Reconsidering our choices

Marcel’s incontinence (leaking fuel) was a concern. I hadn’t figured out the exact cause and thought it was a one-time issue from overfilling the second tank. So we switched over to that tank to burn some off while sitting in the driveway. No leakage showed itself during the 30 minutes of running the motor. That would quickly prove to be wrong.

With family obligations taken care of until the end of October, Kerri and I had a few weeks to head off on some adventures. One item on my to-do list was a new rifle. I’d gotten rid of my previous one before ending last year’s van travels, as it ran afoul of both California and Washington state laws. To avoid Washington’s 10-day waiting period and the additional 11% “sin tax” on firearms, we were heading to Idaho to make the purchase.

On day one we only made it up Interstate 90 to the top of the pass. There I had a memory of a dirt road we’d once stayed on near Big Blue. It would be full of mushrooms this time of year, and Kerri loves her some ‘shrooms, so we exited the Interstate to find a place to spend the night. As it turned out, the place is now well known, and nearly every spot was occupied by the homeless variety. We did find a spot eventually, but the signs of vagrancy were all around us. There was more toilet paper and trash than mushrooms, so we moved on at first light.

Back on the Interstate, I looked down at the fuel gauge and noticed we were already nearing half a tank on the primary. That didn’t seem right at all, since we’d just filled up barely 30 minutes of driving earlier. I pulled over, glanced back, and gasoline was pouring out from under Marcel. Pouring! I shut down and started assessing. The main tank was returning fuel to the reserve tank, filling it, overfilling it, until it eventually overflowed. Once I switched to the secondary tank, we could drive without pouring gasoline out, which was both costly and not very safe. We continued, but I now had to monitor which tank we were using, making sure the reserve had room before switching back to the primary. Dropping the secondary tank to find the hole it was leaking from, along with replacing the fuel tank switcher doohickey, went on the list for when we got back to the house.

Kerri had a spot researched about halfway to the Idaho border: a site along the Columbia River, down what looked like an interesting dirt road. It wasn’t until we pulled off the highway that I looked at the mapping software and noticed the road was ranked much more difficult than we normally care to attempt. We started down it anyway. At first it was fine, but a few miles in it got rougher and rougher as we climbed up and down the hillsides. Eventually, seven miles in, we were traversing tight, very steep switchbacks down a hillside with large loose rocks under our tires. It was extremely slow going and bumpy, to say the least. Marcel was doing a better job of it than the two passengers. We just took it slow.

More than three hours and 17 miles later, we arrived at the spot we wanted. It wasn’t easy driving. I was mentally exhausted, and my hands hurt from gripping the wheel so tightly for so long. I was happy to get out of Marcel and set up camp. The planned area was fine and all, but not as great as we’d hoped. Sure, we had river access and the solitude we always seek, but otherwise it was a pretty basic location with nothing of real interest nearby. It was also quite hot this side of the Cascades, which didn’t help our mood.

We planned to stay the weekend, since the gun shop wasn’t opening for a few days. But for the swarm of flies that attacked once the wind calmed, things were fine the first day. We called it a night after our sunset cocktails. The second day went as it should, except that we were forced to hunker in the van due to rabid flies trying to invade Marcel. Every time either of us opened a door for any reason, a few would make it in. By midday we had dozens of flies in the van, and I got to work on that problem with our fly zapper and swatter, a new and perfectly timed gift from my sister. Fly corpses littered the floor by the time I was done. This was repeated every few hours until we climbed into bed that night.

At 3am we were woken by that unmistakable sound of a mouse nibbling on something in our cabinetry. I got up, set a few mouse traps, and knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep. It didn’t take long for the snap of a trap. The deed was done; no more mouse in the house. So we thought. Another snap, another mouse eliminated. Then, just as the sun was rising, Kerri and I both heard what sounded like a large dog scratching at something under the hood. I popped the hood and there it was, setting up a mansion on top of the battery: a huge pack rat at least six inches long. He barely reacted to me. I’m sure he was considering whether he could take me or not. Eventually he retreated back into the engine compartment. Damn, that was the worst place for him to go! I spent the next few hours trying everything I could think of to coax him out. Hood open, spraying him with vinegar, removing the doghouse to flank him. Nothing would get this beast to leave the engine compartment.

We were seriously souring on this location and decided to get out of this fly- and mouse-infested area. That’s when I discovered I’d left the ignition on, and the starter battery was now dead. Ugh! I had to pull it out and bring it close enough to the house battery to hook up cables and jump start it. It took two hours, but eventually there was enough juice to start Marcel’s engine and begin our retreat from what was quickly becoming a hell hole. During that time I also took more of the engine apart to access and remove the pack rat nests. Yes, plural.

Since I was this deep in, I decided to replace a wire I suspected was causing a voltage problem we’d been having since last year. Once I removed the previous owner’s liberal use of electrical tape, I saw the problem: multiple connectors crimped into a vital wire, one of them heavily corroded. I snipped out the bad section, and when I went to show Kerri the problem wire, it fell apart in my hands. How it had kept working this long, I have no clue. But once I fixed it, the voltage issue was resolved. At least the pack rat got me to finish that job. We got moving by midday.

There was another dirt road I’d brought up before we traveled into this area via the 17 miles of death, and Kerri had vetoed it. On our way out I forced the issue. It was only four miles long and rated much easier on the maps. After two miles (easier, but not by much) we arrived at a gate. Kerri stepped out to open it, but a padlock was in place. Our hearts collectively sank at the thought of doing the 17 miles again. When I shut off the motor to cry about it, loud squealing erupted from under the hood. The poor pack rat was still with us. He had finally decided it was too hot to stay in the engine compartment, so he hopped out of his hiding spot and directly onto the scorching hot big block Ford motor. His screams went on far too long before he flopped to the ground under Marcel. I have no love for rodents, but that was a shit way to go, cooked by our own engine.

I had a hail-mary idea of calling in a state park ranger to come unlock the gate. Kerri rolled her eyes at the notion. Long shot, sure, but I had nothing to lose. The call got me the ranger in charge, who informed us we could get the combination to the lock by submitting an online permit form. We did, and the combination came to my email immediately. Then it didn’t work! I called the ranger again, and he gave me the correct combination. All of this happened on a Sunday, which is surprising to say the least, considering this is a government employee.

Having made it through the gate, another few miles of somewhat rough road, and a second gate (same combination), we reached asphalt and both decided Idaho was no longer what we wanted. The rifle can wait. So we turned Marcel back west, back to the rainforest mountains where Kerri can get her mushroom hunting fix.