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Halfway through summer, Milton Heights Campground looks as pristine as Augusta National Golf Club on opening day.

The grass is an untrampled jade.

The spruce limbs are teeming with complaining birds.

The camp store shelves are well stocked with barbeque briquettes and junk food.

About the only thing missing from this RV park is the RVs.

“Usually we'd be full up this time of year,” says manager Jean Casarin, looking none too hurried as she smoked at a picnic table.

“You wouldn't be able to see the grass for all the RVs.”

Instead, she estimates that three-quarters of the spots sit vacant, waiting for rigs and lawn chairs.

Ms. Casarin sits and waits too, for paying customers, many of them RV-piloting friends who make an annual habit of visiting her and her campground.

“You can't really blame them,” she says.

“When a $600 gas tank last year takes $1,200 to fill this year, it makes it tough.”

For hundreds of thousands of Canadians, rumbling across the continent by motorhome is not just a vacation, but a lifestyle. They are children of a continent-wide cruising culture that germinated during the highway-building frenzy of the fifties and sixties. Many use their mobile palaces as a primary residence, intent on embracing the freedom of the open road.

But freedom isn't so free any more. Soaring gas and diesel prices haven't just scrubbed travel plans and left campgrounds empty, they've also threatened the quintessentially North American way of life on the road.

“Fewer people will be living the dream,” says Ross Binnie, a grey-bearded full-timer who joins Ms. Casarin at the picnic table. “Especially those on the margins.”

At 73, Mr. Binnie, a retired flight engineer, has been RVing for nearly half his life. After starting with a converted Sears delivery van, he's now on RV No. 8, a spiffy Winnebago Adventurer purchased two weeks ago.

Mr. Binnie and his partner had intended to drive it to Duluth, Minn., this summer, but fuel prices stranded them at Milton Heights near Milton, Ont.

“We worked it out,” he says, “and a return trip was going to cost $3,000. It just wasn't worth it. For two people on a fixed income, it really limits what you can do.”

Less social types may bask in all the peace and quiet here, but Mr. Binnie, who has roared through every province and territory as well as 47 states, adopted wayfaring life in part for the social aspects.

“I always liked to wander,” he says. “And I liked the people I met when I did.”

The story is the same across the country. At Blue Spruce RV Park & Campground in Prince George, the number of motorhomes pulling in is down by one-third from last year, according to manager Ted McAfee.

“These guys who have to spend $800 or $900 to fill a tank, it's just killing them. They're staying at home.”

Those who do stay tell Mr. McAfee stories of driving empty highways all over British Columbia's interior, usually choked with summer Winnebago traffic.

At this year's Calgary Stampede, RV tour operators reported being half booked and normally packed RV parks were advertising vacancies.

Manufacturers are feeling the hurt as well. The company synonymous with the lifestyle, Winnebago Industries, announced a 73-per-cent drop in profits last quarter.

Some RVers are simply sticking closer to home. In a recent survey conducted for Go RVing Canada, a motorhome industry group, half of all respondents said they would be changing their travel plans to mitigate the sting of high gas prices, according to spokeswoman Catherine LeFaivre.

“A lot of people are just taking longer to get there,” said Sharlene Minshall, author of six books on RVing and a columnist for RV Life magazine. “Those who can't afford it have put ‘for sale' signs up.”

Starting in 1986, Ms. Minshall plied North American highways for 20 years living in her motorhome. She considers herself lucky to have seen 48 states and 10 provinces while fuel prices were still manageable.

“The next generation might not be able to make it work.”

She recently sold her 27-footer and is looking for a smaller replacement. “Maybe I'll get a little van or something, I'm not sure.”

Living in Arizona, Ms. Minshall has noticed Americans becoming especially skittish about travel. “It's not just gas,” she says. “People are worried about the economy. They're seeing their retirement money disappearing.”

Ms. Casarin would definitely concur. Back at Milton Heights, she does rounds in an electric golf cart, but doesn't have much to do. Bathrooms stay clean, toilet paper rolls don't shrink, campsites remain clear.

“Americans are what used to keep this place going,” she says. “Now they're gone. Gone, gone, gone.”