60horsepowerprophet

Groaning starters, heavy revs and staccato horns — It’s a little after 4 o’clock in the morning and the newts are coiled up and ready to rage. I try to think of any other instances in which three hours of sleep seemed to do the job as sweet adrenaline blasts me through the other side of a pre-dawn disorientation. The bed is folded back, the boots are on and I’m off and running . . . to find a push start.

With very little effort I recruit several Shasta goers I’ve never met to push start my Bus in the mud before sunrise. I’ve often written about the instant friendship that develops between fellow air-cooled VW junkies: from Rick in Sacramento helping me tune my carbs late on a Monday night with no forewarning, to Kyle in Bozeman giving me the keys to his shop just 10 minutes after we initially met, this phenomena is tried, tested and ready for text books. This is a new example of fantastic air-cooled camaraderie to add to the list, and it won’t be the last. There’s a certain amount of Karma living in old VWs, if you’re not one to pay it back you’re not going to be in the hobby for too long. It’s with this in mind that an unrecognizable face dips near my opened passenger window.

“Hey, just so you know, you just drove over a bunch of barbed wire,” he says.

“Really? Shit.”

“Yeah, so watch your tire pressure.”

“Hey, thanks!”

I’m now 100% awake.

Bus after Bus slowly motors out of slumber and guns it through the mud to make it up the 5-foot embankment (which reminds me exactly of a roll-in at a skate park made of earth rather than concrete) that leads to Bartlett Springs Road. There are somewhere between three and four “roll-ins” that climb out of the rampaging spot to the road. From East to West each roll-in is a little less gnarly (not as steep, not as high, etc.). At this point, in the dark, I aim for the closest one, 2nd on the gnar-o-meter. I approach slowly and then floor the accelerator, doing my best to find the happy medium between jumping straight into the trees on the other side of the road and rolling backwards into another Bus. Up we go! Two hops from the rear wheels on the exit and we make it.

The line-up is looking increasingly unbelievable as each Bus backs diagonally on the road for the Le Mans start. I’m sixth in what seems like an endlessly multiplying row of Busses. When the motors stop revving and the headlights are static, Brian Piercy, AKA “Kombisutra,” the originator of this mad annual romp, calls for a driver’s meeting (if anyone reading this has a video or audio recording of the driver’s reading, please send me a copy so that I can fill in the specifics, thanks). Brian, an ex-marine, is about as determined to chase down real adventure as anyone you’ll ever meet. He’s serious about fun and knows his shit when it comes to VWs. He sits on the roof rack of his mostly purple, recently rescued panel and delivers his speech over the din of 35 idling Busses. There’s discussion of the route, discussion of the number of participants (35 Busses, the largest Shasta Snow Trip ever!) and most importantly discussion of safety. Brian covers both the type of road obstacles and the conditions we’ll likely run into as well as the importance of each driver staying within a pace he or she is comfortable with. The sobering word “fatality” is uttered at least once as a terrifying but realistic possibility. Last year one of the Busses rolled on a gravel corner, miraculously no-one was injured. Sometimes it takes unfortunate close calls like these to grasp the danger inherent in the Shasta Snow Trip.

Most SST participants understand the risky nature of the trip – by actively participating, each team-member willfully opens themselves to the chance of a fatal wreck, catastrophic mechanical failure, the wills of nature, red in tooth and claw, or potentially all of the above. To most of us the uttering of the word “fatality” came with no adverse jolt. Even as a first timer I knew what I was getting into. As a lifelong VW geek, I’d poured over every bit of text on the Shasta Snow Trip for years, dreaming I’d soon own a split-window Bus worthy of the SST, one of the pinnacle events of the air-cooled Volkswagen world. In these texts I found no small amount of fair warning.

But it’s damn near impossible to smother the Shasta stoke, it’s palpable, jumping strange and true through the morning air, mingling with a deluge of Germanic exhaust smoke and the occasional wandering puff of green California fog.

Drivers to their cars, belts strapped, CBs on. Ahh, the sound of 35 flat-fours revving free as I slowly move my left foot into position over the clutch. I don’t recall a gunshot or even an amplified scream of “GO,” but we’re off and running – and I mean running. The five Busses in front of me shoot East like last chance moonshiners with a siren in earshot.

Forty miles per hour at the top of third gear, trees blurring in headlights, bumper to bumper, both hands tight on the wheel, watching for rocks or large holes, arms sawing smooth with clairvoyant counter-steer, stabbing at the brakes, double clutching to second and on the gas through water crossings, climbingclimbingCLIMBING, whooping and howling like a man insane as the cool morning air streams in through my opened windows.

Later in the trip it’s mentioned that this year’s take-off was one of the fastest in the history of the SST. The blistering speed isn’t for long, there’s no sign of headlights behind me and the six of us aren’t the only Colin McCrea wannabes on the romp this morning. We’ve taken a wrong turn. A few hundred feet to the top of a ridge and there’s a muddy area large enough to flip a u-turn in. Busses one through four turn around and head back down the hill with no issue, Bus number five, team Deaf Volks’ faded gray ’60 camper, appears to be stuck in the mud. Having buried my own Bus many times before, I hang back to offer a hand.

Unfortunately the mud isn’t the problem, the clutch is no longer engaging. The driver (I’m sorry, in the chaos I never got your name), a man in his mid-twenties of average build wearing black boots, muddy jeans, a gray sweater and a neatly trimmed sandy blond goatee that matches his closely cropped hair jumps out and slides under the side of his Bus to check the clutch cable. The cable looks fine, the clutch arm is operating exactly as it should . . . diagnosis continues. I walk back to my Bus and pull out the CB.

“Team Deaf Volks is stuck at the spot where the leading Busses turned around, their clutch isn’t engaging.”

“Who’s this,” the radio squawks.

“This is Adam in the blue and white Riviera. I’m new. Riviera Adam.”

An overwhelming flood of advice scratches out of the static. I can’t help but grin as I marvel at the amount of call-backs. I pull the mic from its holster and I’m back on the radio.

“Yeah, we tried that — No, it’s not — No, I don’t think so – Yeah, I’ll keep you posted — Does anyone have a spare pressure plate?”

Among the responses is a disembodied voice in possession of a spare clutch pressure plate, he says he’s on his way up the hill to offer assistance. Two more Busses come up the hill, a flat red early panel with black Hurst bumpers and a pearl white Riviera camper – one of only three on the SST, mine being the oldest. Our reinforcements stop their steeds and dismount. I approach them to ask a question and quickly realize that all of them, much like all but one of the gray camper’s occupants, are deaf. Adrenaline apparently hasn’t stirred all of my mental faculties. We assemble behind the grey camper and push it to a smooth, relatively dry spot so team Deaf Volks can pull the motor. No idea what time it is but there’s no sign of the sun.

As the black rear bumper on the busted Deaf Volks camper hits the ground, we collectively wonder where our stated reinforcements are. There’s been steady CB chatter but I’ve either been too far from my rig to understand it or it’s been unrelated. I pull my mic searching for an update. The response is nicht so gut, the man with the pressure plate blew a wheel-cylinder – he went for his brakes coming downhill and the pedal went straight to the floor. In instances like these the human brain’s natural response is to ground out, widen the eyes and set the extremities to chaotic flailing. No good. That’ll cripple your ass. Even in a “normal” car. In a Volkswagen Bus, a vehicle in which the driver sits directly above the front wheels . . . use your imagination. Our as-of-yet named friendly pressure plate possessor says he’s fine. Presumably he went for the emergency brake or punched the gear lever into first gear and let out the clutch. Maybe both.

“I’ve crimped off the hard (brake) line to the bad wheel, I’ll be on my way up soon,” the CB crackles.

“Cool,” I reply as the first rays of the rising sun peer over the ridge, “I’ll come down the hill to meet you to make sure you get here OK.”

I relay my mission to the one member of Deaf Volks I can speedily communicate with, hop in my Bus and head down the hill. The sky now brightens to ice blue and the beauty of the ridge we’re stopped on emerges. About a mile downhill I run into a mean looking flat red ’60 panel with a raised front suspension, huge bias-ply mud tires, and a rust-pitted, white full-length roof rack carrying two auxiliary gas cans and a couple of fog lights. Cory’s ride is straight out of Mad Max. We turn around and head up hill facing an impromptu brake job and whatever blown-out surprise hides behind the gray camper’s motor.

More Later.

-A