where reasonable privacy is expected. But interior security cameras exist for good reasons, and I’d let them run. The footage I have from those months is some of the most important documentation in this entire story.
Escalate faster than feels comfortable. I escalated to Camping World’s corporate line in late June after months of nothing. The service manager called me back within 40 minutes. Forty minutes. After months of unreturned calls. Escalation works. Patience alone, in a system that’s optimized for attrition, does not.
Put everything in writing after every conversation. After every phone call, send a follow-up email: “Just confirming what we discussed today: you agreed to X, the target date is Y, and you’ll follow up on Z by Friday.” This does two things: it confirms you both understood the conversation the same way, and it creates a timestamped record if you need it later.
Document damage the moment you see it. The first time I saw water on the dashboard was May 25th. I took video immediately. That video shows the date, the condition of the unit, and the water actively dripping. That’s evidence. A description of something you saw months ago is not.
Know what you’ve paid for and what’s still outstanding. Keep a running list of every work order item, its status, and the last communication about it. I did this — and it’s what allowed me to walk into that final regional meeting and go through the list point by point without anyone being able to claim something was complete when it wasn’t.
I want to spend a moment here because I think it’s important — not to pile on, but because I genuinely believe this is fixable, and understanding how should have worked is part of understanding why it didn’t.
I’m a technical professional. I’ve spent years in product management and systems work. I think about process flows and service recovery for a living. So let me tell you what a competent RV service operation looks like, because it’s not complicated:
At intake: Confirm the work order in writing with the customer. Assign a single point of contact who owns the relationship. Set explicit communication expectations: “You’ll hear from us every Friday with a status update, even if there’s nothing new to report.”
On parts and warranty: Initiate the warranty claim within 48 hours of diagnosis. Track parts orders with actual order numbers and ETAs. Cross-reference incoming shipments against open work orders daily — this is a basic inventory management function that any shop management software handles.
On the unit itself: Log every access. Who entered the unit, when, and why. This protects the customer and protects the shop. A clipboard in the bay solves this. A digital log is even better.
Before pickup: Conduct a pre-delivery inspection against the work order. Walk every item. Test every repair. Sign off before calling the customer. If something isn’t done, call the customer before they drive hours to pick up the unit — not after they’re standing in the parking lot looking at a dangling awning.
When something goes wrong: Own it immediately. Don’t explain, don’t deflect, don’t suggest the customer might have a point in insurance or Marketplace. Say: “This happened while it was in our care. Here’s what we’re going to do to make it right, and here’s the timeline.”
None of this is revolutionary. This is just competent service operations. The fact that it didn’t happen — across multiple advisors, multiple managers, and multiple years — is why I call this a systemic failure rather than a series of individual mistakes.
Here’s something I want to be honest about: I went into this thinking that if I just documented enough, someone would step in and make it right. Attorney, DOJ, CEO tweet, regional meeting — surely at some point the weight of the evidence would produce a proportional response.
It didn’t work that way. The floors that rotted from eight months of outdoor exposure in a unit they promised to protect? Not fixed. Not reimbursed. “Not feasible.”
And yet I don’t regret the documentation. Here’s why:
The documentation kept me sane. When you’re six months into something like this, starting to wonder if you’re being unreasonable, going back to the emails and reading the actual record — seeing yourself try over and over again, seeing the dates, seeing the promises — that’s what breaks the spell. The documentation is what lets you say, with certainty, I was not the problem.
The documentation also gave me the credibility to get a partial resolution. The regional rep couldn’t dismiss me because I wasn’t asking them to take my word for it. I had a work order with specific job numbers. I had photos dated within hours of pickup. I had camera footage of a technician saying “I forgot to put a screw in it.”
Bring the receipts. Not because they guarantee justice. Because they guarantee clarity — for you, and for anyone else who has to reckon with what happened.
I still use RV service shops. I have to — I’m a solo RVer, and some jobs genuinely require a second set of hands, a lift, or specialized equipment. And yes, I’ve ended up at a Camping World since this happened. Not by choice, but by geography.
What changed isn’t where I go. It’s how I go.
I show up with a work order I wrote myself before I hand them anything. I document the unit on video in the parking lot before I hand over the keys. I confirm parts and warranty status directly with the manufacturer. I set a first follow-up date before I walk out the door. And I show up unannounced, earlier than anyone expects.
The system isn’t going to fix itself. But you can get better at navigating it.
For anyone who wants the short version — bookmark this, share it, use it.
☐ Full video walkthrough before drop-off — narrated, dated, every surface
☐ Photos of all existing damage, even things you’re not fixing
☐ Written work order — specific, itemized, signed
☐ Storage commitment in writing
☐ Point of contact name + communication cadence confirmed
☐ Call the warranty company yourself — don’t assume the shop did
☐ Show up unannounced within the first month
☐ Log every commitment with a date
☐ Follow-up emails after every phone call
☐ Document new damage the moment you see it
☐ Escalate before you feel like you “should”
☐ Know your exit point — and leave when you hit it
Have something to add? A lesson I missed, a shop that actually did right by you, or a horror story that makes mine look mild? Leave a comment — I genuinely want to build this list out with real experiences from real RV owners.
← Back to The Camping World Saga ← Chapter 2 — How the System Failed
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