A Bad Day (Or Two) For P.

We decided that, what with both of us being gainfully employed, we would begin moving some of our stuff to Boise. Much of the furniture and larger items are in storage in Escondido, and there's no point moving it until we get a house. But a lot of boxes: kitchen stuff, books, some clothing, etc., was stuffed into my mom's garage. There wasn't enough there to justify hiring a mover, so I decided to rent a truck and bring it back before the weather made that an ugly chore.

So on Saturday, I flew down to Laguna and rented a truck. The Balls came up, and we made short work of the loading, and had a chance to visit. Burt cooked a lovely sausage dinner (one thing we're having a hard time finding in Boise is good sausages), and much wine flowed.

The next morning, I got up a 4:45 and was on the road by 5:00. I love starting a road trip before sunrise. The roads were clear, and by the time the sun broke over the horizon, I was on 395, deep in the Mojave desert. I decided to go up 395 because it was the shortest route according to Mapquest, and because it's a far more beautiful drive than taking I-15 through Las Vegas.

Nothing like watching the sun rise across a field of Joshua trees and industrial detritus.

This is what says "road trip" to me.

The Sierras began to rise to the west as I continued north.

I made great time, stopping for breakfast at the base of Mt. Whitney and the Alabama Hills.

When I was very young, my maternal grandfather and grandmother lived
in Bishop at the foot of the Sierras. I remember making
the trip from Laguna. We always started early in the morning.
That was the foundation of my love for road trips.

The Owens Valley, cupped between the east side of the Sierras
and the White Mountains, has always been one of my favorite places in the world.

Burt had given me directions to the house where my grandparents
used to live, so I visited it. Even though I couldn't have been more
than about five when I last visited there, the house is still as I picture
it. I remember clearly sitting in the upstairs bedroom above the front door.

After driving through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Bishop, I decided to let the GPS system take me on the shortest distance back to Boise. The truck was using way more gas than I had expected, so I wanted to minimize the distance traveled.

The GPS pointed me east into Nevada, so, with one last look at the Sierras, off I went.

I had just over a quarter tank of gas when I reached the Nevada border, but I wasn't worried, because according the road signs there were two towns within twenty miles.

That was the first of a series of bad decisions.

As it turned out the first town had no gas station, and the second was a cluster of abandoned homes. I forged on, worried now. I came to a crossroad. The GPS said turn north, so I did, but just after the turn there was a sign that said "Mina 31 mi." At this point, I wasn't sure I could go 31 miles without gas, so I went back to check the signs heading east. "Coaldale Junction 22 mi." I had no map, so I couldn't tell which was the bigger town. I decided to go with the closer of the two and headed east. I crested a ridge and looked out over an endless flat, saline plain. My heart was pounding. There was no sign of human presence in sight in any direction, only the road running straight to the vanishing point. A this point, though, I was committed. I wasn't sure I could even cross the plain without running out of gas, but I had to try. Cars were few and far between, one maybe every 10 minutes, so I was now very worried indeed. Especially since my cell phone was resolutely displaying "No coverage" and no bars.

I did make it across the plain, and when I got there I could see what looked like several buildings and perhaps a sign in the middle distance. I made for them, hoping I wouldn't run out of gas before I got there. I didn't. But the buildings were cement block shells flanked by the remains of an unreadable sign. "Ernie is a punk" was spray-painted on one of the walls. Good to know, I suppose, but not much immediate help.

This was Coaldale Junction, and now I was really screwed. I turned north, only to be greeted by a sign promising "Mina 31 mi." once again. Now I had to try for it with 22 miles less fuel in the tank.

I made it further than I would have thought possible, but about 21 miles from Coaldale Junction, my luck finally ran out with the last drops of gas. I was in one of Nevada's great empty spaces: breathtakingly beautiful, but few cars on the road. Off in the distance I could see what I assumed was Mina--a cluster of buildings and trees probably 6 or 7 miles away. Still no cell coverage. I put on my backpack with all my electronics and camera, locked the truck, and stuck out my thumb.

There were some cars on the road, but the few that there were whizzed past me without slowing down, some even moving into the opposite lane as if to avoid any possibility of my springing out at them. I decided to wave my arms instead of just my thumb, to no avail. A red SUV spun past me, then braked, stopping several hundred feet down the road. As I hurried toward them, two women got out; one opened the back of the SUV and donned a lime-green and orange safety vest. Did I need help, they asked. I did.

Since they had Verizon phones instead of stupid AT&T, they had cell coverage. I called Triple A, and after a long wait was told that they don't cover me for a rental truck--sorry. I asked if they could at least call someone I could pay to bring some gas. They couldn't, but gave me the number of a towing service. I called: "The number you have called has been disconnected."

I asked my benefactors if they would mind driving me into Mina or the nearest gas station. "Well, of course. We wouldn't leave you stranded." So I got in back with their father, and we headed off up the road. The cluster of buildings proved to be another mirage--a few homes, but no gas, but a few miles farther we saw a market with two pumps out front. We pulled up, but the place was boarded closed and there were weeds growing around the pumps. "Next block," someone shouted, and sure enough, just around the bend was another market with two pumps that was clearly open. That, a few houses, and a couple of trailers was the whole town.

Unfortunately, the nice lady behind the counter didn't have any gas cans, but she graciously emptied her one-gallon water bottle onto her dessicated marigolds and let me refill it with gas. Was there anybody in town who could run me back to the truck? "No, honey, everyone in town is either drunk or watching the football game."

So I asked my saviors if they would mind taking me back, and they kindly agreed. We had a nice chat, and they waited while I carefully poured the precious fuel into the tank. The truck started immediately, and I thanked them profusely. Then they went on their way and I on mine.

This was when I found out that the truck got seven miles per gallon--the hard way. I just passed a sign saying Desert Stop Market--food--gas--3 miles, when I ran out of gas again. This time I figured I could walk, so I grabbed the water bottle and started down the road, pausing only to extend a thumb to those few cars that passed--in vain. Now I remembered that I was wearing shoes that I purposely don't use when I know I'm going walking. They have a sharp lip in the back that cuts into my heel. Within a half a mile I was in pain, but I didn't really have a choice, so I kept going. After 2.5 miles, I could see the market in the distance. Just then a car pulled off onto the shoulder a couple hundred yards ahead. For me? Yes. A nice old couple with semi-British accents asked me if I needed a ride and was that my truck back a few miles. Yes and yes. They drove me to the gas pump, waited while I got more gas, then took me back to the truck. "Where are you from," I asked. "Rhodesia," they said. "Where do you live?" "Portland." "How long have you been here?" "Thirty years." "Oh, you must have been in one of the first waves of emigrants." "Yes. Now that bastard's run the place into the ground." Yes, I've heard bad things about Mugabe. We talked a little about Rhodesia's transition to Zimbabwe. Then, just as we pulled up to the truck, the husband muttered something about "Now that they've elected Obama, we don't know where there's left to run to."

I thanked them for their kindness and wished them a safe journey, but it bothered me--a disturbing combination of warm-hearted generosity and unbudging racism, made even more complicated by the fact that Robert Mugabe is an evil thug. The world is never as simple as we think we'd like it to be.

With the gas tank full again, I resumed my journey with a light heart. Now I was really in the mood to enjoy the magnificent emptiness of the Nevada landscape.

Miles and miles of gorgeous nothing.

I was approaching the town of Austin. I had about a half a tank of gas. My first rescuers had told me the first rule of driving in Nevada is: don't ever pass a gas station when you have less than a half a tank of gas. But before I got to Austin, the GPS instructed me to turn north on highway 305. I stopped the truck, used the GPS to search for the closest gas station. There was one in Battle Mountain, 60 miles north. Perfect. But about twenty miles down the road, I started to think--it's almost 5:00 on Sunday. What if the one gas station in Battle Mountain closes early? I checked the GPS again. More gas in Winnemucca, 120 miles away. If worst comes to worse, I can divert to there. Relieved, I continued on. Suddenly there was a deer directly in front of me, running as fast as I've ever seen a deer run. I jammed on the brakes, missing her by inches, but right behind her were two more, so close that I didn't even have time to react before I felt the impact and saw the doe catapulted into the ditch at the side of the road. Somehow the third deer managed to avoid the truck and disappeared.

Shaking, I drove on until I found a place to pull over and check for damage. The front grill was askew and the hood was cracked in two places, but there was no blood, and the truck seemed to run fine. I debated going back, but realized that there was nothing I could do whether the deer was alive or dead. Still no cell coverage, so I couldn't even call anyone. I headed on toward Battle Mountain. My legs shook for most of the way.

Battle Mountain was a thriving concern. It turns out to be the center of some of the world's richest gold deposits, so there are mines, and miners, everywhere. I had no trouble getting gas, dinner (at the Owl Club, where each table featured some kind of joke book. Mine: The Bad Day Book. I mean, seriously.), and a room, but on my way to the motel, I noticed that the engine was running rough in the low gears. One more thing to worry about. I finally got to the room, connected to wi-fi and called O. on Skype. She, of course, was terribly worried because I was hours late checking in. I told her the story and assured her I was fine and that I'd see her by mid-afternoon the next day--her birthday!

In a last bit of horror for the day, when I take off my shoes, I find that my sock is soaked with blood from the blisters on my heel. At least the bad day is over. Tomorrow will be better.

But the next day the doe had her revenge--the truck started, but wouldn't move, wouldn't even rev over 500 RPM. I called U-Haul and they said they would dispatch someone. Finally at around noon someone showed up.

Said truck in happier times.

Luckily for me, he knew exactly what the problem was--the housing of the mass air sensor was cracked and leaking too much air, unluckily for me it could take a couple days to get the part. But wait, maybe he could cannibalize the part from another truck at the local U-Haul. A quick call. Oh, it's a holiday, so they're probably closed. He might have to go to Winnemucca for the part. But first he'll swing by the local place to see if there's someone who can open it up. I wait, thinking how lucky I am that the truck got me here instead of breaking down on the deserted highway with no cell coverage and night coming on. A half-hour later, the mechanic comes back with the part! He installs it in a couple minutes, and the engine sings like a bird (a very gravel-voiced bird, but sweet, nonetheless). In moments, I'm on the road, headed home.

And I made it, with a dozen red roses for the little monkey's birthday. A good end to a couple bad days.

P.