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The Wanderer
- Thread starter superbuickguy
- Start date
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
THE WANDERERS #1 -INTRODUCTION-
I’ve often been asked if some of the stories in The Wanderers series are true or not.
As I sit here and scratch my chin thinking about it, I can offer a solid … well … sort of, kind of, and a definite maybe.
If that sounds fuzzy, it is so because many of these tall tales are based on some real world experiences passed on to me from friends and acquaintances in the off-roading community.
So, indeed, many of the truly goofy things actually happened.
And what about Carl and Emma, you ask? Are they real?
Hmmm. Well, I know people like Carl and Emma. So close in mannerisms, in fact, that you might be convinced that I merely changed the names to protect the innocent. Hell, half my friends have many of the bull-headed traits exhibited by Carl!
Actually, what The Wanderers is, dear reader, is what we all wish we could do. Who among us would not love to simply take off, with no schedules to keep, no plans set it stone, or commitments to take care of?
Ahhh, yes … the perpetual vacation. Just point the rig somewhere and go with your impulses. Stop here for a while; drop a line in the water over there; build a campfire by that mountain; watch the sun rise over a mountain top.
So, kick back and let your mind wander a little bit with The Wanderers. And keep the sun to your back when you’re on the move.
Rick Sieman
Somewhere in Baja
I’ve often been asked if some of the stories in The Wanderers series are true or not.
As I sit here and scratch my chin thinking about it, I can offer a solid … well … sort of, kind of, and a definite maybe.
If that sounds fuzzy, it is so because many of these tall tales are based on some real world experiences passed on to me from friends and acquaintances in the off-roading community.
So, indeed, many of the truly goofy things actually happened.
And what about Carl and Emma, you ask? Are they real?
Hmmm. Well, I know people like Carl and Emma. So close in mannerisms, in fact, that you might be convinced that I merely changed the names to protect the innocent. Hell, half my friends have many of the bull-headed traits exhibited by Carl!
Actually, what The Wanderers is, dear reader, is what we all wish we could do. Who among us would not love to simply take off, with no schedules to keep, no plans set it stone, or commitments to take care of?
Ahhh, yes … the perpetual vacation. Just point the rig somewhere and go with your impulses. Stop here for a while; drop a line in the water over there; build a campfire by that mountain; watch the sun rise over a mountain top.
So, kick back and let your mind wander a little bit with The Wanderers. And keep the sun to your back when you’re on the move.
Rick Sieman
Somewhere in Baja
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
THE WANDERERS #2
TRAVELING THE BACK ROADS WITH CARL AND EMMA
By Rick Sieman
The Whale, a huge 4WD Suburban, painted a truly awful shade of dull green, lumbered down the Interstate highway at exactly 56 miles per hour. Behind the wheel was Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, and in the passenger seat, fumbling with a road map, was his wife, Emma.
After 28 plus years in the Navy, Carl was now doing what he always wanted to do: that is, explore the back roads of America at his leisure. His choice in vehicles was clear cut: Carlbought the biggest four wheeler he could find, and that was the enormous Suburban.
In a way, it reminded him of the ships he had spent so many years on. Of course, it had a 454 engine under the hood, with enough speed parts on it to nearly double the horsepower.
Carl was an ornery sort, set in his ways. Which is one of the reasons he always traveled at exactly one mile per hour over the speed limit. He hated laws, rules and regulations with a teeth-gritting passion.
Emma was the opposite; patient, calm and very organized. It was her self-assigned task in life to keep Carl from doing any number of dumb things ... a thankless job, at best.
Carl and Emma were on a perpetual vacation. They would drive to a state they'd never seen before and hit the back roads, explore them, and return to the pavement when they were good and ready.
The Whale was fully equipped with most everything needed for camping. In fact, as Emma pointed out all of the time, it was over-equipped.
On the back of The Whale was a 250 cc trail bike mounted on a swing-away rail. Up front was another trail bike, a small 125 cc rig for Emma. On the roof was a 14-foot boat, snugged down between the rear air conditioning unit and the satellite dish that folded down when not in use.
A fold out tent was hooked to one side of The Whale and an awning to the other side. The Whale also had a beefy generator inside, as well as a self contained shower and porta-potty. The TV, tape deck and VCR were right next to the microwave oven, and a smallish kitchen flanked some fold-down seats and a table.
The roof was lined with fishing rods, shotguns, crossbows and a selection of very expensive hand made pool cues. Small cabinets took up every square inch of free space and were filled to capacity with food, beer, canned goods, beer, utensils, beer, snacks, beer, clothing, beer, cameras, film, beer, tools, beer, spare parts and yes, more beer. At the end of a hard day of off-roading, Carl did like to have a cold suds or three, or more.
One small cupboard held a number of Harlequin romance books that Emma enjoyed. Carl leaned more toward Field and Stream and Soldier Of Fortune.
Yes, indeed. The Whale was set for traveling and Carl and Emma were on their way to:
WEST VIRGINIA!
Carl left the tangled web of endless bridges and bad roads that made up Pittsburgh, and headed south on Highway 79, toward the Canaan Valley in West Virginia. A friend of his in Pittsburgh told Carl that he just had to see the Blackwater Falls and the magnificent country of that region.
Highway 79 was a slick, modern road, saved from boredom by only two things: the beautiful tree-lined landscape and the ever-present Pennsylvania Highway patrol. This was the state where the fines were posted right along the road. Ten miles per hour over the speed limit cost you $75 bucks, and so forth, in an ever escalating gouge.
Carl kept the cruise control on 56 mph and listened to all three radar detectors shriek at full pitch every few minutes.
Carl gave an evil grin as The Whale rumbled by the Highway Patrol cars, knowing that even they were not chicken enough to bust him for 56 mph. Fifty-seven, yes!
The terrain became suddenly prettier as they crossed the state line into West Virginia, leaving the Keystone State cops behind.
Here, the state cops were a different story. Still tough, but not as bad as in Pennsylvania. Carl eased The Whale up to 58 mph and kept his eyes open. Out-of-state drivers had to cough up their driver's license until their ticket was paid in West Virginia, so some care was still required.
Emma coughed quietly. "Carl, I wish you wouldn't speed so. We're not in any big hurry, you know."
Carl spit a wad of Red Man tobacco out of the window of the Whale and deposited yet another stain on the flank of the huge Suburban. "Emma, why don't you try to pick up a good country station on the radio, and leave the driving to me. I mean, 58 ain't exactly like I'm racin' in the Baja 1000, ya know."
Carl peeled off on 119 south of Morgantown, swung over to highway 50 and caught 32 south to head into Thomas. Here, the terrain flanking the road was truly spectacular! Tall trees rose to the sky and a tangled mass of greenery filled the space between each and every tree trunk.
The Whale handled the ever-tightening roads comfortably, in spite of the horrifying load, and the 454 engine lugged happily.
Emma squealed happily, "Ooooohhh. look Carl! A deer! Just like in
Bambi. Over there, on the right side under that tree!"
Carl reached up and grabbed for one of the shotguns. "Supper
time! Venison burgers, comin' up!"
Emma grabbed his arm. "Now, Carl! You just can't go shooting
everything you see. It's not nice. Plus, it might not be deer season, and even if it is you don't have a license, and even if you did, it can't be legal to shoot from a moving car, and even if it was, I'll divorce you if you shoot at that darling little creature!"
Carl grumbled and put both hands back on the wheel. Women!
On the way into Thomas, they saw another dozen deer, and then from Thomas into Davis, they saw at least eight more. Carl pointed his finger at the deer like a gun and made loud "bang-bang" noises just to irritate Emma. He almost hit one deer on the driver's side with a wad of tobacco juice. Take that, Bambi.
It was dark when The Whale rolled into the small town of Davis, and they checked into the Best Western Motel and had a great meal at the Sawmill Restaurant. Carl asked where the best off-roading was in the area, and the waitress said that the Blackwater Falls regions was famous for trails, but they were on the tough side.
Carl laughed heartily. "Hey, I got a 454 under the hood of my truck and it'll go anywhere."
Emma sighed. "Now, Carl. Remember when you got us stuck up in
New Hampshire and we had to wait two days for a tow truck to come
and get us out?"
"Hey, that was a fluke, woman! How was I to know I'd bury the wheels in a mud field with no trees or rocks to hook a winch to?"
"Well, I did tell you not to go into that field, you know."
"Finish your French fries, Emma, and be quiet, or I'm going to go out and shoot Bambi."
***
Early in the morning, Carl gassed up both of the gas tanks and asked the attendant where the best trails were.
"Well, they usually go through town and across the river, then follow the arrows, but I don't think I'd take a truck back in there, because... "
"Because you ain't got a 454 under your hood, pal. But I do. See you on the flip-flop. That's trucker talk, ya know."
The Whale idled through the narrow main street of Davis, seeing only one other vehicle on the streets, a ratty '51 Chevy pickup loaded with logs. Carl guided the Suburban over a rickety board plank bridge at the end of town and headed out on a bumpy two- track dirt road.
The Whale shifted and wallowed as the trail deteriorated.
"Gotta get me some of those new Rancho shocks one of these days," Carl grumbled.
Emma giggled. "Carl, you'd need a dozen of them on each wheel the way you load this poor rig down. If you'd take half this crap off the roof, the stock shocks would probably work just fine."
"Any more out of you and I'm getting a deer license!"
Emma shut up and went back to enjoying the scenery.
Soon Carl came to a junction and saw a trail heading off to the right marked with bright red ribbon and cardboard arrows.
"Hah! This must be the trail that guy was telling us about. Hang on, Emma. We're gonna do some serious trail driving!'"
"Now, Carl. I'm not so sure we should just go driving off by ourselves in a strange place. Remember how we had to spend a whole week stranded up in Utah that one time?"
"Hey, that was before we got all the trick parts for the 454. We got torque now!"
The terrain before them was almost an eye-hurting green, with lush grass growing over the rolling fields. Emma said, "I was talking with the waitress and she said it rains or snows almost every day of the year here. That must be why it's so green."
Carl looked over at Emma and shook his head. "Yup. It probably took some real rocket scientist thinking to figure that out. I always thought that foliage grew best in sandstorms before you explained that to me."
The trail wandered slightly downhill as they headed to the bowl of the valley before them. The grass grew thicker and lusher and little streams criss-crossed the beautiful meadow. Fertile-looking black mud flanked the streams Carl noted: "Boy, bet you could plant some real good beefsteak
tomatoes in that soil. Looks real rich!"
Emma shifted around uncomfortably. "Carl. maybe we ought to turn back it seems that there's more and more water the further we go. And we are heading downhill, and water does go downhill, and I don't want to get stuck again like we did back in Delaware, and ..."
"Hush up, woman. Nobody gets stuck going down hill."
A small stream crossed the trail up ahead, perhaps three feet wide. Carl stopped, studied it for a minute, then shifted into Four Low, second gear. "Guess I'll play it safe and blast through."
"Carl, shouldn't you get out and poke a stick in it and see how deep it is?"
"How deep could it be? That dumb trickle of water is only a yardstick wide. Get your belt tight and watch how a 454 handles this little slick spot."
Carl revved up the big engine, charged forward at full throttle and promptly buried the nose of The Whale over the headlights and half way up the hood.
Carl sat there, stunned, then got out of The Whale to inspect the situation. When his foot touched the ground, he sunk in to his knees and yelped, "Quicksand!!! Don't get out, Emma!"
Emma sighed "it isn't quicksand, Carl. It's mud. Real black, gooey mud. And it looks like we're going to be here for a while."
"No way, woman. I'll just winch it right out of here."
"What are you going to hook the winch to Carl? There aren't any trees or rocks out here."
Carl looked around frantically for a while, let out a deep. deep sigh, then said. "We'll. as long as we're going to be here for a little bit, why don't you rustle up some breakfast. I think better on a full stomach."
Several days later, a rider came along the trail on a dirt bike, saw the Suburban buried in the mud at a weird angle, noticed the tent out, the satellite dish up, smelled the bacon cooking, and stopped. "Can I help you folks?"
Carl poked his head out of The Whale. "Oh, nice of you to stop. You see, we were just camping and this stream came up during the night and buried the front end real good. Come on in and have some coffee. We got some tag team wrestling on the TV."
The rider kicked the mud off his boots and entered The Whale. He gladly accepted the coffee, and looked around at the inside of the Suburban with pure awe. "You know, you folks are out on the Blackwater 100 race course. It's considered the toughest place in America to ride a bike. What you're in right now is a real natural bog. This whole valley sits on top of mud and water. You got the grass, six inches of water, three feet of black mud and another layer of water under that. Nobody, but nobody, ever brings a truck back into here. Especially one this, this, this...uhhh, big."
Carl looked out of the window, glanced at the rider, then stared at Emma, who was discreetly watching Hulk Hogan body slam Greg "The Hammer" Valentine on the tube. "Emma, don't say a word or were gonna have Bambi for breakfast."
***
Authors note: There are a lot of wonderful and interesting people in America, and many truly beautiful places for these folks to experience their off-road adventures. You can consider this an invitation to follow the travels of Carl and Emma, as they explore this great country. Who knows? Maybe they'll explore the back roads of your state next. If they ever get out of the Canaan Valley bogs, that is.
TRAVELING THE BACK ROADS WITH CARL AND EMMA
By Rick Sieman
The Whale, a huge 4WD Suburban, painted a truly awful shade of dull green, lumbered down the Interstate highway at exactly 56 miles per hour. Behind the wheel was Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, and in the passenger seat, fumbling with a road map, was his wife, Emma.
After 28 plus years in the Navy, Carl was now doing what he always wanted to do: that is, explore the back roads of America at his leisure. His choice in vehicles was clear cut: Carlbought the biggest four wheeler he could find, and that was the enormous Suburban.
In a way, it reminded him of the ships he had spent so many years on. Of course, it had a 454 engine under the hood, with enough speed parts on it to nearly double the horsepower.
Carl was an ornery sort, set in his ways. Which is one of the reasons he always traveled at exactly one mile per hour over the speed limit. He hated laws, rules and regulations with a teeth-gritting passion.
Emma was the opposite; patient, calm and very organized. It was her self-assigned task in life to keep Carl from doing any number of dumb things ... a thankless job, at best.
Carl and Emma were on a perpetual vacation. They would drive to a state they'd never seen before and hit the back roads, explore them, and return to the pavement when they were good and ready.
The Whale was fully equipped with most everything needed for camping. In fact, as Emma pointed out all of the time, it was over-equipped.
On the back of The Whale was a 250 cc trail bike mounted on a swing-away rail. Up front was another trail bike, a small 125 cc rig for Emma. On the roof was a 14-foot boat, snugged down between the rear air conditioning unit and the satellite dish that folded down when not in use.
A fold out tent was hooked to one side of The Whale and an awning to the other side. The Whale also had a beefy generator inside, as well as a self contained shower and porta-potty. The TV, tape deck and VCR were right next to the microwave oven, and a smallish kitchen flanked some fold-down seats and a table.
The roof was lined with fishing rods, shotguns, crossbows and a selection of very expensive hand made pool cues. Small cabinets took up every square inch of free space and were filled to capacity with food, beer, canned goods, beer, utensils, beer, snacks, beer, clothing, beer, cameras, film, beer, tools, beer, spare parts and yes, more beer. At the end of a hard day of off-roading, Carl did like to have a cold suds or three, or more.
One small cupboard held a number of Harlequin romance books that Emma enjoyed. Carl leaned more toward Field and Stream and Soldier Of Fortune.
Yes, indeed. The Whale was set for traveling and Carl and Emma were on their way to:
WEST VIRGINIA!
Carl left the tangled web of endless bridges and bad roads that made up Pittsburgh, and headed south on Highway 79, toward the Canaan Valley in West Virginia. A friend of his in Pittsburgh told Carl that he just had to see the Blackwater Falls and the magnificent country of that region.
Highway 79 was a slick, modern road, saved from boredom by only two things: the beautiful tree-lined landscape and the ever-present Pennsylvania Highway patrol. This was the state where the fines were posted right along the road. Ten miles per hour over the speed limit cost you $75 bucks, and so forth, in an ever escalating gouge.
Carl kept the cruise control on 56 mph and listened to all three radar detectors shriek at full pitch every few minutes.
Carl gave an evil grin as The Whale rumbled by the Highway Patrol cars, knowing that even they were not chicken enough to bust him for 56 mph. Fifty-seven, yes!
The terrain became suddenly prettier as they crossed the state line into West Virginia, leaving the Keystone State cops behind.
Here, the state cops were a different story. Still tough, but not as bad as in Pennsylvania. Carl eased The Whale up to 58 mph and kept his eyes open. Out-of-state drivers had to cough up their driver's license until their ticket was paid in West Virginia, so some care was still required.
Emma coughed quietly. "Carl, I wish you wouldn't speed so. We're not in any big hurry, you know."
Carl spit a wad of Red Man tobacco out of the window of the Whale and deposited yet another stain on the flank of the huge Suburban. "Emma, why don't you try to pick up a good country station on the radio, and leave the driving to me. I mean, 58 ain't exactly like I'm racin' in the Baja 1000, ya know."
Carl peeled off on 119 south of Morgantown, swung over to highway 50 and caught 32 south to head into Thomas. Here, the terrain flanking the road was truly spectacular! Tall trees rose to the sky and a tangled mass of greenery filled the space between each and every tree trunk.
The Whale handled the ever-tightening roads comfortably, in spite of the horrifying load, and the 454 engine lugged happily.
Emma squealed happily, "Ooooohhh. look Carl! A deer! Just like in
Bambi. Over there, on the right side under that tree!"
Carl reached up and grabbed for one of the shotguns. "Supper
time! Venison burgers, comin' up!"
Emma grabbed his arm. "Now, Carl! You just can't go shooting
everything you see. It's not nice. Plus, it might not be deer season, and even if it is you don't have a license, and even if you did, it can't be legal to shoot from a moving car, and even if it was, I'll divorce you if you shoot at that darling little creature!"
Carl grumbled and put both hands back on the wheel. Women!
On the way into Thomas, they saw another dozen deer, and then from Thomas into Davis, they saw at least eight more. Carl pointed his finger at the deer like a gun and made loud "bang-bang" noises just to irritate Emma. He almost hit one deer on the driver's side with a wad of tobacco juice. Take that, Bambi.
It was dark when The Whale rolled into the small town of Davis, and they checked into the Best Western Motel and had a great meal at the Sawmill Restaurant. Carl asked where the best off-roading was in the area, and the waitress said that the Blackwater Falls regions was famous for trails, but they were on the tough side.
Carl laughed heartily. "Hey, I got a 454 under the hood of my truck and it'll go anywhere."
Emma sighed. "Now, Carl. Remember when you got us stuck up in
New Hampshire and we had to wait two days for a tow truck to come
and get us out?"
"Hey, that was a fluke, woman! How was I to know I'd bury the wheels in a mud field with no trees or rocks to hook a winch to?"
"Well, I did tell you not to go into that field, you know."
"Finish your French fries, Emma, and be quiet, or I'm going to go out and shoot Bambi."
***
Early in the morning, Carl gassed up both of the gas tanks and asked the attendant where the best trails were.
"Well, they usually go through town and across the river, then follow the arrows, but I don't think I'd take a truck back in there, because... "
"Because you ain't got a 454 under your hood, pal. But I do. See you on the flip-flop. That's trucker talk, ya know."
The Whale idled through the narrow main street of Davis, seeing only one other vehicle on the streets, a ratty '51 Chevy pickup loaded with logs. Carl guided the Suburban over a rickety board plank bridge at the end of town and headed out on a bumpy two- track dirt road.
The Whale shifted and wallowed as the trail deteriorated.
"Gotta get me some of those new Rancho shocks one of these days," Carl grumbled.
Emma giggled. "Carl, you'd need a dozen of them on each wheel the way you load this poor rig down. If you'd take half this crap off the roof, the stock shocks would probably work just fine."
"Any more out of you and I'm getting a deer license!"
Emma shut up and went back to enjoying the scenery.
Soon Carl came to a junction and saw a trail heading off to the right marked with bright red ribbon and cardboard arrows.
"Hah! This must be the trail that guy was telling us about. Hang on, Emma. We're gonna do some serious trail driving!'"
"Now, Carl. I'm not so sure we should just go driving off by ourselves in a strange place. Remember how we had to spend a whole week stranded up in Utah that one time?"
"Hey, that was before we got all the trick parts for the 454. We got torque now!"
The terrain before them was almost an eye-hurting green, with lush grass growing over the rolling fields. Emma said, "I was talking with the waitress and she said it rains or snows almost every day of the year here. That must be why it's so green."
Carl looked over at Emma and shook his head. "Yup. It probably took some real rocket scientist thinking to figure that out. I always thought that foliage grew best in sandstorms before you explained that to me."
The trail wandered slightly downhill as they headed to the bowl of the valley before them. The grass grew thicker and lusher and little streams criss-crossed the beautiful meadow. Fertile-looking black mud flanked the streams Carl noted: "Boy, bet you could plant some real good beefsteak
tomatoes in that soil. Looks real rich!"
Emma shifted around uncomfortably. "Carl. maybe we ought to turn back it seems that there's more and more water the further we go. And we are heading downhill, and water does go downhill, and I don't want to get stuck again like we did back in Delaware, and ..."
"Hush up, woman. Nobody gets stuck going down hill."
A small stream crossed the trail up ahead, perhaps three feet wide. Carl stopped, studied it for a minute, then shifted into Four Low, second gear. "Guess I'll play it safe and blast through."
"Carl, shouldn't you get out and poke a stick in it and see how deep it is?"
"How deep could it be? That dumb trickle of water is only a yardstick wide. Get your belt tight and watch how a 454 handles this little slick spot."
Carl revved up the big engine, charged forward at full throttle and promptly buried the nose of The Whale over the headlights and half way up the hood.
Carl sat there, stunned, then got out of The Whale to inspect the situation. When his foot touched the ground, he sunk in to his knees and yelped, "Quicksand!!! Don't get out, Emma!"
Emma sighed "it isn't quicksand, Carl. It's mud. Real black, gooey mud. And it looks like we're going to be here for a while."
"No way, woman. I'll just winch it right out of here."
"What are you going to hook the winch to Carl? There aren't any trees or rocks out here."
Carl looked around frantically for a while, let out a deep. deep sigh, then said. "We'll. as long as we're going to be here for a little bit, why don't you rustle up some breakfast. I think better on a full stomach."
Several days later, a rider came along the trail on a dirt bike, saw the Suburban buried in the mud at a weird angle, noticed the tent out, the satellite dish up, smelled the bacon cooking, and stopped. "Can I help you folks?"
Carl poked his head out of The Whale. "Oh, nice of you to stop. You see, we were just camping and this stream came up during the night and buried the front end real good. Come on in and have some coffee. We got some tag team wrestling on the TV."
The rider kicked the mud off his boots and entered The Whale. He gladly accepted the coffee, and looked around at the inside of the Suburban with pure awe. "You know, you folks are out on the Blackwater 100 race course. It's considered the toughest place in America to ride a bike. What you're in right now is a real natural bog. This whole valley sits on top of mud and water. You got the grass, six inches of water, three feet of black mud and another layer of water under that. Nobody, but nobody, ever brings a truck back into here. Especially one this, this, this...uhhh, big."
Carl looked out of the window, glanced at the rider, then stared at Emma, who was discreetly watching Hulk Hogan body slam Greg "The Hammer" Valentine on the tube. "Emma, don't say a word or were gonna have Bambi for breakfast."
***
Authors note: There are a lot of wonderful and interesting people in America, and many truly beautiful places for these folks to experience their off-road adventures. You can consider this an invitation to follow the travels of Carl and Emma, as they explore this great country. Who knows? Maybe they'll explore the back roads of your state next. If they ever get out of the Canaan Valley bogs, that is.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
These will come quickly for a bit - I need to catch this up to the other sites but normally I post a new one on Friday night. My goal is have my Suburban finished before I run out of stories.... crossing fingers
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
Wanderer 3
CHRISTMAS IN ALASKA By Rick Sieman
Welcome to the good life of Carl and Emma. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge four-wheel drive Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
When we last left them, they were extremely stuck in the mud bogs of Davis, West Virginia. We join them as they're driving across Texas, with no particular destination in mind.
***
"Well, dear ... whattaya say we head out to California and spend Christmas camping out in the middle of the desert where there's no stupid snow?" Carl expertly spat a wad of tobacco out of the window of The Whale and banked the plug off a yellow road sign, just a hair off dead center, at the same time adding yet another brown stain to the flank of the Suburban.
Emma fixed Carl with one of those stares that showed she meant business. "You know, Carl, there's one thing I've always wanted to do during Christmas time, and that's visit Santa's Village up in Alaska."
Carl chuckled. "Ain't you a little old to be believing in Sandy Claus, Emma? I found out about that bull before I started shavin'!"
Emma sniffed. "I'm not talking about kid stuff, Carl. There really is a tourist place you can go to. I saw it on one of those travel shows on the TV a few weeks ago. They actually make toys and things there that you can buy and there's a restaurant and a hotel. Just think how nice it would be to spend Christmas eve there, with all the elves and such, by a huge decorated tree!"
"Sounds like a waste of time to me. And who would want to spend Christmas eve surrounded by a bunch of midgets wearing pointy hats?"
Emma sighed. "Well, I surely would have enjoyed going there. It's like being a kid again. But it's just as well. Apparently the road that goes back into Santa's Village is a real bad one. It's supposed to be bad enough in good weather, but in the winter, they recommend that only highly experienced off-roaders with excellent equipment attempt the drive. Most folks just fly in."
A smile creased Carl's face. "Fly in, huh?" Must be a bunch of wimps up there in Alaska. Ain't much that can stop a 454 engine hooked up to 35-inch Mudder tires, now is there?"
"Now, Carl. Maybe it's not such good idea after all, What with that nasty old road smack in the dead of winter. Guess my little dream will just have to be put on the back burners of the stove of life."
Carl stuffed a fresh clump of chewing tobacco in his mouth. "Well now, Emma, maybe old Carl here can answer those girlish dreams of yours. One way or another, I can get The Whale up any road, regardless of the weather. Only thing is, let's just spend one night there and get back into civilized country in time for me to catch the Super Bowl. I got good tickets on the 40-yard line."
Emma gave a secretive smile. "Oh, Carl. You're so brave and I know you won't get us stuck like you did in West Virginia and Delaware and Florida and Pennsylvania and upstate New York and North Carolina and ..."
"Put a lid on it, Emma. I get the message."
They rolled along at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit, the mighty 454 barely working as it hauled the mass of The Whale down the ruler-straight empty Texas highway. The strains of Willie Nelson filled the interior of the plush Suburban, through sixteen speakers.
The sound of squealing tires had Emma digging her toes in the thick carpeting, and before her eyes were focused, Carl had the Suburban stopped on the shoulder and had leaped out of the drivers seat. He stood at the base of a road sign with both hands on his hips, and stared up at the sign in obvious awe.
Emma got out and joined him. "Carl, what's the matter? You look like you're in a state of shock?"
"Lookit this, Emma! It's a brand new sign with no bullet holes in it! They musta just put it up. I betcha I've driven through Texas a hunnert times and I've never seen a sign that wasn't full of bullet holes. Get your Instamatic out and take a photo of me next to this landmark."
"OK. And then what?"
"Then I get one of my guns out and put the first hole in it before somebody else beats me to it."
"Carl, when are you going to grow up? I swear!"
"Hey, I'm not the one who wants to go see Sandy Claus."
***
Carl and Emma eventually reached California, and drove North along the coast, staying as always, two miles per hour over the speed limit. The Whale handled surprisingly well, considering that it had three gas tanks, two air conditioners, a TV satellite dish on the roof, a generator, two roll-up awnings, trail bikes hanging on each end and, of course, a boat lashed to the roof.
They passed through California and once again marveled at the heavy woods of Oregon, and the staggeringly beautiful landscapes. Washington also offered its own particular brand of visual treats, even though it rained most of time and was very cold, bordering on snow.
It did snow in Canada, but lightly, and not enough to build up on the roads. The highways got lonely and traffic was sparse as they drove through the mountainous areas of British Columbia toward the Yukon Territory. Highway 97, the famed Alaskan Highway, took them north past Kluane and Burwash Landing and shortly after, they crossed the border into Alaska. Even though it was cold, there was very little snow on the ground and they stayed comfy-cozy in the spacious cab of The Whale.
Here, they picked up Highway 2 - a great road - into the heart of Alaska and then swung north on Route 6. The terrain got meaner looking and the weather colder. Emma got out the brochure for Santa's Village and gave Carl the appropriate rights and lefts, until finally, near the northern part of Alaska, they ran out of paved road and saw the sign that ominously read, "Santa's Village, 41 Miles. Unpaved Road. Travel At Your Own Risk!"
The road was nastily, rutted, slick with frozen patches of ice, and studded with tire shredding rocks. Much to Carl's credit, he piloted the huge Suburban with skill and grace, and three hours later, arrived at the entrance to Santa's Village, one very tired off-roader.
Emma popped into the office and registered for their room, picking up a fistful of brochures and a half-dozen souvenirs in the process. She was bright-eyed and smiling. "Carl, we just have time to freshen up before the seven o'clock show."
Carl raised his eyes skyward and mumbled, "Whoopee."
***
The show was as bad as Carl thought it would be. The audience consisted of about 14 white-haired old women accompanied by bored-looking husbands. Little elves danced around the dinky stage to scratchy recorded music, while a fat guy in a Santa suit ho-ho-ed like an axe murderer. A ratty-looking reindeer was dragged out on the stage and promptly did a disgusting act of nature on Santa's foot. Carl could have sworn he heard Santa say some words he hadn't heard since his Navy days.
They had a toy making demonstration that was so stupid Carl simply could not believe it, and then some more elves danced around like chickens with no brains and then the fat guy yelled ho-ho-ho some more, and mercifully, the curtain came down.
Carl and Emma had a very bad meal in the restaurant and then retired for the night. Carl was very happy that they'd be leaving the next day and fell asleep quickly.
Morning brought bright light through the windows and Carl quickly showered and dressed, then headed out to check on The Whale before the long drive back. Or at least he tried to. The door of the hotel room would not open.
Frustrated, Carl got on the hotel phone. "Hey, what's the deal? My door won't work!"
A chuckle was heard coming from the other end of the line. "Oh, nothing is wrong with your door, sir. We just had a bit of a snowfall. You might look out your window. I'll hold."
Carl looked out the window and saw nothing but white. Then he stood on the bed and looked out the six-inch gap that was not covered by snow. He could see the top of The Whale, and just the top. Snow was everywhere. Many feet of snow. Piles and piles of snow.
Carl grabbed the phone. "Hey, I've got to get out of here. The Super Bowl is right around the corner!"
"Sorry, sir, but we'll be snowed in for a few weeks. It happens up here like that, sort of sudden like. However, you won't be bored, because the elves will be having toy making workshops and you can get involved. By the way, sir ... Merry Christmas and a hearty ho-ho-ho to you!"
A thumping sound aroused Emma from a very deep slumber, and as she opened one sleep-encrusted eye, she saw Carl banging his head against the wall.
Emma pulled the blankets over her head and quietly went back to sleep.
CHRISTMAS IN ALASKA By Rick Sieman
Welcome to the good life of Carl and Emma. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge four-wheel drive Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
When we last left them, they were extremely stuck in the mud bogs of Davis, West Virginia. We join them as they're driving across Texas, with no particular destination in mind.
***
"Well, dear ... whattaya say we head out to California and spend Christmas camping out in the middle of the desert where there's no stupid snow?" Carl expertly spat a wad of tobacco out of the window of The Whale and banked the plug off a yellow road sign, just a hair off dead center, at the same time adding yet another brown stain to the flank of the Suburban.
Emma fixed Carl with one of those stares that showed she meant business. "You know, Carl, there's one thing I've always wanted to do during Christmas time, and that's visit Santa's Village up in Alaska."
Carl chuckled. "Ain't you a little old to be believing in Sandy Claus, Emma? I found out about that bull before I started shavin'!"
Emma sniffed. "I'm not talking about kid stuff, Carl. There really is a tourist place you can go to. I saw it on one of those travel shows on the TV a few weeks ago. They actually make toys and things there that you can buy and there's a restaurant and a hotel. Just think how nice it would be to spend Christmas eve there, with all the elves and such, by a huge decorated tree!"
"Sounds like a waste of time to me. And who would want to spend Christmas eve surrounded by a bunch of midgets wearing pointy hats?"
Emma sighed. "Well, I surely would have enjoyed going there. It's like being a kid again. But it's just as well. Apparently the road that goes back into Santa's Village is a real bad one. It's supposed to be bad enough in good weather, but in the winter, they recommend that only highly experienced off-roaders with excellent equipment attempt the drive. Most folks just fly in."
A smile creased Carl's face. "Fly in, huh?" Must be a bunch of wimps up there in Alaska. Ain't much that can stop a 454 engine hooked up to 35-inch Mudder tires, now is there?"
"Now, Carl. Maybe it's not such good idea after all, What with that nasty old road smack in the dead of winter. Guess my little dream will just have to be put on the back burners of the stove of life."
Carl stuffed a fresh clump of chewing tobacco in his mouth. "Well now, Emma, maybe old Carl here can answer those girlish dreams of yours. One way or another, I can get The Whale up any road, regardless of the weather. Only thing is, let's just spend one night there and get back into civilized country in time for me to catch the Super Bowl. I got good tickets on the 40-yard line."
Emma gave a secretive smile. "Oh, Carl. You're so brave and I know you won't get us stuck like you did in West Virginia and Delaware and Florida and Pennsylvania and upstate New York and North Carolina and ..."
"Put a lid on it, Emma. I get the message."
They rolled along at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit, the mighty 454 barely working as it hauled the mass of The Whale down the ruler-straight empty Texas highway. The strains of Willie Nelson filled the interior of the plush Suburban, through sixteen speakers.
The sound of squealing tires had Emma digging her toes in the thick carpeting, and before her eyes were focused, Carl had the Suburban stopped on the shoulder and had leaped out of the drivers seat. He stood at the base of a road sign with both hands on his hips, and stared up at the sign in obvious awe.
Emma got out and joined him. "Carl, what's the matter? You look like you're in a state of shock?"
"Lookit this, Emma! It's a brand new sign with no bullet holes in it! They musta just put it up. I betcha I've driven through Texas a hunnert times and I've never seen a sign that wasn't full of bullet holes. Get your Instamatic out and take a photo of me next to this landmark."
"OK. And then what?"
"Then I get one of my guns out and put the first hole in it before somebody else beats me to it."
"Carl, when are you going to grow up? I swear!"
"Hey, I'm not the one who wants to go see Sandy Claus."
***
Carl and Emma eventually reached California, and drove North along the coast, staying as always, two miles per hour over the speed limit. The Whale handled surprisingly well, considering that it had three gas tanks, two air conditioners, a TV satellite dish on the roof, a generator, two roll-up awnings, trail bikes hanging on each end and, of course, a boat lashed to the roof.
They passed through California and once again marveled at the heavy woods of Oregon, and the staggeringly beautiful landscapes. Washington also offered its own particular brand of visual treats, even though it rained most of time and was very cold, bordering on snow.
It did snow in Canada, but lightly, and not enough to build up on the roads. The highways got lonely and traffic was sparse as they drove through the mountainous areas of British Columbia toward the Yukon Territory. Highway 97, the famed Alaskan Highway, took them north past Kluane and Burwash Landing and shortly after, they crossed the border into Alaska. Even though it was cold, there was very little snow on the ground and they stayed comfy-cozy in the spacious cab of The Whale.
Here, they picked up Highway 2 - a great road - into the heart of Alaska and then swung north on Route 6. The terrain got meaner looking and the weather colder. Emma got out the brochure for Santa's Village and gave Carl the appropriate rights and lefts, until finally, near the northern part of Alaska, they ran out of paved road and saw the sign that ominously read, "Santa's Village, 41 Miles. Unpaved Road. Travel At Your Own Risk!"
The road was nastily, rutted, slick with frozen patches of ice, and studded with tire shredding rocks. Much to Carl's credit, he piloted the huge Suburban with skill and grace, and three hours later, arrived at the entrance to Santa's Village, one very tired off-roader.
Emma popped into the office and registered for their room, picking up a fistful of brochures and a half-dozen souvenirs in the process. She was bright-eyed and smiling. "Carl, we just have time to freshen up before the seven o'clock show."
Carl raised his eyes skyward and mumbled, "Whoopee."
***
The show was as bad as Carl thought it would be. The audience consisted of about 14 white-haired old women accompanied by bored-looking husbands. Little elves danced around the dinky stage to scratchy recorded music, while a fat guy in a Santa suit ho-ho-ed like an axe murderer. A ratty-looking reindeer was dragged out on the stage and promptly did a disgusting act of nature on Santa's foot. Carl could have sworn he heard Santa say some words he hadn't heard since his Navy days.
They had a toy making demonstration that was so stupid Carl simply could not believe it, and then some more elves danced around like chickens with no brains and then the fat guy yelled ho-ho-ho some more, and mercifully, the curtain came down.
Carl and Emma had a very bad meal in the restaurant and then retired for the night. Carl was very happy that they'd be leaving the next day and fell asleep quickly.
Morning brought bright light through the windows and Carl quickly showered and dressed, then headed out to check on The Whale before the long drive back. Or at least he tried to. The door of the hotel room would not open.
Frustrated, Carl got on the hotel phone. "Hey, what's the deal? My door won't work!"
A chuckle was heard coming from the other end of the line. "Oh, nothing is wrong with your door, sir. We just had a bit of a snowfall. You might look out your window. I'll hold."
Carl looked out the window and saw nothing but white. Then he stood on the bed and looked out the six-inch gap that was not covered by snow. He could see the top of The Whale, and just the top. Snow was everywhere. Many feet of snow. Piles and piles of snow.
Carl grabbed the phone. "Hey, I've got to get out of here. The Super Bowl is right around the corner!"
"Sorry, sir, but we'll be snowed in for a few weeks. It happens up here like that, sort of sudden like. However, you won't be bored, because the elves will be having toy making workshops and you can get involved. By the way, sir ... Merry Christmas and a hearty ho-ho-ho to you!"
A thumping sound aroused Emma from a very deep slumber, and as she opened one sleep-encrusted eye, she saw Carl banging his head against the wall.
Emma pulled the blankets over her head and quietly went back to sleep.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
THE WANDERERS #4
IN SEARCH OF THE WORLD'S BIGGEST RABBIT
By Rick Sieman
When we last left them, Carl and Emma had been snowed-in at Santa's Village in Alaska long enough to cause Carl to miss the Super Bowl game, which did not improve his disposition. We join them as The Whale lumbers south, away from Alaska, at exactly two miles per hour over the posted speed limit:
***
"It's enough to make a grown man toss his cookies right on the dash, Emma. Here's two 40-yard-line tickets to the Super Bowl and I never got a chance to use 'em. Cost me two hunnert bucks each; maybe I should frame them and hang 'em on the wall."
Carl rolled the window down and blasted a stream of tobacco juice out of the window, splattering a passing station wagon across two-thirds of the windshield and depositing yet another layer of stains on the side of The Whale.
Emma sighed and paused momentarily in her crocheting. "Carl, you haven't told me just where we're heading, and I do wish you'd be more careful when you spit out that window. That poor station wagon nearly went off the road when you covered his windshield."
"I'm not sure exactly where yet. Mostly, I just want to get as far away from snow and cold weather as I can without ending up in Peru or some other communist country. Texas was pretty warm when we passed through it; maybe we ought to head down there and find some dirt roads that ain't been explored before. Yeah, that's it ... Texas! The Lode Star State."
"You mean Lone Star, dear?"
"That's what I said. Anyway, why don't you try to get a good station on the radio ... and none of that modern crap like the Beatles or the Monkees. See if you can get some polkas or Benny Goodman."
"Emma fiddled with the elaborate radio. "You know Carl, I never could figure this radio out. It's got more controls on it than an airplane and it cost us more than a small car."
"Emma, that's a serious set-up. Nothin' but the best goes in The Whale. It's got 200 amps and twice as many volts, an eternal equalizer, AM-FM-PM, police, hospital and mortician bands, woofers, honkers and tweeters, Dolby and Molby, instant replay cassettes, a spastic filter, whiffledonks, multi-tuning forks, eight speed signal hunters and a half dozen red lights that flash on and off a lot. Can't get much better than that!"
Emma finally found a control that switched stations and started scanning:
…SCAN…
" ... soy beans are up and pork bellies are down, while wheat futures are swaying in the breeze ..."
…SCAN…
" ... you're going to burn forever if you don't send in your love offering right now, to P.O. Box ..."
…SCAN…
" ... and that concludes our 27 Golden Oldies hits in a row without a commercial break. Say, do you suffer from ... "
…SCAN…
" ... pork bellies are definitely up and soy beans are down, while wheat futures are holding steady ..."
…SCAN…
" ... legislative bill number 47 is complicated, but if you take the time to study it in depth, you can see that ..."
…SCAN…
" ... very few recordings of the Bulgarian Opera Company have been released in the last twenty years, but we stumbled on a six record set that should highlight the dulcet tones of Fundwar Ksonitski and ... "
…SCAN…
" ... wheat futures, according to the experts, are soaring, while both pork bellies and soy beans are plummeting ... "
…SCAN…
" ... looks like rabbit hunting season is in full swing in Texas, with great reports from ... "
"Hold it light there, Emma! We got us a real station. Now quit clicking those needles so loud, so's I can hear what's happening!"
" ... rabbits the size of Buicks are roaming the hills and hunters are heading home with full gunny sacks of the long-eared critters. And the center of the action appears to be Bonzo, Texas, home of the annual rabbit hunting tournament. So, if you're in the area, stop in and sign up. Who knows? You could be the winner of the $25,000 first place prize for the biggest rabbit. Jot this number down and ... "
The Whale screeched to a halt on the shoulder and Carl scribbled down the number, then whipped out a road map, followed some lines with a thick fore-finger and yelped, "Buckle up, Emma! We gotta make 1500 miles in the next two days!"
***
Texas. Wide, flat, lonely highways, miles with no houses, sparse traffic, bullet-riddled road signs, dead armadillos splattered on the scorching hot pavement and gnarly looking cattle nibbling on vegetation that would gag a house fly.
The Whale rumbled down the arrow straight empty road, substantially over the speed limit, the 454 cubic inch engine barely working up a sweat in the process.
Emma took over the wheel for a while, and Carl cleaned his guns in the back seat while Emma shuddered. Every once in a while, Carl would peer out the window at an imaginary rabbit, cock his finger and make bang-bang sounds with an evil grin on his face. "Gotcha, Bugs Bunny! Kapowie, right between the ears. Rabbit burgers coming up on the grill!"
***
They arrived in Bonzo, Texas, after a grueling drive. The town consisted of a Texaco gas station, one small diner, a hardware store and perhaps 200 houses loosely scattered around the main street. Carl stopped in at the station and tanked up, noting a poster for the rabbit hunting tournament posted next to a stack of dusty Yoohoo soda cases. Sign up was at seven in the morning at the barber shop and the tournament started sharply at nine.
That night, Carl hit the sheets early, while Emma watched five different wrestling shows until midnight on the satellite TV. Yes, The Whale was well equipped, indeed.
Dawn crept in, Texas-style, slowly at first, then blinking in full tilt in a matter of minutes. A huge number of hunters were still signing up, many of them in out-of-state trucks. Carl paid the entry fee, bought the required licenses and got a sheet of rules and information.
According to the rules, the hunters could use their four-wheel-drive vehicles to go anywhere, as long as they did not shoot from the vehicles, and stayed within the county boundaries. Shooting started at nine and ended at dark. All rabbits had to be in for weighing before eight o-clock and the heaviest rabbit got the $25,000 top prize. There were also other prizes to be announced later on for runners-up.
At 8:55, Carl locked the front hubs and made sure the shotguns were lashed down firmly in carriers. At nine on the button, he turned the key and fired up the mighty 454 and dropped it into 4H. All four tires churned and spun on the hard-baked Texas clay and The Whale headed off to the hunt.
Emma frowned. "Carl, are you really going to shoot one of those cute little bunnies?"
"You can bet on it, honey pot. There's gonna be fur a'flyin'!"
"Carl, if you shoot those innocent creatures. The Good Lord will punish you. It's not right!"
Carl just grinned and bounded over the bumpy fire road. The road got rougher, but the double shocks at each wheel soaked up the bumps nicely. When Carl got out of sight of all the other vehicles, he slowed down and concentrated on scanning the landscape. A half hour later, Carl saw a tell-tale set of ears perk up and a rabbit bounded away, darting from right to left. Carl leapt out of The Whale and started firing away like Rambo. Puffs of dirt hit to the right, then the left and behind the rabbit, before it disappeared from sight.
Emma squealed, "Did you kill it? Did you hurt the poor thing?"
Carl grunted. "Nope, the miserable rodent got away. Musta been a tail wind throwing off my aim. I'll get the next one, though."
Emma just set her lips tightly and knitted furiously.
During the next eight hours, Carl ran through 15 boxes of ammo and scared the living hell out of dozens of rabbits, but not one of them suffered so much as even a scratch.
As darkness neared, Carl sighed and gave up. "I just don't understand it. Must be the gun. Never shoulda bought a BlastMaster Mark II. Sights are way off."
The Whale pitched and rolled gently as they headed back to the registration area. Carl turned on 14 of his 22 roof lights and a blazing wave of luminescence lit up the landscape.
And there in the arc of the lights, stood the biggest, ugliest rabbit Carl had ever seen, transfixed, with eyes as wide as poker chips. As Carl was reaching for his gun, there was a loud "thunk" sound from under The Whale.
Carl scrambled out and moments later, poked his face in the cab, holding on to a pair of very long ears attached to a huge rabbit.
Emma let out a small gacking sound: "Killer! How could you?"
"C'mon, Emma. The dumb thing jumped right into the winch and got knocked senseless. I never even got a shot off. No matter. Looks like I got me a $25,000 rabbit here!"
When Carl pulled up to the registration area and carried the rabbit over, a hush fell over the gathered hunters. The rabbit was a monster! Carl beamed from ear to ear, like a certified idiot.
The judge put it on the scales. "Twenty one pounds even. Biggest one so far. Funny thing, though. I don't see any bullet holes."
Carl didn't even bat an eye. "Oh, that's the way I hunt 'em. I shoot for a rock next to the rabbit and the explosion of the rock stuns 'em dead. It's cleaner that way. 'Course, you got to have a good gun to do that. I use a BlastMaster II, one of the finest pieces money can buy."
The judge nodded. "Well then. If there are no further entries, it looks like we got ourselves a winner here?
"Hold on!" A voice came from the back of the crowd. "I just got in and got me a big one here." The hunter hoisted a giant rabbit up to the judge, who promptly weighed it, and in a deep voice, intoned: "Twenty-one pounds, six and a half ounces. It's now eight o'clock and I declare this here rabbit to be the winner. Sir, step forward and claim your $25,000 first prize money."
The hunter, a barrel-chested man with two wads of tobacco in his mouth, climbed up to the podium and accepted his check, amid heavy applause.
The judge held up a hand. "And now, in second place, with a twenty-one round rabbit, this gentleman here. Sir, come up and get your prize."
Carl wheezed and clambered up to the podium. "What do I get for second?"
The judge opened up the envelope and smiled. "You get a great prize, sir. Two expense-paid weeks vacation at Santa's Village in Alaska, including room and board. Congratulations!"
Emma didn't say a word, which at this point in time, was probably a very wise move.
IN SEARCH OF THE WORLD'S BIGGEST RABBIT
By Rick Sieman
When we last left them, Carl and Emma had been snowed-in at Santa's Village in Alaska long enough to cause Carl to miss the Super Bowl game, which did not improve his disposition. We join them as The Whale lumbers south, away from Alaska, at exactly two miles per hour over the posted speed limit:
***
"It's enough to make a grown man toss his cookies right on the dash, Emma. Here's two 40-yard-line tickets to the Super Bowl and I never got a chance to use 'em. Cost me two hunnert bucks each; maybe I should frame them and hang 'em on the wall."
Carl rolled the window down and blasted a stream of tobacco juice out of the window, splattering a passing station wagon across two-thirds of the windshield and depositing yet another layer of stains on the side of The Whale.
Emma sighed and paused momentarily in her crocheting. "Carl, you haven't told me just where we're heading, and I do wish you'd be more careful when you spit out that window. That poor station wagon nearly went off the road when you covered his windshield."
"I'm not sure exactly where yet. Mostly, I just want to get as far away from snow and cold weather as I can without ending up in Peru or some other communist country. Texas was pretty warm when we passed through it; maybe we ought to head down there and find some dirt roads that ain't been explored before. Yeah, that's it ... Texas! The Lode Star State."
"You mean Lone Star, dear?"
"That's what I said. Anyway, why don't you try to get a good station on the radio ... and none of that modern crap like the Beatles or the Monkees. See if you can get some polkas or Benny Goodman."
"Emma fiddled with the elaborate radio. "You know Carl, I never could figure this radio out. It's got more controls on it than an airplane and it cost us more than a small car."
"Emma, that's a serious set-up. Nothin' but the best goes in The Whale. It's got 200 amps and twice as many volts, an eternal equalizer, AM-FM-PM, police, hospital and mortician bands, woofers, honkers and tweeters, Dolby and Molby, instant replay cassettes, a spastic filter, whiffledonks, multi-tuning forks, eight speed signal hunters and a half dozen red lights that flash on and off a lot. Can't get much better than that!"
Emma finally found a control that switched stations and started scanning:
…SCAN…
" ... soy beans are up and pork bellies are down, while wheat futures are swaying in the breeze ..."
…SCAN…
" ... you're going to burn forever if you don't send in your love offering right now, to P.O. Box ..."
…SCAN…
" ... and that concludes our 27 Golden Oldies hits in a row without a commercial break. Say, do you suffer from ... "
…SCAN…
" ... pork bellies are definitely up and soy beans are down, while wheat futures are holding steady ..."
…SCAN…
" ... legislative bill number 47 is complicated, but if you take the time to study it in depth, you can see that ..."
…SCAN…
" ... very few recordings of the Bulgarian Opera Company have been released in the last twenty years, but we stumbled on a six record set that should highlight the dulcet tones of Fundwar Ksonitski and ... "
…SCAN…
" ... wheat futures, according to the experts, are soaring, while both pork bellies and soy beans are plummeting ... "
…SCAN…
" ... looks like rabbit hunting season is in full swing in Texas, with great reports from ... "
"Hold it light there, Emma! We got us a real station. Now quit clicking those needles so loud, so's I can hear what's happening!"
" ... rabbits the size of Buicks are roaming the hills and hunters are heading home with full gunny sacks of the long-eared critters. And the center of the action appears to be Bonzo, Texas, home of the annual rabbit hunting tournament. So, if you're in the area, stop in and sign up. Who knows? You could be the winner of the $25,000 first place prize for the biggest rabbit. Jot this number down and ... "
The Whale screeched to a halt on the shoulder and Carl scribbled down the number, then whipped out a road map, followed some lines with a thick fore-finger and yelped, "Buckle up, Emma! We gotta make 1500 miles in the next two days!"
***
Texas. Wide, flat, lonely highways, miles with no houses, sparse traffic, bullet-riddled road signs, dead armadillos splattered on the scorching hot pavement and gnarly looking cattle nibbling on vegetation that would gag a house fly.
The Whale rumbled down the arrow straight empty road, substantially over the speed limit, the 454 cubic inch engine barely working up a sweat in the process.
Emma took over the wheel for a while, and Carl cleaned his guns in the back seat while Emma shuddered. Every once in a while, Carl would peer out the window at an imaginary rabbit, cock his finger and make bang-bang sounds with an evil grin on his face. "Gotcha, Bugs Bunny! Kapowie, right between the ears. Rabbit burgers coming up on the grill!"
***
They arrived in Bonzo, Texas, after a grueling drive. The town consisted of a Texaco gas station, one small diner, a hardware store and perhaps 200 houses loosely scattered around the main street. Carl stopped in at the station and tanked up, noting a poster for the rabbit hunting tournament posted next to a stack of dusty Yoohoo soda cases. Sign up was at seven in the morning at the barber shop and the tournament started sharply at nine.
That night, Carl hit the sheets early, while Emma watched five different wrestling shows until midnight on the satellite TV. Yes, The Whale was well equipped, indeed.
Dawn crept in, Texas-style, slowly at first, then blinking in full tilt in a matter of minutes. A huge number of hunters were still signing up, many of them in out-of-state trucks. Carl paid the entry fee, bought the required licenses and got a sheet of rules and information.
According to the rules, the hunters could use their four-wheel-drive vehicles to go anywhere, as long as they did not shoot from the vehicles, and stayed within the county boundaries. Shooting started at nine and ended at dark. All rabbits had to be in for weighing before eight o-clock and the heaviest rabbit got the $25,000 top prize. There were also other prizes to be announced later on for runners-up.
At 8:55, Carl locked the front hubs and made sure the shotguns were lashed down firmly in carriers. At nine on the button, he turned the key and fired up the mighty 454 and dropped it into 4H. All four tires churned and spun on the hard-baked Texas clay and The Whale headed off to the hunt.
Emma frowned. "Carl, are you really going to shoot one of those cute little bunnies?"
"You can bet on it, honey pot. There's gonna be fur a'flyin'!"
"Carl, if you shoot those innocent creatures. The Good Lord will punish you. It's not right!"
Carl just grinned and bounded over the bumpy fire road. The road got rougher, but the double shocks at each wheel soaked up the bumps nicely. When Carl got out of sight of all the other vehicles, he slowed down and concentrated on scanning the landscape. A half hour later, Carl saw a tell-tale set of ears perk up and a rabbit bounded away, darting from right to left. Carl leapt out of The Whale and started firing away like Rambo. Puffs of dirt hit to the right, then the left and behind the rabbit, before it disappeared from sight.
Emma squealed, "Did you kill it? Did you hurt the poor thing?"
Carl grunted. "Nope, the miserable rodent got away. Musta been a tail wind throwing off my aim. I'll get the next one, though."
Emma just set her lips tightly and knitted furiously.
During the next eight hours, Carl ran through 15 boxes of ammo and scared the living hell out of dozens of rabbits, but not one of them suffered so much as even a scratch.
As darkness neared, Carl sighed and gave up. "I just don't understand it. Must be the gun. Never shoulda bought a BlastMaster Mark II. Sights are way off."
The Whale pitched and rolled gently as they headed back to the registration area. Carl turned on 14 of his 22 roof lights and a blazing wave of luminescence lit up the landscape.
And there in the arc of the lights, stood the biggest, ugliest rabbit Carl had ever seen, transfixed, with eyes as wide as poker chips. As Carl was reaching for his gun, there was a loud "thunk" sound from under The Whale.
Carl scrambled out and moments later, poked his face in the cab, holding on to a pair of very long ears attached to a huge rabbit.
Emma let out a small gacking sound: "Killer! How could you?"
"C'mon, Emma. The dumb thing jumped right into the winch and got knocked senseless. I never even got a shot off. No matter. Looks like I got me a $25,000 rabbit here!"
When Carl pulled up to the registration area and carried the rabbit over, a hush fell over the gathered hunters. The rabbit was a monster! Carl beamed from ear to ear, like a certified idiot.
The judge put it on the scales. "Twenty one pounds even. Biggest one so far. Funny thing, though. I don't see any bullet holes."
Carl didn't even bat an eye. "Oh, that's the way I hunt 'em. I shoot for a rock next to the rabbit and the explosion of the rock stuns 'em dead. It's cleaner that way. 'Course, you got to have a good gun to do that. I use a BlastMaster II, one of the finest pieces money can buy."
The judge nodded. "Well then. If there are no further entries, it looks like we got ourselves a winner here?
"Hold on!" A voice came from the back of the crowd. "I just got in and got me a big one here." The hunter hoisted a giant rabbit up to the judge, who promptly weighed it, and in a deep voice, intoned: "Twenty-one pounds, six and a half ounces. It's now eight o'clock and I declare this here rabbit to be the winner. Sir, step forward and claim your $25,000 first prize money."
The hunter, a barrel-chested man with two wads of tobacco in his mouth, climbed up to the podium and accepted his check, amid heavy applause.
The judge held up a hand. "And now, in second place, with a twenty-one round rabbit, this gentleman here. Sir, come up and get your prize."
Carl wheezed and clambered up to the podium. "What do I get for second?"
The judge opened up the envelope and smiled. "You get a great prize, sir. Two expense-paid weeks vacation at Santa's Village in Alaska, including room and board. Congratulations!"
Emma didn't say a word, which at this point in time, was probably a very wise move.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
So I am narrowing in on what I'm going to do for HVAC. Of course, running down the road will be with the engine-drive HVAC system. I plan on adding a Penguin II roof top heat pump on the back of the roof along with 200 watts of solar panels (to run the refrigerator). The batteries should be enough to run the fan portion of the roof top unit and if it gets too warm, I'll simply have a 2500 watt gas generator. At some point I'll add a hydrogen cell for power... the only real question I haven't answered yet is how much engine-driven generator do I need. I've had several RVs where the engine-driven a/c didn't work but I used the generac and the roof top a/c while blowing down the highway.... I'd like to do something similar for this.... after all 2 people and 3 large dogs do create some heat so using the Penguin along with the stock a/c is would be a nice feature. Details.... the Penguin 2 runs on 115v and a 20 amp breaker. it's load full-load is 12.4 amps for the compressor and 2-6 amp for the fan(s).... that is all in AC volts (of course).... anyone want to figure out what the DC load would be?
but then again.... custom skids, someone cared about this
Those sure look like stock GM skid plates to me.
Martin
That's going to be substantial, 110ish at 14v 125ish at 12v. That's not including the loss from the converter... another maybe 20%
Not insurmountable - need to build/wire it like a high output stereo system. High output alternator.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
If the math I did this morning is correct.... it's 221 amps at 12v. or 2652 watts. Of course, that's not the stated load
Compressor load amps is 13.1 @115
Fan load amps is 2.6
Compressor locked load amps is 63
Fan motor locked amps is 8.5
minimum gen size is 3.5kw.
As with all things, they do oversize a bit (after all, they rounded up).... of course, as you know but others may not, you can only use 60% of your battery and run 100% on the invertor for very short times. I wouldn't use the a/c without a generator running, but running the fan for part or all of the night on 2, deep cycle 105 amp hour batteries will be fine. If I need ac I'll run the truck motor or carry a gas generator. I'm toying with the idea of abandoning the truck's ac and using simply a much larger generator - even perhaps running some of the stuff on 24 volts or even 48 volts since both of those voltages can also run a small welder - maybe to help others conceptualize this, think of a mobile base camp. Quads, UTVs, or Jeeps do the 'heavy-lifting'... this is the small-footprint tractor.
do feel free to check my math.... I only do math as a hobby and it in no way is something I'm a pro at.
Compressor load amps is 13.1 @115
Fan load amps is 2.6
Compressor locked load amps is 63
Fan motor locked amps is 8.5
minimum gen size is 3.5kw.
As with all things, they do oversize a bit (after all, they rounded up).... of course, as you know but others may not, you can only use 60% of your battery and run 100% on the invertor for very short times. I wouldn't use the a/c without a generator running, but running the fan for part or all of the night on 2, deep cycle 105 amp hour batteries will be fine. If I need ac I'll run the truck motor or carry a gas generator. I'm toying with the idea of abandoning the truck's ac and using simply a much larger generator - even perhaps running some of the stuff on 24 volts or even 48 volts since both of those voltages can also run a small welder - maybe to help others conceptualize this, think of a mobile base camp. Quads, UTVs, or Jeeps do the 'heavy-lifting'... this is the small-footprint tractor.
do feel free to check my math.... I only do math as a hobby and it in no way is something I'm a pro at.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
I stand by what I said because there are no flutes in the plate, this looks like something Rough Country or Rancho made... but you could be right... moving on now.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
THE WANDERERS #5
BLUNDERING THROUGH THE BUCKEYE STATE
By Rick Sieman
When we last left Carl and Emma, they were chasing rabbits in the great state of Texas. Carl came in second in the Annual Bonzo, Texas Rabbit Hunt and Chili Cook off Festival after running over a huge rabbit in his enormous Suburban.
Disgusted with his second-place prize (a two-week all expenses paid vacation to Santa's Village in Alaska), Carl just wanted to get out of Texas and leave the bitter memories behind him.
They headed east, along legendary Highway 66, on account of Emma wanting to visit her ailing Uncle Howard in Ohio. Carl hated Uncle Howard almost as much as he hated hippies, baton twirlers, modern music and communists.
The reason was simple. Uncle Howard had been dying for 12 years, but
refused to lay down for the count. Carl and Emma had made seemingly endless trips to Ohio only to have Uncle Howard get healthier, surlier and more foul-mouthed than ever. It was only Emma's insistence and the fact that they were mentioned in the will that kept Carl from ignoring the old coot.
The Whale rumbled east at exactly two miles an hour over the speed limit, with Emma knitting away in the passenger seat and Carl perched in the captains chair like an oriental potentate overseeing his subjects.
"What's all that stupid clicking noise about over there, Emma? You makin' me another one of them ugly scarves with a reindeer on it?"
"No, dear. I'm knitting this for poor Uncle Howard. It's got little snowflakes on the bottom, pine trees on the side and a happy face in the middle. I was thinking of adding a itsy-bitsy blinking light right where the nose on the happy face will be, just to make it classy looking."
Carl grunted. "Why waste all that time on Uncle Howard? He's probably going to outlive us all and dance on our graves and spend our inheritance money on floozies and booze. I can't believe that guy ... he's 90 years old, looks like he's 125 and he's outlived four wives. He drinks a quart of Jack Daniels every night, smokes 20 cigars before lunch, eats nothing but bacon fat and hot sausage and drives a World War II Jeep around town looking for accidents. That guy shoulda been dead 45 years ago."
"Now, Carl ... he is family, you know. And he used to buy Girl Scout cookies off of me when I was a little girl."
"And if I remember correctly, you told me he used to dip the cookies into a glass of whiskey and pass out after a dozen or so Thin Mints. That guy is probably from Mars or something."
Carl rolled down the window and ejected a huge brown stream of Red Man tobacco juice on the flank of a startled cow standing alongside the road.
As per usual, another mist of chew juice wafted back on the side of The Whale. Carl fiddled with the CB and said, "Emma, get the road map out and see how far we are from the Ohio state line. There's some good roads goin' in and some roads patrolled by those Fascist Hoopies."
"What's a Hoopie, Carl?"
"That's slang for Highway Patrol, Ohio-style. Those guys will pull you over if you got too much mustard on your sandwich, or if the light in your glove compartment is burned out. One of them gave me a ticket once for having a rusty trailer hitch ball. They must recruit them from axe murderers school."
"Now, Carl. They're just doing their job trying to keep the roads safe."
"Hah! Don't put your arm out of the window if you have a tattoo on it. They'd more than likely bust you for roadside advertising without a permit."
"I'm not the one with the tattoos, dear. You're the one with the anchor on
your forearm and the ship on your chest."
"And I got them honorably, too. Twenty-nine years in the Navy gives a man the right to do certain things. You didn't mention the little tattoo down by my ..."
"Carl! Don't get crude. I'd prefer to not discuss that particular tattoo. I just don't understand you men. My oh my!"
"Aw, quit carping, Emma, and see if you can't get some Willy Nelson on the
radio ... and start reading that road map. Uncle Howard is waiting."
Twenty minutes later, Emma meekly looked up from a stack of maps and squeaked, "Bad news, dear. We have every map except the one for Ohio. Maybe we ought to stop in the next station and buy one?"
"No way. We don't stop unless we need gas or have to make a pit stop. Just keep an eye out for the Ohio state line and my razor sharp memory should
take us on in from there."
Two hours later, they had indeed crossed the Ohio state line and were well and truly lost out in the farmland back roads.
"Carl, why don't we stop in a gas station and ask for directions?"
"No way! You think these local plow boys can find their way past the A & W Root Beer stand without a guide dog? Let's just call your relatives and get some reasonable directions from them."
Uncle Howard answered the phone and started right in. "Lost again, Carl? It's a wonder you can go to the bathroom without a funnel."
Carl fumed. "Look, Uncle Howard. We're in a small burg called Wet Plank, Ohio, and I just want to find the quickest way to your place. Oh sure, I could probably wander down the old Interstate, but I'm on a tight schedule."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Hmmm. There is a short way here, but it'll mean you have to do some of it on the old back roads. Dirt roads. Some of them are pretty screwed up. I wouldn't recommend it unless you're a good driver. Fella could get himself stuck out there."
Carl bristled. "Now you're talkin' my speciality, Uncle Howard. I got a 454 under the hood of my Suburban and big tires and tall gears."
"Hmmmmph. Always been a Ford man myself. Figured anybody who drove a Chevy was a weenie. They named it after a Frenchman, ya know, and they eat snails, and you know how slow snails are, and that's why Chevys are slow. Didn't you learn anything all those years you were in sixth grade?"
"Just cough up the directions, Uncle Howard. And don't worry about me handling the back roads. I got a pencil and paper handy. Fire away."
"Okay. You go east on the main road out of Wet Plank and turn down a dirt road by the first barn you see on the left side with a Mail Pouch sign painted on it. This'll take you out to a highway after about 20 miles and you'll be on the north side of Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. That's the place where your high school team lost 126 to 3 back in '54. Remember that? And you fumbled eight times in the first quarter and dropped two passes in the ... "
"Just git on with the directions, Uncle Howard!"
"Okay. Then you go past the stadium and make a right on a dirt road next to the burned-down old firehouse by the Texaco station. You go out by this big farm and ..”
Uncle Howard droned on for 20 solid minutes, while Carl scribbled furiously on napkins.
Ten minutes later, the Suburban peeled off the pavement and headed down a bumpy dirt road. A peeling Mail Pouch wall signified that this was the correct turn.
The road was rougher than Carl expected, but the huge Suburban was equipped with 12 of the best shocks that money could buy. He kept his speed down and worked the wheels around the deepest potholes skillfully.
Everything went smoothly and they exited the dirt road and found Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. Memories flooded back into Carl's mind. Since most of them were grim, he asked Emma to play the radio. "Try to get a good polka station and while you're at it, brew me up a cup of coffee."
Emma shuffled to the back of The Whale and micro-waved a cup of coffee for Carl. Oh yes, The Whale was well-equipped. Carl set it in the drink holder and stuffed some napkins around the cup to keep it from rattling.
A short time later, they turned off on yet another dirt road. Carl turned to Emma. "Put your belt on tighter. I'm tired of creeping down these back roads. Time to let the 454 stretch its legs and get the shocks warmed up!"
Carl nailed the throttle and spit dirt from the huge tires. All things considered, he drove quite well down that section of bumpy road, enjoying the way the suspension sucked up most of the bumps.
"Emma, get those napkins and check the directions. There's a four way fork in the road coming up."
Emma squeaked and covered her face with her hands. "Carl! Those napkins with the directions on them? Well, those are the ones you stuffed in the coffee cup holder."
"So what? Just get 'em out and read me the directions.
Emma reached over and extracted a soggy brown mass of dripping napkins. "Carl, you went sort of fast and the coffee sloshed out over the edges. We might have a bit of trouble reading those directions."
Carl got bright red in the face, grabbed the wad of soaked napkins and poked through it with one thick forefinger. "Jeez! It looks like something from underneath a cow. I can't make out anything. We'll just have to rely on my keen sense of direction."
Hours later, they were in deep woods and it was getting dark. Carl got on the CB and turned the knobs. "This here's The Whale. Does anybody copy?"
A few moments of static greeted him, then a clear voice broke through. "We read you, Whale. Come back."
"Oh good. We're off-roading here and looking for some directions. Can you help us?"
"Oh, one of the off-road crowd, eh? No problem. Can you give us a landscape identification?"
"Sure. We got a white old abandoned farm house on the left with a sign in front that says "Turkeys For Sale."
"No problem at all. That's the old Andersen place. Proceed east on that road until you get to a cross-road, then make a right. Go 20 miles until you see a gate and a big pile of gravel. Come on right in and park."
Carl beamed. "See how easy it is when you know how to do it, Emma?"
A long time later, because of the fog, Carl found the gate and pulled in. It was late, so they just set The Whale up and bedded down for the night.
Bright light streaming in through the window woke them up. Carl peered out of the window and was astonished to see hundreds and hundreds of trucks and 4-x4s all over the place. Banners were up and a mob of people were milling around.
Carl clambered out of The Whale, stretched, and looked around. A man came over with a clipboard and shook Carl's hand. "Welcome to Gravelrama, sir. We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."
Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hill climbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eye.
Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"
A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"
***
Will Carl really compete in Gravelrama? Will The Whale get stuck in the mud bog? Has anybody ever tried the hill climb with a boat on the roof? Stay tuned next month for the answers.
BLUNDERING THROUGH THE BUCKEYE STATE
By Rick Sieman
When we last left Carl and Emma, they were chasing rabbits in the great state of Texas. Carl came in second in the Annual Bonzo, Texas Rabbit Hunt and Chili Cook off Festival after running over a huge rabbit in his enormous Suburban.
Disgusted with his second-place prize (a two-week all expenses paid vacation to Santa's Village in Alaska), Carl just wanted to get out of Texas and leave the bitter memories behind him.
They headed east, along legendary Highway 66, on account of Emma wanting to visit her ailing Uncle Howard in Ohio. Carl hated Uncle Howard almost as much as he hated hippies, baton twirlers, modern music and communists.
The reason was simple. Uncle Howard had been dying for 12 years, but
refused to lay down for the count. Carl and Emma had made seemingly endless trips to Ohio only to have Uncle Howard get healthier, surlier and more foul-mouthed than ever. It was only Emma's insistence and the fact that they were mentioned in the will that kept Carl from ignoring the old coot.
The Whale rumbled east at exactly two miles an hour over the speed limit, with Emma knitting away in the passenger seat and Carl perched in the captains chair like an oriental potentate overseeing his subjects.
"What's all that stupid clicking noise about over there, Emma? You makin' me another one of them ugly scarves with a reindeer on it?"
"No, dear. I'm knitting this for poor Uncle Howard. It's got little snowflakes on the bottom, pine trees on the side and a happy face in the middle. I was thinking of adding a itsy-bitsy blinking light right where the nose on the happy face will be, just to make it classy looking."
Carl grunted. "Why waste all that time on Uncle Howard? He's probably going to outlive us all and dance on our graves and spend our inheritance money on floozies and booze. I can't believe that guy ... he's 90 years old, looks like he's 125 and he's outlived four wives. He drinks a quart of Jack Daniels every night, smokes 20 cigars before lunch, eats nothing but bacon fat and hot sausage and drives a World War II Jeep around town looking for accidents. That guy shoulda been dead 45 years ago."
"Now, Carl ... he is family, you know. And he used to buy Girl Scout cookies off of me when I was a little girl."
"And if I remember correctly, you told me he used to dip the cookies into a glass of whiskey and pass out after a dozen or so Thin Mints. That guy is probably from Mars or something."
Carl rolled down the window and ejected a huge brown stream of Red Man tobacco juice on the flank of a startled cow standing alongside the road.
As per usual, another mist of chew juice wafted back on the side of The Whale. Carl fiddled with the CB and said, "Emma, get the road map out and see how far we are from the Ohio state line. There's some good roads goin' in and some roads patrolled by those Fascist Hoopies."
"What's a Hoopie, Carl?"
"That's slang for Highway Patrol, Ohio-style. Those guys will pull you over if you got too much mustard on your sandwich, or if the light in your glove compartment is burned out. One of them gave me a ticket once for having a rusty trailer hitch ball. They must recruit them from axe murderers school."
"Now, Carl. They're just doing their job trying to keep the roads safe."
"Hah! Don't put your arm out of the window if you have a tattoo on it. They'd more than likely bust you for roadside advertising without a permit."
"I'm not the one with the tattoos, dear. You're the one with the anchor on
your forearm and the ship on your chest."
"And I got them honorably, too. Twenty-nine years in the Navy gives a man the right to do certain things. You didn't mention the little tattoo down by my ..."
"Carl! Don't get crude. I'd prefer to not discuss that particular tattoo. I just don't understand you men. My oh my!"
"Aw, quit carping, Emma, and see if you can't get some Willy Nelson on the
radio ... and start reading that road map. Uncle Howard is waiting."
Twenty minutes later, Emma meekly looked up from a stack of maps and squeaked, "Bad news, dear. We have every map except the one for Ohio. Maybe we ought to stop in the next station and buy one?"
"No way. We don't stop unless we need gas or have to make a pit stop. Just keep an eye out for the Ohio state line and my razor sharp memory should
take us on in from there."
Two hours later, they had indeed crossed the Ohio state line and were well and truly lost out in the farmland back roads.
"Carl, why don't we stop in a gas station and ask for directions?"
"No way! You think these local plow boys can find their way past the A & W Root Beer stand without a guide dog? Let's just call your relatives and get some reasonable directions from them."
Uncle Howard answered the phone and started right in. "Lost again, Carl? It's a wonder you can go to the bathroom without a funnel."
Carl fumed. "Look, Uncle Howard. We're in a small burg called Wet Plank, Ohio, and I just want to find the quickest way to your place. Oh sure, I could probably wander down the old Interstate, but I'm on a tight schedule."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Hmmm. There is a short way here, but it'll mean you have to do some of it on the old back roads. Dirt roads. Some of them are pretty screwed up. I wouldn't recommend it unless you're a good driver. Fella could get himself stuck out there."
Carl bristled. "Now you're talkin' my speciality, Uncle Howard. I got a 454 under the hood of my Suburban and big tires and tall gears."
"Hmmmmph. Always been a Ford man myself. Figured anybody who drove a Chevy was a weenie. They named it after a Frenchman, ya know, and they eat snails, and you know how slow snails are, and that's why Chevys are slow. Didn't you learn anything all those years you were in sixth grade?"
"Just cough up the directions, Uncle Howard. And don't worry about me handling the back roads. I got a pencil and paper handy. Fire away."
"Okay. You go east on the main road out of Wet Plank and turn down a dirt road by the first barn you see on the left side with a Mail Pouch sign painted on it. This'll take you out to a highway after about 20 miles and you'll be on the north side of Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. That's the place where your high school team lost 126 to 3 back in '54. Remember that? And you fumbled eight times in the first quarter and dropped two passes in the ... "
"Just git on with the directions, Uncle Howard!"
"Okay. Then you go past the stadium and make a right on a dirt road next to the burned-down old firehouse by the Texaco station. You go out by this big farm and ..”
Uncle Howard droned on for 20 solid minutes, while Carl scribbled furiously on napkins.
Ten minutes later, the Suburban peeled off the pavement and headed down a bumpy dirt road. A peeling Mail Pouch wall signified that this was the correct turn.
The road was rougher than Carl expected, but the huge Suburban was equipped with 12 of the best shocks that money could buy. He kept his speed down and worked the wheels around the deepest potholes skillfully.
Everything went smoothly and they exited the dirt road and found Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. Memories flooded back into Carl's mind. Since most of them were grim, he asked Emma to play the radio. "Try to get a good polka station and while you're at it, brew me up a cup of coffee."
Emma shuffled to the back of The Whale and micro-waved a cup of coffee for Carl. Oh yes, The Whale was well-equipped. Carl set it in the drink holder and stuffed some napkins around the cup to keep it from rattling.
A short time later, they turned off on yet another dirt road. Carl turned to Emma. "Put your belt on tighter. I'm tired of creeping down these back roads. Time to let the 454 stretch its legs and get the shocks warmed up!"
Carl nailed the throttle and spit dirt from the huge tires. All things considered, he drove quite well down that section of bumpy road, enjoying the way the suspension sucked up most of the bumps.
"Emma, get those napkins and check the directions. There's a four way fork in the road coming up."
Emma squeaked and covered her face with her hands. "Carl! Those napkins with the directions on them? Well, those are the ones you stuffed in the coffee cup holder."
"So what? Just get 'em out and read me the directions.
Emma reached over and extracted a soggy brown mass of dripping napkins. "Carl, you went sort of fast and the coffee sloshed out over the edges. We might have a bit of trouble reading those directions."
Carl got bright red in the face, grabbed the wad of soaked napkins and poked through it with one thick forefinger. "Jeez! It looks like something from underneath a cow. I can't make out anything. We'll just have to rely on my keen sense of direction."
Hours later, they were in deep woods and it was getting dark. Carl got on the CB and turned the knobs. "This here's The Whale. Does anybody copy?"
A few moments of static greeted him, then a clear voice broke through. "We read you, Whale. Come back."
"Oh good. We're off-roading here and looking for some directions. Can you help us?"
"Oh, one of the off-road crowd, eh? No problem. Can you give us a landscape identification?"
"Sure. We got a white old abandoned farm house on the left with a sign in front that says "Turkeys For Sale."
"No problem at all. That's the old Andersen place. Proceed east on that road until you get to a cross-road, then make a right. Go 20 miles until you see a gate and a big pile of gravel. Come on right in and park."
Carl beamed. "See how easy it is when you know how to do it, Emma?"
A long time later, because of the fog, Carl found the gate and pulled in. It was late, so they just set The Whale up and bedded down for the night.
Bright light streaming in through the window woke them up. Carl peered out of the window and was astonished to see hundreds and hundreds of trucks and 4-x4s all over the place. Banners were up and a mob of people were milling around.
Carl clambered out of The Whale, stretched, and looked around. A man came over with a clipboard and shook Carl's hand. "Welcome to Gravelrama, sir. We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."
Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hill climbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eye.
Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"
A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"
***
Will Carl really compete in Gravelrama? Will The Whale get stuck in the mud bog? Has anybody ever tried the hill climb with a boat on the roof? Stay tuned next month for the answers.
I'm in on this one!
And by the way the FJ is bad A$$!
And by the way the FJ is bad A$$!
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
My wayward spring arrived today
still pondering what voltage to run.... 12v, 24v, 48v?....
still pondering what voltage to run.... 12v, 24v, 48v?....
My wayward spring arrived today
still pondering what voltage to run.... 12v, 24v, 48v?....
How much lift is that spring!?
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
4" - I spent way too much time thinking this one, my heart said 6", reality probably 2 1/2 would have been fine. I'm part of "the lower, the better" clan of 4x4ers - my FJ40 is on 38.5s but is only 3" taller then stock and has plenty of suspension (at least 4" of up travel).
under the 'maybe someday' I'll put 37s on it, lower it on coil-overs and 3 link/4 link then run pre-runner flares.... I need this useable by Father's day - probably means no paint by then, but everything else done....
under the 'maybe someday' I'll put 37s on it, lower it on coil-overs and 3 link/4 link then run pre-runner flares.... I need this useable by Father's day - probably means no paint by then, but everything else done....
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Nice, i asked because it looked like way more than 4" in the pic.
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
that's the rear... front look pretty much standard
superbuickguy
1/2 ton status
Today I didn't get much done - went to a swap meet, bought nothing, came home and worked on sorting out the no-charging/no-headlights issue. I dunno, I'm going to swap 2 wires, the one from the starter and the one from the alternator although I've found and tested all the fusible links and they are all fine (and yes, I dropped the starter to do this). I did find that the temp sensor for the glow plugs wasn't connected - but I don't think I have power to the + side of the relay so until I resolve that (and probably the headlight issue)... no joy. Before I did the wire-clean-up, I had headlights... of course, I also had a solid risk of the entire truck burning down - which, presuming I keep my patience in check, shouldn't be a risk anymore (plus, I'm partial to tanerite)
The 4x4 swap meet in Puyallup?
