Home Cummins, Part 3.

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You know the drill by now - scroll down and read Part 1 and then Part 2 if you haven't already or you will be completely lost.

Retrospect: Mid-September 2006
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We ignored the first hint of a cold dawn as it back-lit the condensate on the truck windows by burying our heads deeper into our light jackets. Trying to move sent a xylophone riff of pain down our cramped spines and out into our stiff limbs. Aside from letting in a blast of chilling air, a quick roll-down of the window made it clear that the creek was STILL running hard. It would be hours more before the sun warmed the canyon air around us or slowed the creek.

We stirred and felt obliged to be social when we heard two trucks draw near around 9AM. The two drivers stopped well short of us, trudged through the brush to inspect the creek and promptly left, purposefully avoiding any eye contact or acknowledgment. Unlike the well-end workers, we've found the pipeline company workers to be consistently aloof and occasionally a detriment (as noted in an earlier story of getting the Ram stuck in the creek). We suspect that there is no 'good neighbor policy' in place in these pipeline corporations.
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There was no way we could force a return to napping at this late stage of the morning so we had to make decisions. The kitty boys were safe inside the Rat but my concern for Brou was building furiously. When Mark volunteered to walk across the creek and head home, I declined. Nursing an old phobia about driving other people's vehicles, I declared that it would be me who walked home and that he would ferry the new truck across when the waters subsided.
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I scraped a good amount of muck off my shoes with a stout sage branch and placed them in a plastic shopping bag along with my socks. Since my straight-cut jeans would not roll up very far, they were placed in the bag on top of newspaper serving as a mud barrier. I marched resolutely down the slope to the creek, bag in hand, turning only once to announce "Okay, now if I fall down in the creek and you laugh ... well, you know ..." By the time I was on the far side and realizing that I was facing this walk alone, he had already returned to the truck and was deeply engrossed in his newspapers. Hmpphhh. Fine! I then looked down at the mud which had oozed up in quantity from between my toes - it would obviously be awhile before I could put my jeans and shoes back on. A great spectacle to behold; me, the great cross country adventurer, pushing on in my bare feet and underwear. "Did Lewis and Clark ever do this?" I wondered to myself.
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It was about a quarter of a mile into this trek that two things happened. The first was a nature call of the most pressing kind. Oh, surely NOT now - I'm barefooted with this gimpy knee and there is no sign of any suitable seating arrangement to aid in this suddenly urgent mission. Not wanting to tread into the brush in such a vulnerable state of dress, I trudged on for another hundred yards but succumbed to sheer desperation. I planted myself for business in an area barely off the road after surveying for snakes and tarantulas ... and so grateful for that section of newspaper in the plastic bag. The second thing to happen (of course - as you probably could have guessed) was the sudden roar of an approaching truck from up the road ahead. Great; I am unshod, in my underwear and in the middle of addressing a dump. Such would appear to be the story of my life at times.
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To be continued

This is consuming more words than I had planned so I'm cutting it short here to go back to the elk processing now. I am beginning to truly resent that beast, I really am. I'll be back and visiting as soon as I finish pounding that vile and taunting creature into submission, promise!!!

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Home Cummins, Part 2

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Retrospect: Mid-September 2006
Continued from Part 1 (for logical reasons) . If you haven't already done so, please read Part 1 posted below or you will miss the flow of the story.
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There is a reason why I believe in unseen benefactors. While this could not be considered one of their most spectacular saves in my experiences so far, it stills deserves noting.
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When the front wheels broke through the berm as though it wasn't even there, we both closed our eyes, at least on a psychological level. The nanosecond functions of our analytical brains told us that the mass, inertia and lack of friction would make our plummet into the raging wash below a guaranteed result of physics. We were toast.

The front wheels slid completely over the embankment and then the truck simply stopped dead. It took a moment for either of us to acknowledge this strange stay of the inevitable, finally voiced by simultaneous gasps of relief. When both of us returned to normal damage control thinking, I volunteered to get out and apply reverse force to aid any traction the rear wheels might still have.

I stepped out in my 'go to town' shoes and immediately had my feet slip out from under me so that I was at a 45 degree angle to the road, held there only by the grace of a hand clutching the bed of the truck. It was obvious that I had no more traction than the truck did. Despite my new frustration and despair, Mark decided to give reverse a try after I slid myself and my mud-caked shoes back into the cab. How the truck managed to gain traction with the remaining two wheels and free itself on the first attempt still defies all logic but it did.

We made it to the intersection at the second nearest neighbor's house and were tempted to ask them for lodging for the night but remembered that we saw their parking lot full of visitors' cars when we first passed by. So ... we took the turn towards the bridge and what unknowns lay beyond.

There were blessings to be had in that the two washes which lay beyond the bridge had not collected enough rain to run yet. I suppose this could be called a blessing in that this allowed us to commence 'the goat path' run. To imagine this 'road', remember back to the Roadrunner cartoons and the precipitous paths carved into mesa walls where the coyote always met a semi head-on. No, those depicted super-highways in reality. This is a one lane dirt path with climbs, falls and turns so tight that you expect to see the truck's rear-end as you swing back sharply into the skirt of the mesa. The other option is a 30 foot fall into the creek below.

To make the drive more challenging, the rain run-off not only turned the clay into slime but brought down boulders to obstruct the path. There were occasions when I would have sworn that we would leave paint on those boulders as we squeezed by. In this two mile run, the terror of hoping for traction on the steep climbs and again for the steep descents into sharp turns had drained us of all the adrenaline that either of us possessed. Numb floating sensations in the limbs and shallow breathing had become normal now.

I heartily thanked our unseen friends as we finally dropped down into the canyon flats again. We both knew that only one more wash crossing and a few less harrowing rim rides lay between us and home-sweet-home. After a few more fish-tailing blasts through boggy spots in the road, we finally made it to the last wash. We stopped at the top of the approach and rolled down the windows to listen. What we heard sounded like wild applause at Carnegie Hall; the creek was running full and hard. We stepped out long enough to confirm that we were now stranded in place. Despite the seasoned advice that a couple of hours waiting would see the washes slow enough to cross, the creek did not die down that night and so we settled in to our predicament. The black hood of night descended and the temperatures dropped rapidly ... and the rains persisted, everywhere, it seemed.

Eventually we realized that neither of us had eaten that day in the rush to pick up this new truck. I hauled the meager bag of sale groceries into the front seat. "Tonight's menu consists of, uhm, this package of ham, this loaf of pumpernickel and ... these itty bitty pecan tarts!" The prospect of sand dry sandwiches prompted Mark to ask "Anything to drink, I hope?" "Yes! I also bought a case of beer! Mind you, they're 'shelfer' warm. That okay?" As though we had other options. And so we had our cab front supper and talked as though we were comfortably home in the Rat. The warm beer helped lighten the mood but also caused several exits for relief. Each time we did the dreaded potty run, we returned with another pound or two of clay on our already cemented shoes but grateful that we had not lost balance in the ooze and fallen down. The dealer's paper floor mats were soon stuck to our shoes permanently, impeding the comfort factor considerably.

It was around midnight when we abandoned all hope to still make the crossing before morning. The creek had shown no signs of calming at all and the rains kept coming down. We gathered our light jackets over us and pushed the seat backs as far down as possible. And I thought of Brou, the poor young pup who we had left outside since we would be back soon enough. I ached at the thought of him surviving his first night out alone in the company of rains and crashing thunder and, forbid the thought, the coyotes.

With such concerns on my mind and the plummeting temperatures, I would awake shivering and chattering from a cramped and fitful nap every few hours and nudge Mark to start up the truck for more heat. This was going to be a very long and torturous journey to morning, resting in this very place which the native peoples will not venture through after dark.

To be continued
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Humor of the day: It may seem odd to include humor in this post but you fellas will appreciate it given that Mark had to navigate the goat path with 'the help' of a passenger. (sent in by buddy Jim in upstate NY)
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A wife was making a breakfast of fried eggs when her husband burst into the kitchen.

"Careful"' he said, "CAREFUL! Put in some more butter! Oh my GOD! You're cooking too many at once. TOO MANY! Turn them! TURN THEM NOW! We need more butter. Oh my GOD! WHERE are we going to get MORE BUTTER? They're going to STICK! Careful . CAREFUL! I said be CAREFUL! You NEVER listen to me when you're cooking! Never! Turn them! Hurry up! Are you CRAZY? Have you LOST your mind? Don't forget to salt them. You know you always forget to salt them. Use the salt. USE THE SALT ! THE SALT!"

The wife stared at him incredulously. "What in the world is wrong with you? You think I don't know how to fry a couple of eggs?"

The husband calmly replied, "I just wanted to show you what it feels like when I'm driving."
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Home Cummins, Part 1

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Pre-Ramble: Current News
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The roads are still a mess out here, declared an emergency by some estimates. Mark dutifully made the supply run into town even though we were hardly in dire circumstance. The prospects of it deteriorating further made this small window a wise decision. He got out on the freeze but ran into the mud on the way back in. Still, it was great to get fresh supplies and pick up the mail in the process.

In one of the town newspapers, there was an article about volunteers making 4WD supply runs into the boonies, how some people were down to one quart of orange juice in the fridge and their animals already dying of starvation. Is it just me here or have people who have lived out here all their lives lost any common sense about how to be prepared for nature's expected twists in this harsh land? Has every one of us become so nannied that we need to rely on outside help to save us from our own responsibility to think and plan ahead? How prepared are you if your power goes out for almost 70 hours like Bruno's did recently? He had back up plans, do you? Can you keep warm, do you have enough stored food to survive a week while waiting to be bailed out? Please give it some thought.
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Above is one of the few vehicles that made it out here this week. Note the mud covering the headlights and windshield - they had obviously run through some good mud already. I took this photo merely seconds after both occupants stepped outside to relieve themselves well within view of the Rat. Why they couldn't have planned ahead and done so behind the berm of the new well site is an annoying mystery to me. Apparently planning ahead is a vanishing human trait.
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We awoke to another inch or two of snow this morning, a remarkably small accumulation since the storm had disabled our satellite connection last night.

I stepped outside and noticed that Mark's Ram looked great considering the road conditions. Then it occurred to me that this fine beast had endured unusually hard assignments from the get-go and that I was very grateful to have it here. That, in turn, has prompted me to journal the story of its arrival. It experienced a baptism of mud within hours of rolling off the dealer lot. That mid-September of 2006 was loaded with tales and trials, some still untold.

Retrospect: Mid-September 2006

After months of research, Mark found this most suitable truck up in Colorado. We piled into my Dakota and headed up there. Mark hung firmly to the agreed price despite the dealer trying to slip in profitable unannounced add-ons like the $127 piece of chromed plastic they called a bug shield. A quick $80+ profit times a couple of hundred trucks off the lot adds up but we weren't buying into it on principle alone. As they played the 'wait 'em out' game, thick thunder clouds formed and rain started to fall so we set off in a full blown thunderstorm. I will not forget that trip or that dealer for delaying our departure by three hours. Their cheesy profit ploy could have cost us our lives that day. Also, since they wanted to charge us high retail on a set of fully necessary BFG Mud Terrain tires with no credit on the factory installed tires, we still had one more stop to take care of that before heading back in. But without those tires, I probably wouldn't be here now to write this journal.

I followed Mark as we climbed back up the mountain on the steep roads, ever mindful of the sheer drops hidden by the blinding rains and that uncomfortable feeling of greasy pavement beneath the trucks. We raced on to the tire outlet, beating the storm back to New Mexico only temporarily. Now there was no time left to peruse the sale ads and pick up groceries but I was able to dash in and pick-up a few clearance items to salve my thwarted sale-lust while Mark picked up parcels.

The clouds caught up and let loose before we could even run back to the trucks. Mark called down to the nearest neighbor and was told that it was still all clear down there. We might have never attempted the trip back that day otherwise. By the time we began the 35 miles of dirt roads, the rain had already turned the clay into flowing gumbo and my old motorcycle sense threw me into high alert even though I was highly unlikely to hook up and fall down on four wheels. This acute sense of contact with the road and balance is not necessarily a plus in these conditions, at least as far as adrenaline output.

For the next two hours, we gingerly crawled up hills and hugged the inside of off-camber curves to allow for 'side slide' outwards. I didn't start getting antsy until we hit water running down the road at such a rate that Mark later noted that he was almost convinced that he had led us up a running wash in the blinding rains.

With my lower Dakota, the waters rushed beneath and against the body with a deafening roar and I could feel them draining away my connection with terra firma. It is here that our approach to driving departs radically. Mark was slowing down ahead while my urge was to stick a foot in it, fishtails or not, and just get it done. I pounded the dash with a free hand, yelling "Move it, MOVE it!!" like an old drill sergeant as the Dakota started to lose resolve and drift towards the ditches and sage.

Just when I thought I was going to play clam in the undertow, Mark reached the far side of the torrent and booted it. I was now lathered up and hot on his bumper all the way. I had a good twenty minutes to calm down before reaching our mailbox at the neighbor's place. She came out and, without thanks, grabbed the clearance bread I offered and announced that the washes were still not running. That was when I pointed out a very large tree limb that bobbed frantically as it passed by in their normally small wash which stands between us and our main wash crossing. Within another minute, we all witnessed a roiling tawny head of foam vanguarding the brown waters raging down the main wash. We heeded her insouciant command to head back a few miles, take the bridge there and use what we now call 'the goat path'. We hadn't had that pleasure yet. Meanwhile, I made a mental note of how, in her position, I would have treated what she clearly thought and often derisively voiced were a couple of clueless green horns in the neighborhood. I would have been concerned and asked them to stay. Then again, I did not have the poop-chute genes that we later heard have infamously run in that clan for generations. But you eventually learn and that is good.

So we left my Dakota there, unloaded the mail and my small bag of remaining sale groceries into the Ram and started back down the road. By now, the little daylight hinting through the storm was disappearing. While edging down a slick grade, three elk charged out in front of us to add to the already pounding blood rush of adrenalin. We had been rolling on tires now so thickly coated in clay that they no longer had treads to grip, not even ABS brakes would stop us now. The main wash had rushed ahead of us roaring bank to bank, 60 foot across. We had a good view of its fury from this ledge 30 feet above as we approached a sharp right angle in the cliff road. I felt an ice-watery pang when my stomach snapped up against my lungs as I sensed a complete and hopeless loss of traction. We both inhaled the seat covers with our buttocks as the Ram slid helplessly towards the cliff's edge. I vaguely remember saying "Oh, man, we're . . . ." as the truck's front wheels burst through the small grader berm at the edge of the cliff and the murderous waters below came into view front and center.
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To be continued
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Ready, Aim ... Duck

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Yes, I know, I'm throwing everyone off with a post so soon after the last one. Thing is, I heard Mark laughing as we checked our e-mails and I had to investigate. He had been watching a video clip of a guy "Watch this" moment which I couldn't resist posting right now while I am still chuckling. It made my morning.

This all ties in with the plinking fest which occurred when Red and Sally were here. I think I probably never got around to elaborating on why there was such a disincentive to hitting the bullseye in the homemade target that Mark had set up just before their arrival.
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Here is the infamous impromptu range target. This happened to be the top off an old 55 gallon oil drum which Mark found in the junk pile across the road. If you look closely, it has a very nice and heavy cast iron plug in the center. Being older and wiser than most, they all decided that hitting this plug square-on was a sure invitation to our ol' Irish friend, Rick O'Shea, to come visit. He was a welcome walk-in to every old Western movie but just not someone we wanted to deal with.

Now go see "We're not doing THAT again". It's classic guy stuff at its best and it will explain a lot without any need for further in depth analysis on my part. Okay, so maybe the caliber they were using wasn't quite .50BMG but the principle is the same.

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Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 5

Photo: A new dawn, a new day can bring new hope, new faith - if you choose to look for it.

Click image for larger view

As you might imagine, that Saturday night was a quiet one. Mark was intensely mulling over the Ram's likely new differential problem and I was content to stare out the window in a deep funk, occasionally drooling down the front of my shirt. Don't ever let anyone tell you that your emotional state cannot effect your physical well-being. The effects of the antibiotics seemed to vanish and the malady returned with greater vigor than ever. So here we were suddenly retro'd back to primitive camping in the Rat and I was not the classic happy camper.

I never imagined that I would be into a Part Five of this tale so I will cut to the chase with a day by day accounting of it:

Thursday: The Honda generator dies. Some triage performed, no cigar. Sun is dropping behind the mesa. Sit in relative misery until bedtime - which comes early with no light, no computers alive and well.

Friday: Fiddle-fart around for most of the day with possible fixes. Call Red for more ideas. Fiddle-fart around some more, still no cigar. Generator dealer administers Last Rites to generator by phone.
Evening drill: Sweat profusely. Assume glum faces, retire at dusk. Sweat profusely. Wake up at 3:00AM because you are not used to this much sleep (but the cats, being nocturnal kind of guys, think this is just great!). Sit around staring at walls and sweating by kerosene light until sunlight returns. This would become a standard routine henceforth.

Saturday: 'Nuff said already on the wrecking and raising of the Hesperus.

Sunday: Mark spends day largely avoiding 'management'. No power, all Rat projects come to a halt. Long reading aloud sessions develop and become daily entertainment - I certainly can't complain.

Monday: Generator dealer closed - we sure love prolonging this agony. Mark does get hold of Dick, top mechanic in town who has seen everything which could happen to a vehicle out here in the oil patch. His observation: DO NOT drive it to town like that. Gives Mark some pointers on next wise step to take.

Tuesday: Profuse sweating still de riguer. Since the evap. cooler is now on a separate wire and plug, I get bright idea to power the cooler with the mil-surplus Kawasaki (no, it cannot be used to power the Rat's main electric panel for a number of reasons but only an electro geek could possibly explain why clearly). We fire it up and plug in the cooler. YES! YES! Relief from the swelter! Dance around and do cartwheels. Repeat for 1.5 hours until ... the big Kawa dies. Emit wails of lament loudly, assume the standard evening routine previously noted.

Wednesday: Mark follows Dick's advice and finds contacts willing to bring out replacement fluids for differential from town. Dick sends fluids out without requiring payment up front (and this stuff is PRICEY). Faith in humanity escalates.

Thursday: The guy who maintains the wells one section over from us is able to deliver the fluids (now one of several new brownie points accumulating for humanity). Don't forget to insert the routine daily and evening misery here though.

Friday: Mark takes my Dakota down to the creek, wades across, masters the technique of loosening diff cover, drains out sludge and adds new fluid. All dressed up now and no place to go since appointment for complete diff cleaning is not until Monday. While he is scrubbing around in sand under the Ram, pipeline hand drives up to creek and admits that HE was the one who created the humongous sink-hole in the channel, the one which Mark's Ram slid off to the left into before he could climb the far bank. Nothing like a big dually to excavate mud. Mark offers sarcastic gratitude and the kid offers a big poop-eating grin before dropping into the channel again, pausing long enough to dig out some more mud.

Saturday and Sunday: Complete write-off on progress but misery still not optional. We do sun dances to ward off another creek run. Slim becomes concerned that any attempt on our part at rain cessation will brown out his reviving grazing grass. We futilely fart around with the dead Kaw although we now know that we need a smaller main jet which may or may not be available any more - Kawa dealer offers minus enthusiasm and support to that end.

Monday: I run Mark down to the creek at 0:dark-early. Dick makes the world right again with the Ram. But .... Honda dealer is closed. Mark gets to stay overnight in town at motel with real, unlimited hot water, real porcelain flushing toilet, air-conditioning and dine-out food. I am out here grinding teeth in the relentless swelter, thinking that this mini-vacation is a curious reward for his initial short-sightedness. Mind you, he does get to do a LOT more errands than time normally permits.

Tuesday: Mark picks up the perishable groceries, stuffs them in the cooler with plenty of ice. Then he picks up the dead Honda generator at Dick's, drops it off at the dealer and loads the new one waiting to come home. Even though these things are gut-busting heavy, you don't want to leave one in the back of a pick-up in a motel parking lot or any where else for long so he had to very carefully choreograph the order of his stops. He returns absolutely beat in the late afternoon. Just enough time before dusk for me to replace the cooler motor with the new one he also brought home. Resume sullen evening routine in darkness.

Wednesday: We unload the new generator and hook it up. It works! Electricity, night time lighting! Best of all, computers again! Life was again worth living! I now stand outside on the porch again and let each brilliant new dawn and the shooting stars at night fill me with renewed energy and joy and I begin the process of healing once more. We were finally back to our original Nirvana.

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News of the Week:

Red, This BUF's For You!

There is a double entendre in the header above considering the news story but this is really meant for our old friend, Red, not the Rooskies.

Rich Russian tries to buy U.S. bomber at airshow

I came across this story last week but Buck over at Exile in Portales beat me to it. It's about some newly rich Russian, surrounded by his personal Guido guards, wanting to buy a B-52 at an air show there. The U.S. personnel seemed taken aback and possibly a little affronted.

Out here at the Rat where we have plenty of time to think and behave like bad kids, we have come up with our own ideas on the matter:

You know, given that we are supposed to be the grand poobah nation of evil capitalism, maybe we shouldn't have farted off this big buck Russian so quickly. Hey, the BUF (a loving, familiar name for the venerable old craft, standing for 'Big Ugly ... uhm ... Fella) has been around for a awhile, probably written off long ago in the books so why did we pass up this willing $500 million bite? We got to brainstorming a little and considered some parallel marketing ploys by the U.S. auto makers. Hey ... how about something like those popular schmancy Eddie Bauer Limited Edition models? The Pentagon is missing a big opp here, I mean B-I-G! They could produce a very limited Slim Pickens Edition, personally endorsed by his estate (God love and rest him). I think them Rooskies do have a great sense of humor and would love it. I bet even pectoral Putin would have to chuckle.

Next post: I need to sincerely thank some blogger friends who have enjoyed and supported our journal entries beyond the call.