Conquering the Continental Divide - January 5, 2008

Vail Pass in a Blizzard

Through the Tunnel

I think the Caddie has performed rather well on its initial test run. Rena has a somewhat different opinion. Today is the real test of man, machine and marital nerves. We are attempting Vail Pass then up Loveland Pass to the Eisenhower Tunnel and on to Denver. A storm warning and blizzard alert are in effect as we depart Hotchkiss fortified with homemade granola and Susan’s ranch-house coffee (blacker than the devil and hotter than hell).

We don’t actually meet with any snow until just before Vail. As we approach the pass, we debate whether to stop in Vail Village for a pit-stop and a quick coffee. By the time we reach the Vail exit, it’s snowing hard so we decide to push on.

Good decision! The wind has picked up – driving the falling snow sideways. Two lanes are bumper-to-bumper going up the pass. Our ground speed slows to 10 then 5 then 2 MPH. The car is in idle but I have to keep my foot on the brake to prevent the Caddie’s 345 horses from rear-ending the fellow in front.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I mutter to myself, Marvin the GPS and the Caddie.
“What?” Rena asks tensely.
“If we stop, I don’t know if the Caddie can get started again,” I explain, trying to keep my voice calm.

We stop. It’s either that or run into the SUV in front. We are facing uphill, the grade is steep, the outside temp is 32 degrees and the surface is black ice. If this were skiing instead of driving, we would be on a black diamond.

Sure enough when the wagon train heads out, our Conestoga fishtails toward the breakdown lane.

“Eeeks!” Rena shouts. “Now what?”

It’s a fair question to which I have no answer. I continue applying power to the Caddies’s rear wheels and listening to the spinning whine of the Dunlops.

“At least the guardrail will keep us from sliding over the edge,” I respond optimistically.

Just then, a silver SUV pulls in front of us and parks in the breakdown lane. A man and a woman in their 30’s, very fit in sweatpants and blue jerseys, explode from both sides and run back to the stranded Caddie with the silver haired guy and his petrified spouse inside.

“Need a push,” the woman asks?

The dynamic duo apply muscle to the metal as I take my foot off the brake and let the Caddie idle forward. This time the Goodyear’s grab and we speed up to 2 MPH without spinning. As we take off in slow motion, we both wave behind to thank our two saviors.

“Man, that was close,” I admit.
“I gotta pee,” says Rena.
“Hold on sweetie. Can’t stop now!”

Next is the Eisenhower tunnel. The storm has intensified. The radio informs us that Vail Pass has been closed to all Eastbound traffic. If we can just make the tunnel we’ll be able to coast down the Eastern slope to safety!

We don’t make it. All traffic comes to a halt. Marvin, myself, the Caddie and Rena are only 75 feet from the tunnel entrance. Something has happened and the Eastbound tunnel is blocked. At least we’re on the level and the wind is at our backs. In all probability, we can get started again when the time comes.

I check all systems. The Caddie seems fine. Marvin the Mad GPS is sulking quietly. But Rena is suffering advanced hydraulic failure.

“I really, really gotta pee,” she squeaks pathetically.

Frantically we scan the surroundings. We’re two miles high and above timberline. No friendly trees are in sight. It’s 20 degrees, in a white-out blizzard. The wind-chill must be stupendous.

“You can’t go outside,” I exclaim. “ You’ll freeze your toochis off.”
“I’ll go in the back seat then.”

Rena opens the door and climbs in the back.
The Caddie has every accessory they make only there’s no button for the backseat commode.

“I’ve got an empty Starbucks coffee cup. Will that help?” I ask.
“I hope it’s a Grande,” says Rena.

It’s not.

Rena squats on the floor in the back and aims at the cup. A quiet tinkling sound fills the plush Cadillac interior.

“Help,” yells Rena. “The cup's too small. I’m overflowing.”
“Try this.” I quickly hand back her Chaco moccasin.

Rena hands me the Starbucks cup and empties the rest of her bladder into her left shoe.
I empty shoe and cup into the storm outside. We both collapse in gales of laughter. Miraculously the rear mat of the Cadillac isn’t even damp.

“What National Rent-a-Car doesn’t know won’t hurt them,” I declare.

About ten minutes later, the tunnel re-opens and we coast down the canyon and off the ramp into the small village of Georgetown. There is no snow on the East side of the tunnel. My hands are shaking with relief. We stop to share a bowl of vegetarian chili at the the “Happy Cooker”. Afterward, Rena indulges in a little retail therapy. We re-embark and drive uneventfully to my Mom’s house in Lousiville. Total travel time 8 hours and 20 minutes for a 220 mile trip.

Despite engine failure, bladder failure and near-heart failure, we have succeeded in conquering the Continental Divide through a Colorado white-out blizzard.

“Score one for the seniors in the Caddie,” I say.
“Next time I get to pick the car,” says Rena. “That was way too scary!”
“Some adventures are scarier than others,” I admit. “That’s what makes them adventures.”

DAKTARI

Telluride or Bust - January 4, 2008

Mark's Caddy - a.k.a. "The Puke-mobile"
Telluride from the Gondola - 2 Miles High!

At the Rosebud - Susan, Rena, Tom & Grandma Gerry's Lion

On Friday we say “Bye” to Daniel and head north. Rena is still not sure our Cadillac is the car for mountain travel in winter. But I love it. Heated seats, cruise control and satellite radio; it’s truly a thing of beauty and a joy for the next few days. The only ugly thing about it is the license number – (Colorado 805 PUK). If we do get stuck in snow I’ll probably never hear the end of “the puke-mobile”.

“I don’t see any other Cadillacs,” says Rena dubiously.
“Hey,” I reply helpfully. “Even if the wheels don’t get traction, at least we’ll have good music to listen to while we wait for the tow truck. Besides, it may not snow.”
“I don’t know about this,” says Rena.
“It’ gonna be OK. Even Mad Marvin the GPS isn’t mad today – look he’s talking again.”

Sure enough, Marvin guides us flawlessly along the back roads. We head up Lizard Head Pass toward the small-town/jetset-ski-retreat of Telluride. The skies open and a deluge of snowflakes drifts down on car and road alike. Visibility declines. Our speed is down to 10 MPH . Thankfully, the visibility is now so bad at least we are spared the sight of what lies over the side of the hairpin curves. Nevertheless, the little hairs on the back of my neck are starting to stand on end.

I try unsuccessfully to distract the wife. “Time to turn on the heated seats.” I say in a pleasant voice. “Would you like lukewarm, medium or hot on your side?”

She’s not buying it. Next to me, teeth are clinching. Rena has a death grip on the passenger side door handle. “The door is safe anyway,” I think to myself. “It’ll never fall off.”

We’re over the pass! Lizard Head Rock is just gorgeous, illuminated by rays of sunlight from a buttermilk sky. I have this weird feeling that stopping to take a photo might trigger a violent reaction on the passenger side. So instead of stopping for a snap, I allow the Caddie to coast on down the dry highway and into Telluride while the hairs on the nape of my neck settle into place.

Telluride was established in 1878 as a silver mining town. Now it’s ‘tres chic’ and very expensive. The only thing not expensive is a free gondola ride to the ski area base lodge.
At one point we are just nine feet shy of two miles high! It’s a great ride and not to be missed.

After a couple of hours and some retail therapy – two tee shirts and a pair of Merrill boots – Rena is ready to ride again. Both the Cadillac and the weather behave. Rena is crocheting again by the time we arrive at my sister’s ranch in Hotchkiss, Colorado just before sundown.

Susan and her husband Tom have packed some appetizers and a fine white Bordeaux in a picnic basket. The four of us ride in Tom’s truck up the mountain to their guest cabin – The Rosebud. Oil lamps light the cabin’s interior and give a pleasant buttery glow in the twilight. Fire crackles in the wood stove. And Grandma Gerry’s African lion skin decorates the back wall. But that, as they say, is another story.

We drink wine and sample endive stuffed with homemade goat cheese while catching up on family news. Tom and Susan’s son Travis has just become a father for the first time. Kellan is their first grandchild, and we’re looking forward to meeting him when we go to Denver tomorrow.

Darkness descends and a million stars appear. We return to the main house for a wonderful salmon dinner.

Tomorrow is another adventure. I lie awake in the featherbed and my mind drifts. Maybe a Lincoln would be a better car to tackle the Continental Divide - I wonder if I can swap for one in Delta? . Better not tell Rena. Nelson Rockefeller drives a Lincoln Continental. Z-z-z-zzzzz.

Durango Day 3 - January 3, 2008 - The Chaco Ruins

Daniel and Mom - throwbacks to the sixties?

Chaco Ruins- Aztec, New Mexico

Daniel Bean blows into Durango about 8 PM. His hands are soot-stained, his clothes steaming with the cold and (when he finally thaws out) he’s more than a tad odoriferous. Dan has just spent two weeks on the high desert of Utah as a head staff person with Open Sky Wilderness Therapy.

A century ago Dan would have been poking cows and rounding up stray heifers on horseback. In 2007, he and two other modern-day wranglers ride herd on 8 troubled adolescents in hiking boots and backpacks. For the kids, it’s two months to shed their hang-ups and deal with their issues. Dan and his companeros keep them safe and working as a group while the wilderness strips them of their conceits and deals them a big slug of reality. After two months, most of them “get it”. A structured after-program tries to insure that they don’t “lose it” again once they return to civilization.

The responsibility is huge . In the two years since he’s been in this line of work, Dan has acquired some amazing skills. I’m so proud of him – my full-grown, dreadlocked, cowpoke, therapist son.

Dan cleans up nicely and we go out with him to a local brew-pub for dinner with the Open Sky Wilderness crew. It’s a tradition whenever they hit town after two weeks on the range. Rena and I skip the equally traditional wine party that follows and meet Dan for a wonderful breakfast at the New Rochester the next morning.

After breakfast we leave Durango to check out the original inhabitants of this high desert- the Anasazi. There were actually two native cultures that thrived in the area around 1100-1300 C.E. The more well-known is the most recent – that of the ‘Mesa Verde’ cliff-dwellers. The ‘Chaco Canyon’ culture preceded the cliff dwellings by a couple of centuries and we are going to see their ruins today.

The Caddie whisks us South on US 550 to Aztec, New Mexico. Mad Marvin is feeling particularly low today so we have to stop in town to get an earful of directions from the nice lady at the Aztec municipal museum. We find the Aztec Ruins National Monument just north of town. The ruins are those of a typical “Chaco” style Pueblo Indian community.

“I just love their sandals,” enthuses Rena.

She’s disappointed when we tour the small museum inside the visitors’ center and find a pair of original Chaco sandals in a glass case. They are woven out of yucca fiber and look like tiny placemats with a hole in one corner for the big toe.

“No wonder they died out,” sniffs Rena, “with sandals like that!”

We’re the only visitors at the ruins this morning. It’s like being the last people at the end of a civilization - just before the inhabitants close the doors, throw away the keys and leave. Although the Chacos have been gone 1000 years, their structures survive. Some are three stories high! This is a very spiritual place. If it wasn’t so cold we could plop down and meditate a bit.

Meditation would be a culturally appropriate activity. It seems the Chaco people did not actually live in these ruined cities. They lived in the surrounding countryside and commuted to the capitol city for ceremonial occasions and cultural events. Sort of the way Washington, D.C. is today.

Chaco architecture is a cross between leggo-land and an ant farm. The hallway had not been invented so each room is connected to another by a low skinny door (apparently arches weren’t invented yet either). If you had neighbor problems, you could just brick up the door and poke another through one of the other walls.

In the afternoon, we return to Durango where Dan and I borrow a pliers from the Rochester Hotel desk clerk and wrestle with the lock on Dan’s Van’s rear door. After a struggle, the door yields to our efforts. Now we can’t close it but at least Dan can get to his wardrobe.

Meanwhile, the Caddie has been ticketed by the local gendarmes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll read about it in the Durango Herald police blotter. (4:46 PM Black Caddie ticketed in the 700 block of Main Ave. for attempting to drive on snow.)
Here’s todays entries:

9:05 AM A man was getting into another man’s face and yelling at him in the 800 block of Camino del Rio.
1:02 PM A woman’s boyfriend stole her paycheck and cashed it.
1:04 PM A controlled burn was out of control and burning next to a barn in on County Rd. 213.
4:17 PM A dog attacked another dog in the 700 block of Animas Avenue.
6:20 PM Someone saw a person in a black van pull into a driveway and go through another person’s mail in the lower 100 block of Folsom Place.
7:28 PM A woman reported that her aunt was harassing her in the parking lot of the Durango Mall.
9:05 PM A drunken man was refusing to pay for items in the 600 block of Main Ave.

Durango Day 2- January 2, 2008 -Riding the Rails

LOCOMOTIVE # 486
Cliffhanger!

All Aboard!

Durango’s main claim to fame (other than National Lampoon Vacation) is the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad (D.&S.N.G.R.R.). Thanks to Alfred Nobel’s invention of dynamite in 1867 (money from which invention allowed him to endow the Nobel prize), 19th century navvies were able to blast a track over 26 miles of steep mountains from Durango to Silverton in only nine months! The first train made it through on July 4, 1882 and since then the Durango to Silverton has never stopped operation!

Our original steam powered, coal fired locomotive (#486 above) does a five hour round trip to the historic Silverton mines. (Although in winter we only go as far as Cascade Canyon to avoid avalanches.)

The track is “Narrow Gauge” meaning the tracks are about half the usual “Standard Gauge” width. This allows the locomotive to negotiate tight spaces and sharper curves while saving on the cost of construction. The Standard Gauge is 4 feet-8 ½ inches between the inner sides of the parallel rails. About sixty percent of the railways of the world use this gauge.

A legend exists that “Standard Gauge” comes from the width of existing wagon ruts on 18th century roads in England. These ruts, in turn, were carved when Julius Caesar built the first roads and brought Roman military chariots to Britain during his conquest of 55 B.C.E. All subsequent wagons built on the island were made to this dimension so that wagons could easily follow the Roman chariot ruts. Hence a 2000-year-old chariot became the ‘Standard’ measurement for most modern railroads.

We hop aboard the D.&S.N.G.R.R at the Durango depot. Our car is a 1920’s vintage with leather bench seats and oak trim. As we enter, we both look at each other in consternation. It’s another scene from National Lampoon Vacation! We’re surrounded by families with small children. The Dads are paying big bucks for the “authentic steam train experience” advertised in the slick RR brochure and their children aren’t buying it. Kids who aren’t sprouting ear-buds or playing Nintendos are impatiently kicking the seats in front of them. Rena is not amused. As the train picks up steam, the Dads begin to escalate and the kids won’t even look out the windows!

“Well, cow-lady,” I drawl to my spouse, who looks like she may escalate sometime soon. “I’m thinkin’ it’s high time to blow Dodge City.”
“Agreed,” replies Rena tersely.

We mosey to the back of the train. Just as we can’t go any further, we zig left then zag right and step into the last car. It’s another world – plush carpet, hardwood tables, brass lanterns, and velvet-cushioned seats – the whole exuding a smell of fresh-brewed coffee and oiled teak. A fully-stocked bar occupies the front of the parlor. And a private outdoor viewing platform at the rear completes the ensemble.

“Follow me,” I whisper. “This looks like an opportunity for adventure.”

Using Julius Caesar’s tactics of boldness combined with the element of surprise, I stroll down the car and take two seats at the only unoccupied table. Rena, still smarting from kicks to her backside by pint-sized impatient feet, dutifully tags along.

Sarah, our server, approaches:
“I see you folks decided to upgrade,” she says with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Purely by accident but it seems the right thing to do. What a magnificent car you have here!”
Without a wink or a blink, Sarah asks, “Coffee, tea or soft drink? All complimentary.”As she departs to draw our café-au-lait, I turn to Rena and ask how she likes the accidental upgrade.
Rena closes her open mouth and takes a deep breath. “Can’t complain,” she acknowledges.
“Now, now - Sarah’s a girl who knows how to earn a generous tip,” I aver soothingly.
“Chutzpah,” mutters Rena.

Ensconced in parlor class with complimentary beverages in hand, we make the acquaintance of our parlor mates, Allan and Joan of Elkhart, Indiana. Allan is a railroad buff and commercial pilot (retired). Joan is an opera singer. She’s a mezzo-soprano. Somehow the conversation turns to yodeling, and Joan obliges with “The Lonely Goatherd” from the Sound of Music. This cheers Rena up immediately; she always laughs when someone yodels. From Joan I learn a new medical fact – the loss of estrogens at menopause causes your vocal cords to dry up. That’s why post-menopausal sopranos are few and far between.

As we yodel our way up the mountain, the train noodles it’s way through tight passes and across swaying wooden trestles. The Animas River is visible some 500 feet below. The view is vertiginous and the rapids far below are a beautiful jade color. This may be due to copper in the old silver-mine tailings. At one stop, the water tank is frozen solid, and we have to back down the tracks to find a tank with liquid water. Allan informs us that a steam engine without water is called a bomb!

We stop at Cascade Canyon for a light nosh and a hike along the river’s edge. Our return to Durango is uneventful. We arrive at 3 PM and Rena partakes of some retail therapy. Durango’s Main Avenue boasts used book shops, boutiques and outdoor outfitters. Also good bread and hot chocolate.

Our son, Daniel, plans to return from the desert to meet us this evening. We try his cellphone but it’s still out of range. We wait at the NLV for a long time and finally order Chinese take-out. It’s the night before the Iowa Caucuses and we watch election hype on TV while plying chopsticks on Chevy Chase’s eponymous bed. When did Chinese food first come to Durango? Were the navvies who built the Durango to Silverton Chinese? I peruse the police blotter for the day:

10:17 PM A woman in the first block of Pinon St. is bitten by a dog/wolf hybrid.
6:41 AM Delivery personnel, who didn’t have the code, trip a back-door alarm at a building on Florida Road.
8:56 AM The driver of a dark-colored van is tailgating and making obscene gestures at the driver ahead of him on US Highway 160.
10:10 AM A garbage can is reported stolen Christmas Eve in the 400 block of Jenkins Ranch Road.
3:10 PM A pedestrian was not hurt when struck by a silver-colored van.
11:49 PM A caller reported loud music from the vicinity of the Middle School.

Dan finally arrives around 8 PM to liven up our evening. But that really is another story!

Durango, Colorado - January 1, 2008

Durango is my kind of town!

The New Rochester Hotel

Durango – what a great name for a town in the Wild West! We’re on our way to see our son, Daniel, who works nearby and hangs in Durango in his 2000 Chevy Van when he’s not working. He’s not really a cowboy but close enough. More about Dan later.

Our li’l CRJ 90 regional jet descends from Salt Lake City over the folded foothills of the San Juan range.
“Cute airport,” says Rena. “Only two gates.”
Marge and Roy unload our bags onto the airport’s only baggage carousel while I pick up my chariot of choice.
“Holy ostentatious,” blurts Rena. “A black Cadillac! What kind of a snow cruiser is that?”
“Hey, it may not be much in snow,” I enthusiastically reply. “But get a load of this heated steering wheel. And the trunk alone is as big as your Suzuki!”

Rena settles dubiously into the luxurious tan leather upholstery. The car is so hi-tech that I can’t figure out how to start it – there’s no key, just a key-ring with nothing on it! The National car rental guy shows me the right button to push and we’re on our way.

After a while we find the cigarette lighter and plug in Rena’s GPS which is named Marvin after the quirky, depressed robot in “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Mad Marvin, the GPS, is in a snit and doesn’t talk to us for many miles. Using dead reckoning, Rena’s sense of direction and whatever grudging advice Marvin is willing to part with, we arrive at our “pied-a-terre” – the New Rochester Hotel in Durango. I think the last time I was in Durango, some forty years ago, it was a flophouse and brothel. But that, as they say, is another story.

The New Rochester is now an old-West style bed-and-breakfast with wagon wheel chandeliers, saddles on the stair railings and mosaic bathroom floors made of tiny black and white hexagonal tiles. There are ten rooms, each one named after a movie that was filmed in the environs of Durango. Movies like “The Naked Spur”, “Support Your Local Gunfighter”, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”, and “City Slickers.” For some reason we are assigned to the “National Lampoon Vacation” room! This means we brush our teeth while a poster of Chevy Chase leers at us from over the toilet. Well, that’s our room – we call it the NLV for short.

The NLV is on the second floor and there’s no elevator. Rena eyes her suitcase dubiously.
“ Maybe we should ask for help with the luggage,” she advises.
But this is not Boston. This is the old West, where men are men (and so are women).
“Nope,” I reply. “If this luggage is yourn, Ma’am, then I’m yore luggee.”
I’m beginning to feel more like a Westerner already. I spit on my hands and rub them together before grabbing the bags. Spurs jingle faintly in my imagination.

By the time I get to the NLV, I’m sucking in great lungfuls of Durango’s thin atmosphere. We’re at 6512 feet above sea level – enough to give pause to Jack Palance even.
Rena is standing just inside the door and sniffing suspiciously.
“Do you think this room smells funny?” she asks.
“No, Ma’am. I surely don’t,” I wheeze.
“Well, I do!” she says. “You didn’t pee on the rug, did you?”
“Not yet,” I reply. “Better make way!”
I rush to Chevy Chase’s toilet and return greatly relieved. Breath and color are returning to my body. We open the window to air out the room and head down to the lobby for tea and homemade cookies – yumm! While there I peruse the police blotter of the Durango Herald. There’s nothing like the local police blotter to give a visitor insight into the ebb and flow of community life:

8:24 AM – a woman with a brain injury leaves home to hitchhike.
11:33 AM – a bale of hay is found in the northbound lane of Camino del Rio.
11:56 AM – guests at a local motel try to leave without paying.
2:24 PM - a caller is concerned that a big dog on a short chain might be suffering from the cold.
5:55 PM - a four year old girl mistakenly dials 911. Her mother says there is no emergency.
7:43 PM – four or five men, all dressed in black, are hanging around a business parking lot. They are gone when an officer arrives on the scene.
1:43 AM - a drunken woman is being “over-dramatic” in the 700 block of Main Avenue.

Apparently, not much ebbed and even less flowed in Durango yesterday. “Better luck tomorrow,” I muse.
We hit the sack early. Being it’s Tuesday, no cowpokes are emptying six shooters on Main Avenue. Tomorrow we take the narrow gauge to Cascade Canyon and meet up with Dan.

Coyotes at Christmas - December 25, 2007

"The strength of the wolf is in the pack." - Rudyard Kipling

"And the strength of the coyote is in the cocoa." - Daktari Mark

Calling the Coyotes for Christmas – December 25, 2007

It’s been a typical Jewish Christmas in Amesbury. The Powow River is frozen solid and the hills snow-covered. Rena and I go skating on the river in the morning and then off to see Juno, the movie, with our friends Carol and Katie. Very good flick! Afterwards we try a new Chinese restaurant in Topsfield. We have the restaurant all to ourselves! There aren’t many Jews in Topsfield, it seems.

Back at home Rena settles in with her crocheting to watch the Country Music Channel. “Where’s the adventure in that?” I think to myself. The nearly full moon rises over the white fields and sparkles off Lake Gardner. “Ah,” I think. “The Call of the Wild.”

I phone my good neighbor, Bruce. “Looks like a good night for an adventure. What do you think?”

“I’m way cool with that,” says Bruce. “Whazzup?”
(Bruce works from home. Too much jazz on the internet has affected his speech.)

I explain to Bruce that I was at the Whistling Kettle yesterday and Dean the pool guy was there. He was taking a break from snow-plowing. The breakfast conversation turned to coyotes. Dean claims the best way to find coyotes is to go out in the boonies and set off your car alarm for one minute. When you shut it off, all the coyotes for miles around will be howling. Then drive to where you think they are and repeat the process as necessary until you locate the pack.

“Count me in,” says Bruce.

We assemble at Bruce’s house. Bruce, Bruce’s son Luke and myself with the two dogs Panna and Brixton and our respective collections of coyote gear. I carry the binoculars and wear the official decoy hat. Bruce has a stout cudgel, rope, flashlight and camera. Luke thinks we are way over the top and settles for dog leashes and a Petzl with red filter for night vision. We are ready for whole packs of coyotes. If this were Transylvania, we could probably even take on werewolves or charge Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. But that, as they say, is another story.

We get in Bruce’s 4-WD Cherokee (the only vehicle with an alarm) and head out. Our ears are pricked and our tails (for those who have them) are wagging. As we head east on S. Hampton Road we pass a darkened cruiser parked at Syvinski’s farm, trolling for speeders and scoff-laws. Collectively we entertain the same thought at the same time: If coyotes can hear the car alarm, then so can Officer Krupke!
”What would you call our crime exactly,” asks Bruce.
“How about disturbing the peace on Christmas night,” I opine.
“Groovy,” says Bruce. On the way to Battis farm we rehearse our cover story:
“OK, when I went to unlock the car I pushed the panic button by mistake and the keys fell in the snow. We all had to hunt through the snow to find the keys,” says Bruce.
“Groovy,” I reply.
“Incidently, Mark, you should ditch the wolf hat, if we see the cruiser,” says Luke.
“Even Officer Krupke might tumble to that one!” I agree.

We stop the car and get out. Clear and cold with no wind at all and not another car in sight.
“Plunk your magic twanger, froggy.” Boiing-oing-oing.
Bruce presses the panic button for as long as he dares. In the dead silence that follows, we hear nary a coyote. We try again with a longer blast of the alarm.

“Maybe, it’s the wrong type of alarm,” I say. “Let’s go see if Officer Krupke will let us use his siren.”
I am outvoted 2 to 1. It would be better, we decide, to beard the wild coyote in her den.

We start hiking up Po Hill – at 331 feet above sea-level it’s the tallest hill in Amesbury. We tramp through the packed snow to the top. What a marvelous panorama – the great sweep of Atlantic shore from Cape Ann in the South to Mt. Agamenticus in the North. 'All is calm, all is bright.' Not one coyote yip intrudes on our silent night The stars in the sky look down where we lay, resting for the return tramp through the woods. The moon, herself, lights our way back to Bruce’s for a Rob Roy. Exertion and alcohol commingle nicely. Peaceful and pooped after a long day, I too will be soon be 'away in the manger asleep in the hay'. Peace on earth, goodwill to men -- and good night Officer Krupke, wherever you are!

On Another Hand - Connecticut Road Trip Dec 14, 2007

ON ANOTHER HAND – DECEMBER 14, 2007

Last week’s blog recounted an adventure with the 1000 year old hand of St. Stephen.
Little did I realize that another old hand would become fodder for this week’s blog!
Unfortunately I forgot to take photos! Read on MacDuff –

We are driving to New Haven in Ali & Chris’ 1998 Subaru Forester. I prefer a less antiquated set of wheels myself. However, the last time the kids visited Amesbury their Forester was acting up so we swapped cars.

Now the Subaru has a new water pump, timing belt and thermostat – (Happy Hanukah, Chris and Ali) – and Rena and I are delivering it back to them. Knowing something about 1.) bad cars and 2.) winter travel, I stop at the NAPA store on the way out of town to pick up a jug of windshield fluid and a gallon of pre-mix anti-freeze. The jumper cables, rope, baling wire and trusty roll of duck tape are already in the way-back.

Sure enough, we are just across the Connecticut border when a casual glance at the dashboard reveals trouble. Rena and I are going South in the Subaru on I-84 but the needle on the water temperature gauge is going North faster than Santa heading for home after a hard night. In about 5 seconds it pegs out in the red zone!

“Holy Thermometer, Batman!” I yell to my life partner as I careen across the highway, coming to a stop in the breakdown lane. As I switch on the emergency blinkers, I think to myself, “It’s time for another travel adventure.”

Rena is not too keen on this particular type of travel adventure. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters as wisps of steam emerge from under the hood and the sweet, burnt-sugar smell of propylene glycol wafts gently through the open window. While the engine cools, Rena lets off steam by crocheting faster and faster.

“Buck up, sweetie,” I say, cautiously eyeing her speeding crochet hook. “Remember the movie ‘Apollo 13’ – they thought they were goners, too.”

“But they had Ed Harris at mission control in Houston,” wails Rena.

“True,” I respond. “But don’t forget that I have anti-freeze, duck tape and 20 years of listening to Click and Clack on the radio.” Rena groans. Why am I not inspiring confidence here? O ye of little faith!

I switch off the engine and turn the key to ‘accessories’. I turn on the heater & the fan & the A/C full-blast to cool the engine. Then I pop the hood on the gently steaming Subaru. Anti-freeze is everywhere except in the radiator where it belongs.

“It just needs some anti-freeze,” I call reassuringly to my crotchety, crocheting co-pilot. (Best not to alarm the passengers.)

While the engine cools, I meditate on the treachery of radiator caps and the physics of steam under great pressure. With trepidation, I don an insulated ski glove and lean my full weight on the heel of my hand, as I slowly un-screw the radiator cap. No burst of super-heated steam emerges! A quick fill-up of Prestone and we’re back on the highway.

We make it about three miles to Exit 71, coasting down the exit ramp and gliding to a stop as the temperature gauge pegs red once again. Lucky for us, we have arrived at a classic gas station owned by the three Canestrari brothers.

I explain the situation to the eldest brother, “Lefty”. (not his real first name) He listens to my tale of woe, opens the hood and gives the engine compartment a long, hard look. “Don’t know if I can help you folks,” Lefty opines. The steam from the radiator has barely dissipated. Deftly, Lefty palms the radiator cap and whips it off!

“OK fire it up,” orders Lefty. I start the engine. Sickly fluorescent green coolant bubbles up from the radiator’s core and pulses out the fill pipe. Quick as lightning, Lefty covers the open radiator pipe with his bare left hand and pushes down hard. Coolant squeezes around the edges of his palm. “OK shut her down,” he says.

I rush forward expecting to treat second-degree burns. Lefty is shaking his head slowly as he wipes his intact hand with the traditional greasy rag. “Nope, can’t help you,” says Lefty laconically. “Blown head gasket.”

“How can you tell?” I inquire.

“Coolant pressure much too high,” explains Lefty. “Gotta be a blown gasket.”

(Later, I figure out that high-pressure cylinder gas is escaping through the blown gasket and pressurizing the coolant in the water jacket. That pressure was what Crusty was feeling when he sealed off the radiator with his bare hand.)

“What’ll we do?” I ask.

“Plan A is get towed to the Subaru dealership in Vernon,” says Lefty.

“And what’s Plan B?” I inquire.

“Do you have fire insurance on this heap?” asks Lefty.

Being a true adventurer, I select Plan B, although not without more mutinous mutterings from the crew. “Come on,” I say. “It’s only 12 miles. We’ll keep her under 2000 RPM and I’ll watch the gauge like a hawk.”

It takes the better part of an hour and three stops for overheating to make it to the dealership using Plan B. Rena and I while away the hour discussing what items to grab while exiting the Subaru in case of fire. I’m down to my last pint of Prestone and Rena is half done with the afghan by the time we coast into Suburban Subaru in Vernon. But we’ve made it. The Eagle has Landed!

After about 90 minutes of computer analysis, engine scanning, and compression testing the consensus at Suburban Subaru is that we do indeed have a blown head gasket. However, I credit the correct diagnosis to the experienced left hand of our savior, ‘Lefty’ Canestrari. For me, it was the greatest left-hand maneuver since Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God” soccer goal against England in the quarter-finals of the 1986 World Cup. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hand_of_God_goal)
But that, as they say, is another story.

Daktari