60horsepowerprophet

The real problem with the travel blog is that you must keep it current while you are traveling. You have to take time out of oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing your way across the country, from exploring back-ass dirt roads, from lounging in ancient saloons and, most pressingly, from sleeping after the day is over and/or before the day begins.

But what do I have to complain about? I’m living the dream, really. Criss-crossing around the country in a vehicle that while admittedly is unreliable, draws only positive energy from anyone around. My travels, they make me JUMP, JUMP! Alright… that was a really terrible 90s pop-culture joke. You can forgive me, right?

So, I’m heading back to Eugene, Oregon from Davenport, Iowa. I’ve been in Iowa since… well, for a good long time. Had a blast with all of my Middle West Family and Friends. But the time came to head back to school. No problem. It’s never as somber as I think it is the day before I leave, because as soon as I get out on the road I feel the ridiculous freedom of it all, the wonder of knowing that this road connects to another road which connects to another which can take me anywhere in the Americas. And that’s what it is, and that’s what life is all about, wonder. Doing whatever you can to find and pin down a healthy bit of old fashioned, childlike wonder.

Right now I sit in a cheap motel in Hill City, South Dakota, sipping canned coffee and eating a wonderful selection of homemade breads my mother packed in the Bus for me. Thanks, Mom.

But it really started two days ago when I left Davenport for Iowa City to stay with my friends Al and Erika, who were kind enough to let me crash on their mutant bean bag chair and take off in the morning for THA WEST from their place, gaining me a small 40 minutes on the trip.

I crossed Iowa on Interstate 80. I’m not really a fan of the interstate but, if I was to reach my desired first night camping spot of Badlands National Park in South Dakota, I was going to have to book it. At 55, that is.

Driving across Iowa at 55 mph in the few days before full-tilt fall made me realize how beautiful the state really is, comparatively at least. It has neither mountains nor ocean but, it is beautiful none the less. I will miss the Mississippi, I will miss the wonderful tall grass prairie, I will miss the rolling hills dotted with purple, yellow and white wild flowers, I will miss the old barns rotting into the earth and the… well, you understand.

I didn’t make Badlands the first night. I was some 100 miles short. But I had no choice. I didn’t stop because I was tired or any other such nonsense. The car simply had had enough, and felt the best way to communicate this to me was to dim the headlights a little bit more over every mile. I finally had to pull off the highway into Presho, South Dakota which, luckily, had a camp ground right off the highway. I pulled out onto a big field, which I may or may not have been allowed to camp on, turned off the car and pulled out the bed. Just to check I turned the key to start the Bus, no go.

The next day was for diagnosis and repair. I was hoping I simply had a battery that wouldn’t charge anymore but, a test at a local auto repair shop revealed that the Busses’ generator was no longer charging. F. Where the hell was I going to find a generator for a 44 year old German car in the middle of South Dakota. Air Cooled Rescue Squad, assemble! With a quick glance at the internet I located two guys in the Sturgis area that could help me out. Now I just had to cross the rest of the state to get there.

Myself and the VW guru in Sturgis were thinking that the generator was going to have to be replaced, which meant the motor had to come out. Fun, fun, fun till daddy takes the torque wrench away. When I got to the shop, Paul K’s Import Auto, Paul ran a battery of tests, replaced the brushes in the generator and figured that the poor thing had been overcharged but with a few tweaks to the voltage regulator he could get it to work fine. This was good. This meant no engine pull.

After I left the shop I headed up a long, steep, curvy canyon road to a guy named Justin’s house. Justin had a few VWs and some parts he was looking to sell, and I thought I’d at least see what he had. The drive up took quite a while. Most of the time I was thinking how much more fun it would be in an M3 or 911. Someday…

Justin lived in a small community called Nemo, he had four acres smack dab in the black hills. I told him there and I will reiterate now that I’m quite envious. I’ve always loved this area. Maybe someday it will be my very own Woody Creek.

As I pulled into his driveway I immediately noticed two things, a nice looking ’78 Bay Window Riviera Bus and two very excited dogs. Oh, also a pretty cool looking garage with a bullet turn signal panel hiding behind a Bobcat. All good signs. Justin was a pretty cool guy, he showed me his collection of VW’s and parts and I ended up buying a Westy table and a chrome shifter extension from him. He also gave me directions to “a place everyone should see at least once.

Which ended up being an ancient looking saloon in a tiny burg in the national forest. I had to beat down some gravel roads for miles and miles to get to it, which was fun itself as it gave me a chance to practice for the Shasta Snow Rally by sliding the Bus ever so slightly around the turns. Yes, the Scandinavian Flick works on just about anything.

The Saloon was fantastic; a little place that looked like it had been there for 130 years. I never asked how long it had been there, I was thinking about food and beer.

The inside of the saloon was pretty rustic, it reeked of history, debauchery and cheeseburgers. My kind of place. The ceiling was covered in signed dollar bills and about 150 or so donated baseball caps. The floor was of tattered wood as were the walls, they looked original. A two giant black, two boiler stove sat in one corner and a jukebox and fireplace sat in the other.

And I’d like to delve into more description but I’m already throwing up a pretty heavy post.

After the saloon I went out to find camping. I had directions from Justin that would take me to a campground not far from the saloon but, when the sun went down everything seemed to go wrong. So, I followed a myriad of gravel roads that led to absolutely nothing. I should have just bombed up a forest service road and called it a night on the first level surface but, I didn’t for some reason. Shit got even worse when I looked down and saw that my gas needle was inching dangerously close to “R” (”E” for those of you with non-Germanic autos). The GPS unit stored in my car for emergancies failed me twice, both times taking me down extremely rough, rock strewn roads in the pitch black of the Black Hill National Forest that, of course, contained no campground. At this point I knew I had to find a place with at least one other person because otherwise I wasn’t going to make it out in the morning.

Finally I found a small single story house in the middle of nowhere high up in a valley. The yard was strewn with derelict cars, machines and general refuse and the place had an air of death, dismemberment, and/or Deliverance style shenanigans. But, I needed help, directions or gas, and I needed it now. The lights were on, I pulled my largest, sharpest screw driver from under the dash and put it in my pocket. Just in case, you know, I might have to stab a nigga.

The closer I came to the house the more the possibility of terribleness loomed. I rang the doorbell and large dog began barking. An older gent, about 6 foot tall and probably in his late 50s to mid 60s with white hair, a white beard and the face just like the one you see in your head when you think “gold panner” appeared at the door. Ohh, he was wearing red and black flannel pajamas and, I swear, Beyonce was playing in the background. Probably just the TV…

The guy was extremely nice. As is often the case I didn’t get his name but, I did get the name of his black lab, “T-Bone.” T-Bone jumped and licked at me while the 49er led me through his house and out to his back yard/amateur junk yard.

“Well, I’ve only got about a gallon and a half, nearest gas station is 30 miles, can you make it that far?”

“I think so. I’ll pay you for the gas.”

He pulled a small, red, plastic gas can out of the back of an old truck and walked down his yard towards my Bus. When we got to the car he handed me the gas can and I poured the contents into my tank, NOT before smelling it to make sure it was gasoline. I made a mental note at that point to fill up with high octane to offset the potential weakness of this gas.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Aww, nothing. Just travel safe.”

Though I’d consider myself a pretty hellacious cynic, It’s getting harder to stay that way every year. Maybe it’s because I watch less TV? During my travels I’ve come across many, many people. All of them complete strangers. And, in my experience thus far, most people are generally nice. Just about every stranger I’ve met under the circumstances of “Hi, I’m an idiot driving a 44 year-old car cross country and I need help because part X blew up/broke/fell off/is on fire…” has helped me to the best of their abilities. Most only ask that do the same down the line.

All these break downs are certainly the result of accumulated karmic debt but, thankfully, I’m not a complete asshole, so I’m getting pretty lucky as far as help goes when I do end up stranded. What a funny game Karma is.

Till then,

-A