Rolling with Brother Highway: Bessie, Bertha & Bertie Bea with Rosie in Tow

“The road and I have been like brothers
From all the miles and time we’ve spent together
Yeah, we’ve seen it all
We both seen changes in our time
Busted dreams and detour signs
We keep rolling on”

I’ve always believed that some songs are more than just music—they’re road companions. Brother Highway by Ned LeDoux is one of those songs. Ned’s got that same magic his dad, Chris LeDoux, had—singing straight into the ribcage of anyone who’s ever chased a horizon. Chris had a song called It Ain’t the Years, It’s the Miles, and it hit me square in the gut when I first heard it. That’s the RV life in a nutshell: stories are written in miles, not in the years you’ve been at it. And those miles? They’re not always smooth pavement. Sometimes they’re paved with flat tires, stubborn slide-outs, and the occasional “Why is there water dripping from there?” moment.

“Brother highway, we’ve seen it all
Through the wind and the rain and the snowfall
No matter how far out I roam
I need you brother to get me home”

When I started this journey in August 2020 with Bessie, my 2013 Forest River Sunseeker 2300, I thought I was just going on a big trip—77 days, over 10,000 miles. I didn’t realize I was signing up for a lifestyle. Bessie taught me the basics: how to find a campsite when the “No Vacancy” signs were glowing, how to empty tanks without getting sprayed (well… most of the time), and how to find joy in those accidental detours. We rolled through the Badlands, Yellowstone, Jackson Hole, and down into the red rocks of Arizona. The Instagram-worthy sunsets were free. The unplanned repairs? Let’s just say I learned that duct tape is the official flag of the RV life.

Then came Bertha, my second rig. She was the “next chapter” coach—roomier, steadier, ready for longer hauls. Bertha carried me into a deeper relationship with the road. We meandered down quiet farm roads where folks wave from their porches, and she taught me the art of not rushing. Sure, we still had our moments—like figuring out why the fridge wouldn’t stay cold in the middle of July—but that’s part of the deal. Life on the road isn’t all sunrise coffee shots and perfectly level campsites. Sometimes it’s a YouTube tutorial at 11 p.m., a flashlight between your teeth, and the realization that your “fix” just created another problem.

“The interstate or an old dirt road
You’re in my blood, and in my soul
Well I was born to drive
On the open road is where I belong
When I’m with you I’m never alone
Within your long white lines”

Now I’m traveling with Bertie Bea, my 2016 Tiffin Allegro Open Road 34PA, and Rosie, my trusty tow car. They’ve taken me on the Summer Tour 2025—from fishing Wyoming’s North Platte River to exploring Medora, North Dakota, to finding stillness at Kick Back Ranch in Alabama. Whether it’s an interstate humming under my wheels or a gravel two-track cutting across the prairie, the road feels stitched into my DNA.

And like Ned sings, “When I’m with you I’m never alone.” Even in the loneliest stretches, music keeps me company. Chris LeDoux’s grit and Ned’s easy cowboy honesty are reminders that the RV life is both a privilege and a test. There’s glory in the miles—the kind you share in blog posts and podcasts—but there’s also grit.

“Brother highway, we’ve seen it all
Through the wind and the rain and the snowfall
No matter how far out I roam
I need you brother to get me home”

And here’s the thing: those “rough miles” often make the best stories. Like the time I had to troubleshoot a roof leak in Red Bay, Alabama, during a downpour. Or when my tire PSI was just right according to the chart, but the scale told me Bertie Bea had been hitting the buffet line too hard. Those moments are the flipside of the perfect campground shot—the part Instagram doesn’t always show. But they’re just as real and just as much a part of the adventure.

“Now there’s no place else I’d rather be
Than there at home with my family
But I keep my suitcase packed
‘Cause you and I know it won’t be long
Those humming tires are like a song
And they keep me coming back”

Home, for me, is a moving target. Sometimes it’s parked under cottonwoods by a trout stream. Sometimes it’s back in Belmont, North Carolina, with family. But even when I’m “home,” I keep the suitcase ready. Because sooner or later, the hum of those tires starts playing like a favorite song—and I’ve got to go find out what’s over the next rise.

Ned’s Brother Highway isn’t just a tune—it’s a mirror for this life. It’s the reminder that the miles matter more than the years, that even when the road throws you a curve, you can work through it. And when you do, the view on the other side always feels earned.

So here’s to the road, to the songs that keep us company, to Bessie, Bertha, and Bertie Bea—and to all the busted dreams and detour signs that somehow lead us exactly where we need to be.