I’ve owned a few Shastas over the years, and I’ve always had a soft spot for the 1400. About five years ago, I spotted this one on Craigslist. Of course, it was nearly 500 miles from my home—across Minnesota and into South Dakota. I called the woman who owned it, and she was kind and straightforward. She explained that a change in life circumstances meant she wouldn’t be able to restore the trailer herself.
After she agreed to hold it for me, a friend and I set out to see it in person. Following her directions, we drove about fifteen miles outside of town, watching carefully for the lone mailbox she had described. You could see for miles in every direction as we pulled into the driveway. There was no house in sight—just a weathered barn in need of repair, a few scattered items in the yard, and an older fifth-wheel camper sitting quietly nearby.
The owner and her husband came out to greet us and showed us the Shasta. It didn’t take long for me to see that it was in remarkably good shape—original, honest, and absolutely worth the long drive. Like most buyers, I had briefly hoped I might negotiate the price, but that thought disappeared when she shared more of their story. They were selling everything because her husband had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. In that moment, I felt a deep sense of clarity and gratitude—and apologized, quietly, for even considering anything less than their asking price.
We agreed on the full price. Before leaving, my friend and I asked if we could pray with them—for peace, for comfort, and for strength in a situation only God truly understands. Standing there, holding hands in the middle of South Dakota, it felt less like a transaction and more like an appointment we were meant to keep. Some may dismiss moments like that, but to me, it was unmistakable.
Her only request was simple: that I send her a photo of the 1956 Shasta once it was finished.
