60horsepowerprophet

I prepare for the tenth annual Shasta Snow Trip just like I prepare for anything, at the very last conceivable second. By the time Aaron rolls his Mango Kombi into Eugene from the tippy-top of Washington I’m still in need of a CB radio and antenna, a set of tire chains and some general supplies. Most of the things I need (food, camp stove, water, propane heater, propane cartridges, garbage bags, etc.) are organized in a clear plastic bin which is ready at any moment to be loaded into the Bus. My cold weather gear and one change of clothes sit on a chair next to all the electronic bullshit I’m to take with me. But I’m in class attempting to look like I give a shit about our discussion, trying desperately not to interrupt the professor with an eruption of maniacally delivered Volkswagen Adventure Super Stoke. I barely make it.

Aaron picks me up on campus in the Mango and we head out to No Name Garage on the other side of town to pick up my Riviera from the free oil change/valve adjustment that was included with the price of the new 1776 and rebuilt big-nut transmission.

Aaron has the bug to get on the road bad, and rightly so, so he hits I-5 South to pile up some miles while I load the Bus with supplies, spare parts, heavy blankets and two extra wheels wearing studded snow tires and cable chains. No time to test the new CB. Hit the 5 at about 7 p.m. and gave the new motor/trans combo its first real highway test.

I catch up with Aaron in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Yreka California. Sleep. Wake up, pick up some more supplies (knee-high rubber boots, a better CB antenna, etc.) and do a bit of work on the Busses in the lot. I adjust my carbs and test the CB radio while Aaron wires in his radio, checks his starter, adjusts his carb and tries to figure out what’s going on with his distributor.

We evacuate the Wally World lot a little before noon and head towards Weed to pick up Aaron’s friend Corey, a Bus guy through and through from Sacramento. There are many hours driving south on the I-5 in pouring rain. My Bus is dripping water like crazy and the duct tape I used to seal off the leaky front window seals isn’t quite doing the job. Oh well.

We fill our tanks and auxiliary fuel canisters at a Shell station just outside of Williams where we pick up highway 20 west to meet Bear Valley Road and then Bartlett Springs Road on which we’ll run smack into the so called “rampaging spot.”

Bear Valley Road is our first venture off pavement. It’s dark, probably 9 p.m. or so and the rain is coming down cold and steady. Aaron and Corey lead and set a healthy pace of around 40 mph. I’ve no idea what kind of terrain we’re traversing, the lights from both Busses do a bang up job of illuminating the deep, water filled chuck holes in the road but do very little brightening up of the surrounding environment.

Coming around a corner at around 40 mph we run into what I can only describe as “mud ice,” the middle of the road gleams under my “off-road use only” H4 headlights and disappears just as quickly under the wheels of the Bus, which at this point don’t so much go round and round as they do sideways. Aaron makes it through with a bit of a slip but my Bus, Isabella, hangs her ass out like a hooker with a new mouth to feed. A quick slip of the steering wheel to full opposite lock keeps me from spinning backwards into a barbed wire fence. From this emerges the inevitable “oh, shit” moment, which is, of course, followed by the “YEE-haw!” chuckle and grin.

“How’s this for a pace,” Aaron’s voice crackles over the CB.

“I just about lost it on a third gear turn back there, maybe slow it down a bit,” I reply.

“Will do.”

And that’s the last time I wuss out . . . maybe.

We stop at a three way intersection to check the map. My Bus dies. Shit. Aaron and Corey give me a push start and we head up what looks to me like a completely insane route, Bartlett Springs Road. Mind you, at this point I’ve done very little backroads Bussing. Sure, I’ve hit the gravel and dirt in many places and even gotten stuck a few times but I’ve never encountered anything like this. To my tired, inexperienced eyes this route looks a lot like a miniature version of the “Bolivian Death Road.” Aaron leads us around switchback after switchback up this single lane, muddy, rock strewn road. We lift wheels, hop and throw dirt around each turn. We goose the accelerator pedals mid corner with visions of glorious power-on oversteer drifting through our tired heads. We climb further.

It’s here that I bust my stream-crossing cherry on something that looking back at this point seems so very small. Aaron slows, downshifts and powers through the 4 or 5 foot drainage and I do the same. And just like that I’m hooked and jonesing for more and bigger water crossings the rest of the trip.

Now we’re headed downhill and those switchbacks are tackled with stabs at the brakes and the quick double-clutch work. We shoot past the chain-sawed remains of downed trees, jerk at the wheel to avoid large rocks and smile toothy and wide as the throaty exhaust blasts of 2nd gear downshifts echo off muddy berms, sending Sasquatch sprinting for the relative safety of rural California night.

There’s a bridge over Cache Creek in the middle of the Mendocino National Forest. Just on the other side of it the wild-eyed beasties, the far-out, far-gone, screw-loose goons of the vintage Volkswagen Bus world keep a transient Valhalla. Down a 5-foot embankment on the North side of Bartlett Springs Road over 30 split-window Busses wait – their owners are sleeping, drinking, smoking, cursing, eating – are playing music, starting fires, cleaning carburetors, testing starters, shooting fireworks and generally kicking up dirt like the full-moon crazies they are. A quick whoop down the dirt roll-in, a splash in a mud puddle and we’re there. Welcome to the rampaging spot.

More soon.

-A