A one-day stopover in Louisville, and I'm on the road again. Not Judy, just
me. And Rags the cat. We'll meet brother Bill in West Yellowstone on
Sunday. We get to fish for a week. Then Judy drives the Jeep up to meet
me, and we get to fish for another week. The Madison in Montana; the Lamar,
Slough Creek, and Pebble Creek inside the Park. Bison, elk, grizzly bear,
and wolf country. How cool is that?
Balloons. I miss the balloons. Usually, driving north on a Saturday
morning, I get to see hot air balloons drifting on the horizon. Not this
morning. It's too cool, cloudy, and rainy. Low ceiling. And gauges on the
instrument panel. I miss those too. And turn signals and warning lights.
I used to have turn signals and warning lights. And I miss the way the
electronically controlled transmission used to shift. The battery warning
light came on, and I was afraid I'd have to stop to get it looked at. When
it went out, I was delighted, until I realized that every other light on the
instrument panel had gone out too. The plan was to stop at K&C RV to get
some windshield wiper blade replacements. Now, half way there, I'm
suffering a serious electron shortage. Maybe I'll have to stop at K&C a
little longer.
Amy at the counter was very sympathetic, but there are no mechanics there on
Saturday. They only work during the week. Bill, the parts guy was very
helpful. He diagnosed the problem as a dead alternator. He couldn't fix
it, and didn't have that alternator in stock anyway. I was going to have to
wait for Monday for them to fix it, but their mechanics were already fully
booked for Monday, so I might have to wait until Tuesday. My schedule float
down the Madison River on Monday was in serious jeopardy. I called Judy.
Judy found a mobile truck repair guy in Commerce City who would drive an
hour north to fix it, if I would pay him for all his travel time, as well as
the time it took to actually fix it. I had to choose between a weekend in
the parking lot of an RV service facility, or spending some extra money and
making the Madison River float. I chose to float. The repair process
didn't go perfectly smoothly, but it did go, so finally, at three o'clock in
the afternoon, thirty miles from home so far, I was released to the road. A
nine o'clock to three o'clock delay.
This is a guy trip. Me and Rags, driving to Montana to meet up with brother
Bill. We're going to fish and fart, eat dinner without silverware, and wipe
our hands on our pants. It's a guy trip. Just me and Rags, and Bill.
Making up time on Interstate 80. Driving fast. This freightliner, on the
open road, seventy-five feels like fifty-five. Leapfrogging semis.
Crossing the continental divide at 7,000 feet, a far cry from crossing it in
Colorado at 11,000 or 12,000. This is a straight fast truckers highway.
Often the only vehicles I can see in the distance are trucks. Across
southern Wyoming, past the windmill farm in Arlington, to a backbeat of
Lucinda Williams, Shelby Lynne, and some hard driving electric Mississippi
blues. Past the continental divide again, fifty miles later at 6,930 feet.
Past the Point of Rocks, to turn right at Rock Springs with Bob Dillon.
Left the cloudy rainy weather behind on the eastern slope and burst into the
sunshine on the western side.
Last year, along Interstate 80, I had an experience motorhome drivers don't
want to have. Cruising along at sixty-five in the gas Bounder, following a
truck about a half mile ahead, I saw him swerve to miss something. I had
plenty of time to prepare for whatever was in the road. As I approached his
spot I could see there was nothing there, so I was figuring it must have
been an animal he swerved to miss, when I hit something I couldn't see. I
was pushed clear into the left lane, then back to the right lane. Then it
was over. Clear air turbulence? If we had been in an airplane, we would
have dropped a thousand feet.
This is less likely to happen in the diesel Bounder. It cruises along empty
at twenty thousand pounds. It's a lot harder to push around.
It was a busy day. I drove and listened to music, while I fished, worked,
and played racquetball in my head. It can be a loud, busy place in my head,
even on a quiet day. I realize that fishing is a lot like racquetball; in
that fishing every day would be almost enough.
North on highway 191. Fifty miles from Rock Springs, through the tiny
town of Eden, then the tiny town of Farson. Past the still remaining ruts
of the Oregon Trail. I encountered exactly zero other cars headed my way.
Have I mentioned I Love This Road?
A four hundred mile day. Not bad, considering the six-hour delay. We'd
have made ever better time, but I was already a pot of coffee and a liter
bottle of club soda into the trip by the time I left the RV shop. I don't
have to stop at rest stops, we have a bathroom on board, but I still have to
stop, since I'm the only one driving, every time I need a "rest".
We stop for the night at Big Sandy State Recreation Area. It's a horrible
place to spend the night. No facilities, no trees, just a pullout in the
desert scrub, on the bank, overlooking a Wyoming high desert lake,
surrounded by sagebrush and pronghorns. There are tracks off the road to a
turnaround, so we can tell that other people have been here, but we've never
seen them. There is nothing to do; just watch the sun set over the desert
hills behind the lake while nighthawks swoop about. I've stopped here every
trip for about ten years.
