A/N: Bonus points if you have any feedback on my chapter title!
Have you ever had an experience so profound that it completely changes the trajectory of your life? I've actually had a couple, but this one....this one is actually the reason I've become the planning nazi I currently aspire to be.
I detest spontaneity.
Want to go to the store? Let me know the day before, so I can complete my list. Want to come over to visit? Don't just pop by I probably won't answer the door. Planning a trip? I start six months ahead of time. Making a holiday dinner? I buy as much as I can two weeks or two months ahead and freeze it.
I wasn't always this way, I used to enjoy doing things off the cuff. But no more. I was cured in 1999.
In 1996, my husband, then fiancé, and I decided to purchase a car together. His 1977 Hornet Wagon was on it's last legs: the linkage, transmission and a few other things would have cost more to repair than what the car was worth at the time.
My 1986 Mazda 626 was also dying. It was third hand and had hidden some issues I was unaware of when I purchased it. Like all four motor mounts were cracked, and I was close to having the engine drop out of the car.
Minor stuff like that.
So we decided to purchase the beauty that you see up above. It was a 1996 Plymouth Neon, strawberry red, and pretty cute for the time period. We paid less than $10,000 for the thing right off the showroom floor. I had some college money still in savings, and we both had good jobs, and no real debt. So we financed it, with a nice down payment.
For what we needed it for, it was a decent car initially. However when pushed it revealed it's true color.
By the fall of 1999 we had moved out of the hovel, (detailed in the chapter "Thankfully Yours" earlier in this story.) We had rented a cute two bedroom house in the town where we attended college.
When I was growing up, I lived on cattle ranches. My dad was a true cowboy, a hired hand that would move where the work was and take us with him.
Every time I moved I was allowed three cardboard boxes in which to put all my stuff. Literally, my childhood fit in three cardboard boxes. I moved eighteen times between the ages of two and seventeen. (There will be other chapters forthcoming about these adventures). But needless to say, I was done moving. I liked my job, my husband, and where I was.
One of the wonderful things that attracted me to Scott was his unflappable stability. He is a rock. Sometimes stubbornly and unmovably so, but mostly he has always been the safe haven I craved, but never had as a kid.
I never had the stability of a permanent home growing up. We could always move at any time. My folks never owned anything more than the clothes on their backs, a few pieces of furniture and a truck. It was nerve wracking, and I was perpetually excited and terrified at the same time.
My Scott is not an adventurer really. I appreciate that. I had already had my fill of adventure.
But this year we were going away on our first real vacation. We hadn't seen my mom since our wedding. She had moved across the country to help my widowed grandmother with her large midwestern home.
Scott has always been supportive of spending time with our families. Since we were "only" children, he welcomed the idea of having my mom fly out and then join us on our road trip.
My husband is an avid cyclist. He loves road cycling and mountain biking. He's very good at it too, and still rides several times a week when the weather is good. And even at least once a week even in the frigid Midwest winters. He's hardcore, and I'm such a pansy. I still wonder what he sees in me at times.
Back in 1999 it was the start of the Lance Armstrong era in cycling, when he won the Tour de France that summer. My Scotty was a huge fan!
Like a rabid, mad dog, obsessive, get up at 3am to watch the Tour live from France, type fan. He also cycled like a madman all that summer and was in great shape and in need of new terrain to conquer.
As a side note we watched every one of Lance's victories over the years, and it was a huge HUGE letdown to know he (and pretty much everyone else) cheated their way to the monumental victories that were televised all over the world. We still love watching the European tours, but that grain of salt in my eye has never quite left. Which is a shame.
This road trip was a trifecta of sorts. We were going to drive from southern Oregon to Park City, Utah. It was October, so the colors would be beautiful in the mountains. There would be many, many hiking and mountain biking opportunities. The lodging would be discounted since it was off season, we'd be able to spend time with family, and participate in a church retreat.
What could possibly go wrong?
Weeks before we left, I started what I thought was a pretty in depth planning routine. We scoured maps for the shortest route. We checked on gas station locations by looking at the icons on said maps. We charted a course in our trusty Road Atlas, which we purchased new that year.
That's right, Rand McNally publishes a book yearly with updated paper maps. Surprisingly they still do this. I really have no idea why, unless there are other technophobes that refuse to use the embedded GPS that inhabits everything now. I'm not one of them anymore. I have been fully assimilated into the collective.
Google earth wasn't really a thing then, but I even got on a relatively new website called MapQuest and printed out a sheaf of paper listing turn by turn directions. I thought we were golden. Scott thought we had everything just right. We had scheduled, and plotted and packed and prepared everything all ahead...or so we thought.
Sigh. Here are some good points for those of you ever going on any road trip anywhere, ever. Trust me, I am the voice of experience here.
Error #1 - Timing is Important
Be sure to get your $%^@! together.
To have the most work-days before we left, both at Scott's store and at the newspaper I worked for, we decided to work most of our scheduled shift on the day of departure.
This profitable decision allowed us to start our drive at 6pm. Scott said he was fine and prepared to drive at night. He was sure with a few gas station mochas, he'd be wired enough to drive most of the night so we could arrive in Park City by the following afternoon. My mom was willing to spell his driving, as I couldn't help with that.
That's another thing. I don't drive. I really can't. Some people can drive with only one working eye, but my depth perception is nil. I've taken off too many sideview mirrors and blown through one too many stop signs, because I didn't see it. After several mild heart attacks in the passenger seat, during his time as my driving instructor, my husband told me not to worry about it. He'd drive and take me anywhere I needed to go. So that's where we're at. I'm the navigator, and snack provider, he's the driver. It's still works to this day.
So we did just that. We loaded up the strawberry Neon with a bike rack and his mountain bike strapped to the top. Three adults worth of luggage and a cooler full of drinks and food for the marathon twenty hour drive ahead of us. We were excited. My mom hadn't been on a road trip for years now, and we were all looking forward to the journey.
The first 100 miles away from home went swimmingly. We knew where we were going and we'd traveled these roads many times. However after reaching Klamath Falls, Oregon, I checked our route, which assured us there was a gas station in Denio Junction, Nevada. We didn't really need to gas up in town...we still had half a tank, and the sun was just starting to set.
The Oregon desert is a beautiful place...in the daytime. One of the fun things about Highway 140, which we were taking south east out of Klamath Falls is that it's known to be a very wild place. There were notes in the atlas and other web sources about the prevalence of Black Tailed Jack Rabbits, wild burros, coyotes and even the occasional cougar. This mild October evening was perfect for an amazing show as I wondered if we'd see any wildlife tonight.
The first fifty miles out of Klamath Falls went fast and we finally reached Denio Junction around 11pm....as we rolled up to the gas station it was deserted and dark...Oh crap!
Scott gets out to check and the hours on the door are posted as 9am-6pm. The station looks like it was built in 1955 and hasn't been updated since. The price listed for gas is about a dollar more than at any other station we've been at. But when you're here...and you need it, you pay the price with a smile, a handshake and a hug if the occasion calls for it.
We have a quarter tank of gas. Do we lose time, and stay here sleeping in the car overnight? Or do we press on, hoping against hope that the quarter tank shown will take us the next hundred miles to Winnemucca, Nevada. This straight shot is actually about 40 miles shorter than taking the freeway, so we were thinking we were wise in taking this lesser traveled road.
So it was decided to continue our journey in the middle of the night. But if we would have started our trip only five hours earlier, it would have been non-event.
Timing, people. Get your act together ahead of schedule.
Error #2 - Know Your Environment
We continued on to Winnemucca on a "wing and a prayer" so to speak. Hoping against hope that we didn't run out of gas and meet any hungry coyotes or curious cats. I was still interested if we'd see any of those Jack Rabbits I'd read so much about.
About fifty miles outside of Winnemucca, the fuel light comes on, but the gas still registers a little above empty. Literally we only need about 1-1/2 gallons of gas to get to Winnemucca. Oh, how I hope we'll make it.
This stretch of road is flat and relatively straight. It's Nevada. It's high desert with an occasional scrub Juniper and lots of sage brush. There's also a ton of bugs! Swarms of them. The windshield is a killing field of bug guts smeared wings, legs and crunchy thoraxes. The wiper fluid runs out on the fourth spray, and it looks like horror movie on our windshield.
I'm sitting in my navigator's seat fists clenched and white knuckles in full display. My stomach is in knots, when the headlights reveal the road ahead is completely full of Jack Rabbits.
Not just one, not just three. Nooooo We're talking like fifty or more likely a hundred rabbits just hanging out in the middle and on the sides of the highway for miles leading off into the distance. It's a surreal sight. All of these rabbits just lounging around surrounded by bugs so thick in the air they look like sparkling fairy dust. Scott stops the car...a curious look on his face.
"What should we do?" Scott looks at us kind of blankly. It is around midnight after all, and he's missing his gas station mocha after a full day of work.
"Just keep going, if we slow down enough they'll get out of the way." I respond. My hope outweighing any authority my words lack.
"I agree," Mom chimes in from the back seat. "These rabbits will get out of the way if we just give them a minute."
Scott starts the car up and we continue on our way, going no faster than 35 miles per hour.
The next events are a repeat of the following scenario.
The headlights spotlight a rabbit ahead, the ears go straight up, bleached white by the oncoming headlights. Just as the rabbit notices the car coming directly at it, the yellow green reflective eyes stare at us like the they are zombie bunnies of the desert. Most would scamper away. This one doesn't. The ears get closer, and closer, they eyes stare through the windshield and into my soul.
Scott yells, "Get out of the way, stupid Rabbit!" We can't really swerve because there are more rabbits around us.
The rabbit does nothing, the ears disappear under the front of the car, and the wheels rumble over a furry lump, leaving a wet pile of flesh and hair in our review mirror. We can't afford to stop because any sudden stops or accelerations will use precious gas. We keep going into the midnight sea of rabbits.
I yelp, and cover my eyes. Reluctant tears leaking out every now and then. My mother laughs in the back seat. She's seen it all before.
Repeat this scene seven times! Yep, you read this right. Seven times!! We ran over seven jack rabbits that night, before they thinned out enough to avoid successfully on the highway. Obviously we were the only people stupid enough to be on the road at 1am.
The car starts sounding a fuel chime as we get within five miles of Winnemucca. We're really running on fumes now, and the tension is palpable as we start counting mile signs and looking at the encroaching city lights.
As we turn the corner into a twenty-four hour Chevron station, the car sputters and dies. We made it...by the skin of our fingernails and my reserve portion of sanity. I now officially have none left.
Know what's coming at you at all times, people. It's imperative.
Error #3 - Get some good rest.
Scott is wired after his large gas station sugar-bomb mocha from the Chevron and he offers to continue to drive. It's now 2am and we're on I-80 heading east into the heartland of Nevada. The worry and stress have remarkedly lessened in the car once we made it on the freeway.
We all chat and laugh and promise each other that we will never again take a "short cut" to save time that we would have gladly given to not have to experience the last three hours.
As the miles pass in relative peace, the adrenalin of the past fades and we are all dead tired. Mom has been able to catch some sleep in the back seat, cuddled up against the cooler with her coat as a pillow. But Scott and I are up front and the freeway has a hypnotic effect at night, especially when you don't need to actually steer the car for about three miles straight.
We pass a sign that notes that we're entering the "Gateway to the American Outback," Battle Mountain, Nevada. It also notes that they have the last gas for the next seventy miles. We look at each other and agree that we need to stop. Maybe even park in the lot and nap for an hour.
We pull into the busy Travel Center noting the bright lights, idling semi-trucks and full service restaurant with relief. Stretching our atrophied muscles, we use the facilities, and purchase a warm drink and a snack.
We get back into the car and groan at the cheap Plymouth seats. They are hard, have little support and are turning this trip into an ordeal. Scott's six foot frame doesn't bend as easily in a small car, and his demeanor is suffering.
Mr. Grouchy Pants is tired.
He pulls into a corner of the lot, we hope is relatively quiet, and almost immediately fall asleep. What we don't realize is that we parked near the railroad tracks that run parallel to the freeway. And every thirty minutes a freight train rumbles by, the big diesel locomotive letting fly with several blasts to let everyone within a ten mile radius know that a train is coming.
Yaaaay. This is fun. Scott is uncomfortable, his mood is failing, the lack of sleep is not helping, and I'm stressed.
Find some place to get some good rest people. Or better yet, stop and get a room. You won't regret it.
Error #4 - Know Your Path
The rest of our drive through Nevada and into Utah was relatively uneventful. Unless you count that it looked like we were driving through Mars at times.
We even took a little stop on I-80 when we came to the Bonneville salt flats. They have interesting little covered rest stops, so people can stop and look out at the white expanse, and maybe just maybe catch a glance of something glinting off the sun in the distance going too fast to recognize.
We never got so lucky, but it was a fun drive, until we got closer to Salt Lake City.
By this time we thought we were home free. The printed directions were easy to follow, we were making great time. Our little Strawberry Neon was chugging merrily along. All was rosy.
Can anyone guess why the fall of 1999 might not be the best time to drive through Salt Lake City? Come on, anyone, anyone? Buehler?
The city was in the midst of a complete meltdown in preparation for the 2002 Winter Olympics. We had completely overlooked the possibility of massive construction projects and road work in Salt Lake. The freeways were a nightmare.
Seriously, the roads were basically big piles of dirt. There were detours on top of detours, and the traffic snarl was awful. We ended up having to take a belt line around the city, rendering our printed pile of paper from MapQuest utterly useless. We're currently in a freefall of directionless driving.
All three of us were randomly shouting things to each other like this.
"Where are we?"
"Look over there, is that an exit?"
"Should we stop and just ask someone at the next turn off?
"Are you kidding? I'm not an idiot."
Snorts... "We'll see about that."
"Now, kids. Play nice."
"Oh, look at that sign! Should I turn here?"
As we're aimlessly driving around the edges of Salt Lake, hoping we might come across anything that looks familiar according to our directions, we see a detour sign that says "To Ski Areas".
Well that should work right? Park City is a ski area. We shouldn't be too far off if we follow that. So Scott takes the exit onto Highway 224, and follows the detour for the ski areas, up a narrow mountain highway called "Little Cottonwood Canyon"
We wind around the most beautiful scenery we've ever seen, looking for signs of Park City with hope dancing in our eyes. When near the top, we see a small wooden sign with an arrow pointing up a steep gravel road that says, "To Park City."
Really? After all this? This is how you get to Park City?
Oh what does this fine fancy kettle of fish have in store for us? Park City shouldn't have a gravel road as an entrance. But we are too far gone down this path to turn around and try something else.
So here we are, in a strawberry red Neon, driving up this gravel road, at about 7000 feet of elevation. The engine is whining under the strain of all the luggage and people in the car. But we keep climbing slowly up the mountain. When the terrain levels out we realize the road is little more than a path. Wer'e creeping along going no more than 15 miles an hour.
A little further down the trek, I'm envisioning the headlines in the area newspapers. "Tourists get lost in the wilderness and die of exposure and starvation."
In the distance we see a group of four hikers. They're happy and laughing, and don't look nearly as lost as we feel. Scott stops and rolls down his window.
The hikers look at us in what can only be described as humor filled horror. Mouth agape, eyes wide in surprise, and mouths twitching in a way that I know they want to say something like, "How the #$%^&* did you imbeciles get up here?"
Scott is very stoic and calm.
"Hey guys, how's it going? We're trying to get to Park City, and followed a sign from Little Cottonwood Canyon, that said Park City is this way. Is that the case?"
The hikers gawk a little more, sniggering up their sleeves.
One of them replies.
"Dude, did you drive that all the way up here? I'm impressed. Yeah, if you keep going, the trail becomes paved again, and will take you back down the mountain into Park City. You should hit the road in about 2 miles."
"Thanks, man. Enjoy your hike." And just like that, Scott rolls the window back up and we're on our way.
We all breathe a sigh of relief, when the gravel turns back into tarmac, especially our little Neon which only bottomed out a few times on the high centers of the gravel road.
Know your path people. If you don't do the research...it will come back to bite you. I promise.
Error #5 - Bring More Water
No seriously, bring more water than what you think you'll need. I'm not joking here.
We are finally on the downslope of the mountain trying to contain the velocity of our Neon without redlining the RPMs, and using the brakes too much. The road is steep....like a six percent grade, maybe more.
Our car is loaded for bear. The bike, the luggage and three adults. It's all the Neon can do to not just disintegrate on the way down .
My mom switched with Scott at the top of the mountain. He was toast. He hadn't slept in close to 24 hours. He's grouchy and tired. My stress levels are peaking and I'm freaking out.
My mom doesn't drive like Scott. I trust him. I don't trust her. She's stomping on the brakes hard around every turn. and I'm worried about the little shimmy I detect in the car when the brakes are depressed. Then I start hearing things. Little squeaks, groans, grinding and disturbing gritty sounds.
Mom downshifts into second, to let the engine take some of the pressure off the brakes. But then the engine starts screaming as the descent keeps going. So she uses the brakes again.
Suddenly we smell something hot and see black billowing smoke coming from under the car. We quickly pull to the side, and get out noticing the smoke is coming from both front wheels.
Scott quickly gets his liter bottle of water out and squirts it out all over the smoking wheels of our car. We dig for more water, and end up pouring probably close to a gallon of water on both wheels to make sure the smoke was gone. The stench wouldn't go away though.
The bubbling hissing sound of water hitting burnt brakes and smoking metal is embedded into my consciousness. I don't think it will ever leave.
We're all just done at this point. I'm crying. Scott's pissed. Mom is cussing. It's a circus and we're the clowns. I can hear the music in my head.
Some nice folks in a car pull over and ask if we need help. One of them has a cell phone. It's not quite a brick, but close and we ask them to call a tow company for us, which they do.
forty-five minutes later the tow truck arrives, and hauls our sorry asses down the mountain to a garage, where we find out that it will take four days and cost us $400 dollars to replace the brake drums and pads on our car.
The mechanic looked at the car and then at us, and said..."You're lucky, this car was really close to catching on fire. But the tires are still good."
Like I said people....bring lots of water. LOTS OF WATER!
The Moral of the Story
There are so many lessons from this. The best one I can bring to you is this: Plan ahead more than you think you need. You will never regret over-planning. We've had many many road trips since, and none of them, thankfully, have been as horrifying as this one. This trip stands out in memory as the pinnacle of bad timing, bad planning and bad luck.
A few final things.
After a good night's sleep, a decent hot meal, and a shower, everyone's demeanor was salvaged and we were a family again. No harm done.
The car was repaired, and we really did enjoy our two weeks in the mountains. It took a few days to calm down, and just get used to the idea of charging our stupidity on a credit card, but it was a wonderful trip. Scott was able to get in several good rides, we went hiking, exploring and enjoyed the best Japanese Sukiyaki, I've ever had other than home-made.
We made it home safe as well, however we did NOT return the way we came. We took the longer route back home, sticking to the freeways and common roads.
The Neon was never really the same. We named it "The Little Red Lemon" after that. And truly it lived up to it's name. We sold the car in 2003 to a teenage boy who promptly wrapped it around a telephone pole drag racing. It was a fitting end for the car. The kid was okay.
Travel safe people. Travel safe.