Westfall has long been used to being on her own. In her youth she took solitary road trips into the desert and mountains and once took flying lessons. But life on the road taught her to be more resourceful, bolder.

She once raced north out of Texas to escape a hurricane and rode out the remnants of the storm at a truck stop in Little Rock, Ark. One Christmas in Florida, she scared off a would-be armed robber who accosted her at an ATM, yelling, “I haven’t got any more money, fool.”

Last summer, a few weeks after getting the speeding ticket, Westfall stood in traffic court to fight the $300 fine. She persuaded the judge to reduce it to $75 — but missed a day’s pay to plead her case.

Two months later, in August, she still didn’t know where she’d be working after Darien Lake, and faced yet another nasty choice between need and want.

“I’m beginning to feel ineffectual,” Westfall says. “And I’ve never felt that before. I don’t feel desperate, but I’m getting close.”

Should she go to the dentist, or take a guided tour of buildings designed by her favorite architect, Frank Lloyd Wright? Each cost $100.

She picked Frank Lloyd Wright. Her teeth could wait.

“I believe doing something fun, no matter how frivolous it might seem, is food for the soul,” she said. “You need to feed yourself some pleasure once in a while to keep feeling alive. Otherwise, it’s just drudgery.”

But there is little money to see the sights. She earns too much to receive food stamps , and a lot of it goes to groceries. She tries to eat organic food, with her low blood sugar. That rules out cheap but filling Big Macs — as well as the food kitchens whose mass-produced meals, she decided, are unhealthful.

She can’t buy in bulk because Big Foot has little storage space. Often, she’s forced to purchase smaller-sized products — at convenience store prices — that fit a smallish RV refrigerator. At laundromats, she tries to keep wash day under $10, always scouting the hotter money-saving dryers.

Her key ring is crowded with plastic discount tags for supermarkets and places like Staples and Books-A-Million.

But Westfall finds that she is now more in debt than when she hit the road. She hasn’t been able to visit her younger sister, Mary Ann, in California since she set out; she can afford to take only the shortest route to the next job, and the jobs haven’t taken her that way. The biggest blow came in 2013 when she faced $8,000 in charges for emergency dental work and rig repairs. It was a gut punch from which she has yet to recover.

She tries to do the repairs herself when she can. One day at Darien Lake, she climbed a ladder to lean over the RV’s roof, looking for the source of a leak that was dripping water onto her laptop. Time was, she’d climb all the way up on the roof to take care of things. But not anymore.

“I’m beginning to feel ineffectual,” she said. “And I’ve never felt that before. I don’t feel desperate, but I’m getting close.”

::

Wearing an electric orange work shirt, Westfall is known among youngsters at the Darien Lake Theme Park as “the Ride Lady.” On her last day, an hour before the park began shutting down for the year, Westfall has to deal with an irate mother. Later, the six teenagers she’d worked with that summer invite her to Denny’s for a going-away dinner.

Westfall was working her last shift at the theme park on a warm Sunday afternoon in late September. While some co-workers slouched glumly at the controls, she was a blur of activity. Using a stick, she measured each tyke to make sure they were tall enough to ride; she strapped the youngest ones in tightly.

Wearing the leopard-spotted glasses she’d bought at a truck stop, she stooped face-to-face with little ones for conversations that never condescended. Some wrapped her in a spontaneous hug.

They’d ask, “Did you get your glasses at Target?” or “Are you nice.”

Her favorite: “How did you get so old.”

She responded, “By hanging around a really long time.”

Her feet hurt constantly from standing 12 hours at a stretch, six days a week, racking up overtime. On her last day, an hour before the park would begin to shut down for the year, Westfall gently corrected a mother who’d barged into the ride area to check on her child after the security gate was closed. That was her job, Westfall explained.

The mother exploded. She shouted inches from Westfall’s face, spittle flying.

“Just because you’re a miserable old lady with your effing $7-an-hour job,” she hissed. “You don’t have a life.”

As the irate woman was finally escorted away by security, a bystander sent her daughter over with a $10 bill. She said Westfall deserved a nice dinner.

An hour later, Westfall walked to her car, exhausted and preoccupied: She still had not lined up her next job. Suddenly, a small crowd rushed the vehicle, and Westfall tensed: the irate mother again?

It was six teenagers she’d worked with that summer. They rocked her car back and forth, chanting, “We love Dolores! We love Dolores.”

The youngsters pulled Westfall out for a group hug and invited her to Denny’s for a going-away dinner. Her face flushed at this gift of grace. At the restaurant, she laughed along with high schoolers that in another life could have been her grandchildren.

After a waitress dropped off the check, a manager approached and put a hand on Westfall’s shoulder. “So, you’re going to pay for the whole crew.”

The group ignored him and divvied up the bill. Westfall’s portion came to $10; Her AARP card cut the damage to $8 and change.

She walked into the night feeling less alone. Later, she sat at the picnic table next to her rig, one she’d cozied up with a red-and-white plastic tablecloth.

::

ADVERTISEMENT

Most of the RVs belonging to other seasonal workers had already departed. On a gray October morning, a flock of geese flew in formation overhead, and Westfall knew she’d have to flee too. Big Foot could never keep her warm in winter, but she couldn’t travel too far south; she knew from experience that south Florida was too expensive.

But where to go? Despite hours of phone work, Westfall still didn’t know whether she was heading to Maryland for a door-to-door sales gig or to Georgia for a mall kiosk job.

Big Foot was another problem. The roof still leaked, and the plumbing was acting up. Thanks to a surprise $1,000 limit increase on one credit card, she had a bit of headroom, but $400 of that was already spent.

The deadline for leaving Darien Lake was the next day. She turned on the kitchen faucet. Water collected in the sink.

A flash of weariness crossed her face. “I don’t like this,” she said.

Big Foot’s roof still leaks and now the plumbing is acting up. “You’re getting damned uninhabitable,” Westfall scolds.

Westfall, in a brown house robe, began once again storing her life for the next move. The driver and passenger seats and floor were stacked with boxes marked “writing,” “receipts,” “credit cards” and “insurance.”

She emerged from the bathroom looking glum: The foot pedal toilet flusher had just broken.

Soon a security guard knocked.

“Hi,” he said. “I just wanted to know when you plan on leaving.”

“Oh, in about a year,” Westfall said with a laugh. “You know, packing one of these is like putting your house on wheels.”

As the afternoon waned, she finished organizing and moved outside. Winding up several hoses, her fingers ached in the cold. Then a brace on the rig’s stairwell snapped. In frustration and despair, she banged on Big Foot’s side.

“You’re getting damned uninhabitable,” she scolded.

With the sun sinking, Westfall drove to a repair shop.

The mechanics confirmed the busted water pump. Without it, she couldn’t save money by parking at truck stops and would have to pay to stay at campgrounds with water hookups.

But the mechanics wanted thousands for the repair. So Westfall did without it, scouting half-price campgrounds while hopscotching south to the Carolinas, where she found a mechanic to fix the pump for $200.

By late October, she was parked at a campsite in Savannah, Ga., her Christmas season working grounds. She was entering her eighth year on the road, ready to start the entire process all over again.

Dinner was back to brown rice and milk. Big Foot’s kitchen sink still drained slowly.