I miss my trailer year.

When my wife and I wanted to get a place to call our own, in Whitehorse, a quick perusal of the rental market slowly filled us with dismay.

(Before anyone gets too confused, we’re not actually married, but stand-up bits scan a whole heck of a lot better with the word “wife”, rather than “fiancée”.)

Tour the local rental market and you’ll end up with this caveat: “A deadbolt on the door to your musty basement from which you just hauled Aunt Mavis’ mothballed furniture out of, does not an apartment make.”

The idea of paying close to a grand to live underneath someone’s family, forever in earshot of daily dysfunction, doesn’t sound all that appealing does it?

For a young couple (well she is, anyway) looking to start out on their own means, it’s practically impossible to not find oneself coming out with mounds of debt.

Super-inflated prices sure don’t help, either.

Go ahead and have a wee gander both ways down the Alaska Highway. You see a pipeline? Me neither. Sasquatch is more likely.

So, we took our limited resources and headed into Lobird.

You might have heard of it: the trailer park on the top of the hill … had an impromptu meteor shower … Larry lives (d) there … ring any bells?

By the way, ever wonder why some of the best views in Whitehorse are in the industrial areas and trailer parks?

Seriously, who wouldn’t kill for the view those back-end Takhini Mobile Home Park lots receive. And, next time you’re around the city dump, cruise up to the giant pits with the “War Eagle” monikers and take a moment to gaze upon some awesome sights. Far past Grey Mountain, a full range of mountainy wilderness stretches off as far as the eye can see.

(While you’re there, feel free to drop an “Iron Eyes Cody” tear while gazing upon the town’s detritus.)

So we settled into our metal rectangle, visions of Trailer Park Boys-esque shenanigans quickly fading once we discovered what a lovely neighbourhood we had landed in.

Paper-thin walls bleed out as much heat as they osmose in outside noise.

Ignoring the “bombings”, of course, this was a neighbourhood that valued having a nice, calm and quiet space to come home to.

It was quiet. Deliciously quiet.

Well, there was that one night where some random drunk dude was banging on my door at around 11 p.m., scaring the living crap out of me as I was in the middle of being completely tripped out by David Lynch’s Mullholland Drive.

Naturally, the dude was looking for “Dave”.

In the ‘Bird, the lawns sure weren’t that big, but the junk in them was kept to a bare minimum. We even made our own attempt at planting some wildflowers in front of our little joint, to match the already-thriving raspberry bush at the back end.

Awesome as long as them dang kids didn’t get to ’em first.

Our trailer in Lobird ended up being the coziest place we had ever made for ourselves.

So remember, gang, when you consider finding a more permanent place to hang your hat, really consider that appearances can be deceiving.

More importantly, you don’t have to shell out six figures for brilliant views and neighbourhoods with real charm and character.