How We Actually Plan an MMM Itinerary

It all starts with a cup of hot tea and my laptop, already open to a fresh tab in the spreadsheet I use every year to plan our trip.  I sit and take a sip of tea, excited to plan our adventures – but also bracing myself for what I call “the great RV trip shuffle”.
M, sensing the job at hand, wanders in to give her opinions and sits, munching on chips and laughing when I frown in frustration.
Ariel, knowing her dinner is likely to be delayed, lays on the couch with a dramatic sigh and a LOT of side-eye. 
And I begin.  Every time, I manage to maintain my delusional belief that we’ll stick to the plan.

Step 1: Start With the Calendar

Before we look at a single map, I pull out the calendar. The kind with actual boxes you can write in – because nothing says “trip planning” like realizing your daughter has finals the same week you meant to be in Maine.

We start simple: when can we leave, and when do we need to be home? Is this a quick weekend getaway, or one of those summer-long sagas where Journey – well, now Winnifred – racks up more miles than most airlines?

Once we have those dates, everything else starts to take shape. I block them off in the spreadsheet and make a mental note to double-check holidays, birthdays, and anything else we’ve forgotten. (Learned that one the hard way when we accidentally hit Austin JUST before SWSX – city got CROWDED!)

The calendar sets the guardrails. It keeps us honest, at least for a few hours – until we start adding stops, and the guardrails become more of a “suggestion.”

Step 2: Drop the Non-Negotiables

Once the dates are set, I start with what I call the anchors – the stops that have to be part of the trip. They go into the spreadsheet first, highlighted in bold like sacred text.

For us, that usually means places like Catholic Family Land or Cape May, the spots that pull us back every year and are set by higher authorities than me. It may also mean somewhere I have a speaking gig lined up, or a friend we promised to visit.

These fixed points shape everything else. They’re the fence posts that hold the trip together. Once they’re in place, I can start connecting the dots and seeing what fits between them.

The rest of the trip can flex. These can’t.

Step 3: Stare at the Map Really Hard

Next, I do the part that looks the least productive.  I pull up Google Maps, zoom out, and stare at it.

This part can last a while – a whole cup of tea, maybe longer.  It’s quiet, still…I just let my brain and wanderlust work for a bit.  I picture in my head different stops – we could go up towards Montreal…except then I have to arrange travel papers for Ariel.  We could go west to Minneapolis…south to Kentucky…east to visit family in New Jersey.  I could plan “The Summer of The Lewisburgs”, hitting every town sharing the name of our hometown – it turns out there’s a LOT.

After a while, I ask M to weigh in – her birthday falls during our summer trip, so where does she want to spend it?  Does she have any dream destinations or activities for the summer? For instance, this year, M is dying to do New England…and with Winnifred, we can finally do it comfortably.

So I look back at the map.  I zoom in a little.  I study all those little lines, all the dots marking cities and towns.  This is normally where I start to get an inkling of what our trip will look like.

Step 4: Choose a Region or Theme

So after about an hour of staring at a map, we normally have come up with the loosest theme possible for the trip.  Again, this year, that means New England.  M definitely wants to hit Boston.

Choosing a region keeps us from overreaching — because trust me, left unchecked, I’ll plan a route that somehow includes the Grand Canyon and Cape Cod. Focusing the trip means fewer miles and more time actually enjoying where we land.

Once we have a rough direction, I can start looking at towns and campgrounds in that area. That’s when the trip starts to take shape — still flexible, still full of question marks, but starting to look like something real.

Step 5: Research + Reality Check

With a direction in mind, it’s time to get practical. I start scouting possible towns and campgrounds along the route – the ones that sound perfect until you realize “rustic” means no hookups and “family-friendly” means your neighbors bring twelve children and a karaoke machine.

I look for a balance: reasonable driving distances, decent campgrounds, and enough nearby attractions to keep M and myself entertained without exhausting everyone. Ariel’s needs factor in too — dog-friendly parks, easy walking spots, and at least one good shady nap zone.

This is also when the spreadsheet starts to fill up. I add a line for each possible stop with columns for mileage, drive time, potential campgrounds, and what’s nearby. I color-code as I go, partly for organization and partly because it makes me feel like I know what I’m doing.

By the end of this step, I usually have a long list of “maybes,” a handful of solid “yeses,” and at least twenty places that looked good until I read the reviews. (“Great scenery, but bring bug spray and emotional resilience.”)

Step 6: Spreadsheet Symphony

This is the part where things finally start to look official.

Each stop gets its own row. Columns for city, state, drive time, mileage, campground, arrival date, departure date, and notes. I add a few extra columns too, like “things to do,” “must-eat food,” and “Ariel’s opinion” (which usually just says “treat potential high” or “too many squirrels”).

As the spreadsheet fills in, the trip starts to take shape. I can see where the long drives fall, where we’ll have time to rest, and where I’ve accidentally planned to cover three states in a single day. It’s a visual map of optimism – color-coded, neatly aligned, and slightly overambitious.

M calls it my “travel control center.” I call it therapy with formulas. Either way, it’s how I make sense of the chaos before the road gets its turn to rearrange everything.

Step 7: The Overplanning Realization

It happens every single year. I sit back, look at the spreadsheet, and realize we’ve done it again. Too many stops. Not enough time to actually be anywhere.

There’s a moment of denial — the “maybe we can make it work” phase — followed by the quiet acceptance that no one wants to spend every other day packing up camp and racing the clock. So, I break out the wine to fortify myself, open a new tab, and start trimming.

Some places drop off the list easily. Others sting a little. But I’ve learned that the best trips happen when we leave room for rest days — those lazy afternoons when Michaela sketches, Ariel naps in the sun, and I actually get to enjoy the campground we paid for. Those are also the days when we do laundry, take care of work/schoolwork that has popped up, and hang with the fascinating people at the campgrounds. We try to have about two campground days a week – and no, that does NOT count drive days.  You see the dilemma.

So we scale back. Adjust. Breathe. Then we call it what it is: progress. Because every great itinerary starts out as a little bit of overplanning and a lot of good intentions.

Step 8: The Great Family Debate

Once the revised plan looks reasonable, I call in the committee. M brings snacks and opinions, while Ariel contributes so much judgment. That’s when the negotiations begin.

M usually starts by circling her “must-see” list — sometimes it’s an art museum, sometimes a quirky roadside stop, sometimes both. I remind her that travel days exist and that we can’t teleport from Maine to Michigan. She rolls her eyes. Ariel yawns.

We go back and forth, swapping one destination for another until the plan feels balanced enough to keep everyone happy. Some years, we compromise on activities. Some years, it’s routes. At some point, we might yell and huff in frustration.

Eventually, we land on something that looks fair. M gets her dream stop, I get my realistic mileage, and Ariel gets a promise of drive-thru fries along the way. It’s democracy at its finest – or at least, the road-trip version of it.

Step 9: Lock It In

Once the itinerary passes family approval, it’s time to start booking. This part feels the most productive – and the most dangerous, because one wrong click can commit us to a week somewhere with spotty Wi-Fi and questionable plumbing.

I start with the high-demand spots: national parks, coastal campgrounds, or anywhere within fifty miles of a major festival. Those fill up fast, so I grab them first. Then I move on to the smaller, more flexible stops – the “we’ll see how we feel” kind of places.

I keep everything organized in the spreadsheet: confirmation numbers, check-in times, cancellation policies. (Nothing like realizing your “non-refundable” campsite is three hundred miles off course.) I also check if there’s anything I need to know about the drive – bridges, weird turns, or when they’re down a pebbly dirt road that’s going to crack a hole in my water tank.

By the end of this step, we have a solid framework – routes, reservations, and a plan that looks surprisingly professional. Which is usually the moment Ariel yawns, stretches, and reminds us that we’ve planned exactly enough for the road to start changing everything.

Step 10: Sprinkle in the Fun Stuff

With the bones of the trip set, this is the part I actually look forward to – filling in the fun. I start adding activities, little detours, and can’t-miss food stops into the spreadsheet. It’s like decorating a cake that’s already baked.

Each destination gets its own mini list: a local coffee shop worth a morning stop, a museum M wants to visit, a trail that allows dogs, a diner with milkshakes the size of Ariel’s head. Some are definite plans, others just possibilities – things we might squeeze in if the weather behaves and the mood’s right.

We always leave space for surprises. I try to add at least one “mystery stop” each week, something M and Ariel don’t know about until we pull up. Sometimes it’s a scenic overlook, sometimes it’s an animal sanctuary, sometimes it’s just a great donut shop.

This step turns the trip from a route into a story – a mix of scheduled stops and spontaneous moments that keep the miles interesting. And once those details are in place, the plan feels done. At least on paper.

And that’s it. Every destination lined up. Every mile accounted for. The spreadsheet is tidy, the map is marked, and even Ariel looks impressed. The plan is airtight. Organized. Ready for the open road.

I close the laptop, take a sip of now-cold tea, and sit back with a satisfied sigh. This is it. The perfect MMM itinerary.

At least for the next five minutes.

And Then We Get on the Road (and Everything Goes Out the Window)

Because here’s the truth: the second the tires hit the highway, the plan starts unraveling – disastrously, beautifully, hilariously, inevitably. Campgrounds flood, detours appear, and that “two-hour” drive becomes five when someone (not naming names) spots a sign for world-famous pie. (Literally, as I add this to the website, we’re sitting in the RV repair shop, with our departure delayed another day.)

Some of our best memories have come from the moments that never made the spreadsheet — a roadside farm stand, a spontaneous swim, a campground we only found because our first one was overbooked, a city we only went to because the tire blew.

The map is what gets us started, but the magic always happens between the lines. So we plan, we pivot, we laugh, and we roll with it. Because if there’s one rule of RV travel, it’s this: the journey always has better ideas.

When the Plan Changes (and It Always Does)

At some point, every carefully planned trip meets its first curveball. Sometimes it’s weather. Sometimes it’s a broken part. Sometimes it’s a mood – the kind that hits halfway through a 200-mile drive when everyone’s hungry, tired, and suddenly questioning why we thought Knoxville sounded fun when we spot the three thousand people outside Elvis’s mansion (true story).

Pivoting is part of the process now. We’ve learned to treat plans like guidelines instead of gospel. When something shifts, we pull over, take a breath, and look for what’s next instead of what’s lost.

If a campground falls through, we check Roadtrippers or Harvest Hosts. If the weather ruins a hike, we find a quirky museum or the nearest donut shop. If morale dips, we stop somewhere scenic, play a few songs, and reset.

The key is giving every change a little space. Usually, the thing we thought ruined the day ends up saving it. Like the time a flat tire landed us in Austin, and we ended up staying a full month to breathe – and found plenty of fun along the way. Or when a wrong turn led to a washed out bridge and an incredible view.

Pivoting doesn’t mean the plan failed. It means the road had a better idea.

So that’s our process – part spreadsheet, part improv, and a whole lot of debating. We plan because it gives the trip shape, but we travel knowing the road will redraw it anyway. Every year, we start with the same belief that this time we’ll stick to the plan, and every year, the detours prove more memorable than the itinerary.

In the end, that’s what Mom, Map, and Miles is really about. We plan to feel steady, we pivot to stay curious, and we keep rolling – one spreadsheet, one donut stop, and one happy dog at a time.