Road Gremlins
“Adventure is just bad planning.”
—Roald Amundsen
Leaving Caprock canyon today. Another lazy morning, we don’t depart until noon. The gift shop is closed for lunch. No keychains for us—our souvenirs will have to be memories and bug splatters.
The drive out is pleasant enough. Gentle hills and curves. The bison are out in force today. Large herds wander through the plains and across the roads.
Massive, quiet creatures—they make me think of wisdom. If I communed with a bison, he would tell me his people call themselves Thunder Walkers and say wise things like:
“I am not in a hurry. The grass grows whether I watch or turn away.”
“Your kind chases light. Mine knows the shade.”
“Stillness is not absence. It is choosing not to run.”
We stop at the park shower for a proper lingering wash. In a van, even with a hot water heater and 33 gallons, you have to think about your resources. There are no metabolic—or mechanical—free lunches.
While there, a nice lady sees me struggling to get my freshly washed shirt to stay on the windshield to dry. The wind and weight of material make it impossible to keep it off the ground.
“Do you have a hanger?” she shouts from about 30 feet away.
“Oh! Yeah. Thanks! Great idea,” I reply. These are the little things campers share.
It’s always been of interest to me how groups with common interests flock as a community. Especially ephemeral groups. Campers, motorcyclists, bicyclists, hot rodders… now that I think about it, there seems to be a theme of transportation.
Maybe it’s just fun to be among your own tribe. Or maybe we gather like this so we don’t feel quite as silly about sinking tens of thousands into something we’ll never recoup.
Exiting the state park, we wave goodbye to the ranger who has stopped on the roadside, probably to enjoy the chicken salad sandwich his wife has made and included a little note about how much she loves him. Then we hear and feel the brrrpt brrrpt brrrpt of the cattle guard and Caprock Canyon State Park is now in our rearview mirror.
We pass a long row of barbed wire fence on the left of the road where between each post is an old bicycle. Some small bikes, some large, road and mountain are represented. Children’s too. Mostly whole, though some are missing a seat or some other part. About 50 in all. And each fence post is topped with an inverted boot crammed onto the top. It is really quite an intriguing art project. We suggest Cat-Bike, a functional old cruiser we fashioned as a cat, would fit in nicely. Though it's really too nice to just dump on the side of the road. It should be ridden in parades. In celebrations.
Maybe we could rent it to a cat lover for her wedding. Riding down the aisle on a big red furry cat bike. It should probably be white for that occasion.
We pop into the local coffee shop in Quitaque for some caffeine and lunch calls. It is settled when I get a call from an old friend who lives in Mexico. So, we order sandwiches and I have lemonade while he regales me with stories of editing and visual effects. He keeps telling me I should move to Mexico. He might be right. Financially, it's hard to argue against it. Maybe a visit would be a good start.
Woolfinia finds some clever stickers and a scarf she simply must have, and some organic beeswax lotion that smells delicious.
After a photo or two with some local art, we fire up Van, u-turn and head west. Next stop: Santa Fe. Or, so we think.
About 30 minutes into the drive, CamperVan Beethoven gives me a little hiccup. A slight pause in power similar to an engine misfire. My heart sinks. This is a first sign of a gremlin I've been chasing since we bought this vehicle. It will do this twice more before I am certain that indeed the problem is back.
Damn. I left this with a dealer in Florida for three weeks to fix. Two grand later and a replaced axle didn't repair it. A roadside fuel filter change mitigated the problem. But it returned. And each time, I just put in a new fuel filter. Last year, I left it again with a mechanic for three weeks to resolve and he simply couldn't replicate the issue.
He was kind enough to charge me three thousand dollars though—in preventive maintenance issues. Then, as before, I was thrilled to have finally squashed this problem. And for a full year, we've had zero issues. Until now. Now that we are on an epic road trip that can't seem to get started. The gremlin, naturally, has decided to tag along.
After several more stutters, I turn south to the closest Mercedes dealership to us: Lubbock, Texas, seventy miles away. We optimistically make a plan to schedule an appointment and rent a car, then hotel it until they can trace and fix the problem. I suspect a fuel pump, or fuel rail. Both about two grand apiece. If this is a pattern, it will be BOTH.
Oy, vey. The privilege of ownership.
We creep into Lubbock at about 10 mph, the best CamperVan Beethoven can manage. First locating the Buddy Holly Museum, which we will visit, then Mercedes-Benz. Two blocks from each other. Later we will argue whether to camp in the Holly parking lot—level, open and clean but close to the interstate—or at Mercedes: convenient for our 9 am appointment and quiet, but a block from the men's shelter and a lot of foot traffic.
Weirdly, Woolfinia is in favor of the Mercedes street. She is so weird about “who will know we’re in here.” I am of the opinion that if we aren't BBQing and playing a boombox with folding chairs out, who cares. We're just two people in a vehicle.
I call a friend who lives about 15 minutes north of us. But Missus McClain wants nothing to do with them. She has developed a loathing for unnecessary interactions. There is a small group she is comfortable with and anything else is a chore. I think it has to do with her introversion, or ADD, or just being crazy. In any case, I tell my friend what's going on and promise to look him up for at least dinner one night while in town. He is energetic and supportive.
Too bad. I think we really like one another, he and I.
Since Camper is running so poorly, we park at the Holly museum and Woolfinia cooks a delicious meal of grass-fed hamburgers with onions and a mixture of spices only she knows. My taste buds don't require knowledge of the ingredients to celebrate, however—and they are delicious.
Hunger sated, we shutter for a few hours to let the heat pass. Our off-grid AC is doing a good job of keeping us cool, but the battery hit is worrying. I will probably need another four thousand dollar set of batteries to get to the point where I'm not worried we are going to drain them in a time of need.
Do you notice a trend with this? This is why these vehicles cost $200k. Everything is so damned expensive.
As the sun sets, I step into the cool of the evening. Not a spectacular event as the last two nights have been, but pleasant and relaxing. That is a pattern on this trip. We are both relaxed. Even with this setback, it's not an acid experience, just something to do on the road. Yes, some stress with it, but not crippling.
There is a house here at the museum. I mean a whole standalone house, preserved as it appeared in the 1950s. It is the home of J.I. Allison, founding member of The Crickets with Buddy Holly. The sign says it was moved here to exist and be preserved next to the museum.
The house's significance is that it is where Buddy and J.I. wrote their first big hit single “That’ll Be The Day,” inspired by a line in The Searchers starring John Wayne. All of these threads connecting seemingly disparate musical things is simply terrific.
Bob Wills got into Jimi Hendrix’s head. Here I learn John Wayne, into Buddy Holly’s. We really don't know what magic will come from our experiences.
I set up my little tripod stool to draw the house. I draw in ink, one line. It looks terrible, then another and it looks terrible. Then another and another, and like a puzzle, a likeness appears. I LOVE drawing this way. It occurs to me, this is like life.
There is no sketch for our lives, and there is no erasing or redoes. You can't just tear out a page of your existence and throw it away, starting over. No, we look at what is ahead, and like an ink drawing, make a mark and then another. If we're good enough, our life makes a work of art. And like art, we often can't see how beautiful it is ourselves. We need the validation and comments of others to remind us that we aren't failures.
This is one of Woolfinia’s powers. The ability to see silver in darkness. Though sometimes lately, she has developed a blindness. In general, her positivity gets herself and others through much tribulation.
As I write on the page of my sketchbook, “Life is like an ink drawing. It must be made one line at a time without revision,” two women stroll up.
I have observed them exit the restaurant across the street and walk up to the gates of the museum, take a photo with the GIANT Holly glasses which were his trademark, and read the historical marker. As they linger at the marker, an SUV pulls up next to them. I think it is security at first, but quickly realize the vehicle is their ride. No doubt husbands or boyfriends or sons. In my experience, women tend to be more curious... or at least less timid about moments like wandering off after dinner. Freedom to discover. That vagabond quality at heart.
Under the watchful eye of their protectors, they see Woolfinia and me sitting and talking and drawing. The older woman, a cultured dame in her seventies I will learn is nicknamed ‘Hot Kitty,’ asks about the location of the house. She remarks it is a strange place here next to the interstate. I get to be an expert and explain that it has been moved, and then awe them both with my newfound knowledge about the inspiration for That’ll Be the Day.
The younger woman, long dark hair and bright eyes, asks about the sketchbook. This thing is like a magnet. I should sell stickers or cards or t-shirts or something. I get asked about it nearly everywhere we go, especially if I'm working in it.
They are both duly impressed when I explain it is number 64.
They coo and light up when they ask Woolfinia, “So, what’s it like being married to someone SO CREATIVE?” Nonplussed, Woolfinia says, “Well, it’s normal—I do it too!”
And they want to know all about us. I flip through number sixty-four, titled A Burrito on the Edge of Oblivion, while I describe our journey, and predicament. The younger tourist is enthralled and really studies the book. I am impressed and flattered as she reads various quotes I have penned. Every page is a new thrill to her. She makes me feel like a real artist. The praise is effusive and welcome. My God, how I love a cheerleader.
They want to know about Woolfinia’s work, but she is timid and unsure. She loves art and creative things, but her drive doesn't make her crazy to just make make make. Her satisfaction is complete with the doing. That is probably my ego that lusts for attention.
We wish the women well and express hope that they succeed at the golf tournament for which they are in town.
It is now too dark for much else. We decide to retire. The where to camp argument has been settled, and we set up shop at Mercedes-Benz. Our prayers tonight will be for our family and friends, support, wisdom, and to get Van back on the road.
Please, God, help us get this van fixed!
Psalm 121
I raise my eyes to the mountains.
From where will my help come?
2 My help comes from Jehovah,
The Maker of heaven and earth.
3 He will never allow your foot to slip.
The One guarding you will never be drowsy.
4 Look! He will never be drowsy nor go to sleep,
The One guarding Israel.
5 Jehovah is guarding you.
Jehovah is the shade+ at your right hand.
6 By day the sun will not strike you,
Nor the moon by night.
7 Jehovah will guard you against all harm.
He will guard your life.
8 Jehovah will guard you in all you do
From now on and forever.
#travel #essay #roadtrip25 #100DaysToOffload #Writing #poetry
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