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3 NOV 98: My trip had been progressing and roughly three hours driving time remain ahead of me. I was making good time and actually enjoying myself. Anticipation of arrival danced in my mind like visions of little Christmas presents on a snowy morning. As my 1966 Dodge Coronet was making way up the mountains toward Wolf Pass There was a pricking of my thumb. Dread bleed into my veins like air into a break line. When you know an automobile as well as I know the Dodge you can feel the problems before they happen. A private psychic hotline between the brain & the motor which I’m sure many of you have experienced. The Dodge began to loose power and my mind raced for an explanation. I knew I was not out of gas as I had fuelled up not 50 miles behind. The car soon sputtered, died and coasted to a stop. Sitting on the side of a mountain as cars zipped past, things were not looking so good. My attempts to restart the engine failed. Sometimes, in cold weather, I have to start my engine by using a screwdriver to open the carburettor air valve full open, but even “the screwdriver” as I call it did not work. Stranded in Idaho. Hmmm... I guess you have to know that song. Anyhow...
Luckily, a Colorado DOT employee came by in a van and used his radio to call the base and have a tow truck sent out. I requested a AAA tow truck, leading to hopes that I would not be stiffed too badly.
The truck arrived after over an hour, during which no one else bothered to stop to see if I were alive or dead, or even to loot my expensive looking car for that matter. The Dodge was loaded on the truck and I took this opportunity to make the fatal mistake of the day. Instead of going over the pass to the other side, I thought it would be closer, therefore cheaper, to go back down the pass. We took a trip down the hill to South Fork in search of a mechanic. This was the high point of the day (dramatic foreshadowing now in effect).
Locating the only mechanic in town, I found he was getting ready to leave on a hunting trip, not to return for a month. I am indeed the master of timing. On a hunch I decided to see if my car would start. It fired right to life and sounded as good as it ever sounds. The mechanic and I decided that it must be related to the altitude. Of course, as I was standing between him and a some dead animals, I suppose I was just that. Well, actually, I decided this. His role was to look at me like I was an annoying idiot. He said he could try adjusting the carburettor and timing for me and that should probably get me over the pass. My other option at this point was to have the tow truck take me back over the pass (which is what I should have done in the first place) which would cost me an additional $50. After a bit of debate I decided to take a chance on having the car tuned up. I paid the tow truck driver $24 and he was on his way.
Being the only mechanic in town the proprietor of Duce Coup could afford to take his time getting around to helping me, and he made a show of doing so. After enough time passed to create another Heaven and Earth he turned his attention to the Bundymobile. He spent 15 minutes making adjustments (screwing up my engine) for which I forked over a crisp twenty and was on my way.
This trip up Wolf Pass turned out to be a repeat of the first attempt. For the second time I found myself seated in a dead mass of metal. Checking the road for traffic, I put the car in neutral, rolled backwards, twisted the wheel to bring the car around facing down the mountain, and began to coast back toward the distant level of thicker oxygen. My glide down the gravity well was uneventful. Brief side note: This is why I dislike modern automobiles with power breaks and steering. No motor, no control. I had a close call in a pickup once. The motor died, on a curve, while a car was approaching. I managed to ditch the pickup, and pop out the other side and finally restart it, the whole time madly tearing down the road in neutral (it was a stick) with very little control over anything.
I eventually spotted a gas station ahead and decided this would be a good place to pull in as I could fuel up and restart the car. In addition, I was concerned that my attempts to start the car on the way down could have weakened the battery, so I wanted to be someplace where I could get a jump start if needed. As soon as I brought the car to a stop I realised the station was closed and deserted. Bad move Homer. I screamed long and loud, then composed my self, did “the screwdriver” on my carburettor, and got the Bundymobile fired up again. No more freaking mechanics.
I had been puzzling over what would happen if this attempt failed, and I was ready for it. I was heading back and down. Back to Del Morte, Colorado, and down into New Mexico. I had never taken this route before, but from consulting the map I saw this was a route that did not appear to involve mountain passes, so I suspected I could pull it off. I was on the road again.
For those who have never travelled in New Mexico, there are no gas stations. As a matter of fact, you can easily drive 80 miles and see nothing but rocks and dirt. I gassed up at the last town, Antonio, and hit highway 64 which would take me all the way to my destination, Farmington.
Soon I was face to face, yet again, with my own stupidity. I began to notice that I was gradually gaining altitude, and soon, you guessed it, the car began to sputter and finally die. This time, there was no rescue. It was dark, I was in the middle of nowhere and the traffic was non-existent. I tried to start the Bundymobile a few times, but it was not taking, and I did not need a dead battery in addition to everything else. I decided my best option was to wait for dawn and the arrival of day light. At least in the light I could turn around and coast down to lower ground.
I slept fitfully in the back seat for what seemed an eternity. Finally, knowing that morning has to be near, I took a look at my watch. It was only 8:30 pm. In New Mexico (much like space) no one can hear you scream. I did so any way. By this time I was reaching the breaking point (little did I know what was in my future). I decided to try starting the car 3 times. By some miracle, she fired up on the second try. I was elated and began to sing praises and lit up a celebration cigarette. Once again, I was on the move.
Yeah right. I made it up the hill, down the hill, and started up the next hill. As I approached the crest the car began to fade, and finally die. More screaming, more tinkering, the engine again came to life. Up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, and again the car began to fade on me. Lights appeared in my rear-view mirror as I was guiding my dead metal to the side of the road. The lights passed and I saw they belonged to a tow truck. I was saved! I began to flash my lights and blow the horn. At this point, being as I have credit cards, I was ready to pay to be carried as far as it took. Again, the dreams of the fool were dashed on the rocks. The tow truck never even slowed down. In scant seconds I was again alone in the dark backwaters of New Mexico (actually, the whole state is a backwater, that's why they test nuclear weapons there). I now unleashed the greatest scream of the night, and considered running after the bastard with my shotgun, however he was making good time and was long gone.
After calming down, which took some time, I managed to coax the Bundymobile to life one last time. As I went over the hill before me I began to descend. The high county was behind me, and finally I was sinking into thicker air. The engine now ran with confidence. However . . .
My gas tank was starting to get hungry. I pulled into the only gas station in Chama. It was 10:05. The station closed at 10. One hundred and ten miles away was Bloomfield, and a 24 hours gas station. Being as I use to live here and run these road on a regular basis while working the oil field, I knew that between Chama and Bloomfield were four things: rocks, rocks, brush and rocks. Either wait until morning to fuel up, or take a chance. Not being the sharpest crayon in the box I took a chance. Again my headlights cut a path through the engulfing darkness of New Mexico.
Somewhere between here and there (there are no landmarks to reference, not even mile markers) I had the joyful experience of introducing a deer to the front end of my car. Luckily the deer was small, and my car is made of metal, not plastic. Poor little Bambi just bounced off with a crunch of bones. I, being low on gas, kept on moving through the night as Bambi's shattered body fell by the wayside.
Space, time and fear all began to blur together. I pressed on through the dark of night. I felt like I was penetrating deepest Africa in search of Mr. Livingston. I knew my death could come at any moment, not at the hands of a tribe of natives, but by the emptying of the gas tank. By whatever force (they say God protects the stupid -- I may be proof of this) I made it to Blanco. Eleven miles from Bloomfield, and almost a real town. They even have a post office. Not every town in New Mexico does you know.
Post office? Pay phone! It hit me. I hit the brakes. Turning around I headed for the post office. There was light, there was a lobby, there was a pay phone. Another call to AAA. Soon, rescue was on the way, and I relaxed for the first time in hours. From here it was all downhill. Literally. Farmington was so close I could smell it. Once in Bloomfield I would fuel up and it was only a skip away to Farmington.
My gas soon arrived. The AAA policy is that I have to pay for the gas, but the service call is free. Well, the little small town tow truck driver decided to make a few bucks. He was a real pal, he didn't charge me for the gas, but it was $20 for him to make the service call. At this point I was too tired to argue. He had the gas, I wanted it. Granted I did have a 12 gauge shotgun and I could have easily taken the gas without paying him the $20, but I decided to save murder for something a little more important. I forked over twenty and was soon on the way. Amazingly enough, the rest of the trip was uneventful. I was expecting another gremlin to appear, but I eluded further aggravation.
In the end, a trip which should have taken about 9 hours and $50 ended up costing me 22 hours and $122.
So what happened in the end? I knew I couldn't make it back to Greeley in the car, so I hatched a plan. I would rent a car & have the Bundymobile transported back for me. As it turned out, it was cheaper to rent a moving truck instead of a car, and that allowed me to haul some of my shit back to Greeley with me, so I went that route. I made it back in the truck with no problem.
However, the idiots transporting my car... there is a different story. The guy I negotiated with said the driver would bring the car to Greeley, however the driver took it to Loveland - which is 20 miles away. This was not a good thing. On top of that, he broke the window out of the drivers side door. So now I have a car with no window. What a lovely arrangement, yes?
It’s now been a year since this happened. I still haven’t paid for having the Dodge transported, and don’t intend to. I still have no window ‘cause I’m lazy and always think of better things to spend money on. Oh yea, and Skip Dogg foresees no road trips in his future.
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