I jump into my 1961 Ford Falcon and head north from L.A. on a fine March morning. It is the weekend and I’m free as the wind with no responsibilities and nobody to tell me what to do or not to do.
I have been a resident of California for two years, and I previously attended UCLA for a year as an exchange student from the University of Michigan. But I have a lot of the Golden State yet to see.
After a while I find myself on Route 395, still heading north, toward places I’ve only heard about. It’s a good day to see some of these places. Eventually, I find myself in Lone Pine, underneath Mt. Whitney, highest peak in the contiguous 48 states. I’m a hiker and I’ve been up a bunch of mountains, but I’ve never climbed Whitney. I have a yen to drive up to Whitney Portal, gateway to Whitney, and scope it out for a future hike.
The Falcon handles the steep and winding road in second gear with no trouble. The “lone pine” of the valley is joined by many straight and tall siblings, scented sentinels guarding the heights. As I near the 8,400 foot level of Whitney Portal, I run into snow. Deep snow. And nobody else is in sight. I park the car and hike through the white stuff to the Portal. I look around, scouting my imagined future climb of Whitney (that won’t take place until many years later). But now it’s time to retreat. I return to the car and coast back down to Lone Pine.
I’m still looking for adventure. I turn onto Route 136 and drive past Owens Lake. I jog onto 190 and head into Death Valley. As I approach the top of Towne Pass, I feel the engine missing and losing power. But soon I’m going downhill, so what’s the problem?
I drive through Stovepipe Wells and the aptly named Furnace Creek. Fortunately, it is too early in the year for the extreme temperatures Death Valley is famous for. I pass the hills with their beautiful rocks, many sporting colors the rainbow forgot. The huge alluvial fans open up as they cascade down from the heights. The scenery is not of this world. And everything is big. I feel like an ant in a land of giants.
I pass Badwater, which has the lowest elevation in the U.S., at 282 feet below sea level. Then I drive out of the park through Jubilee Pass and head south on 127, cruising in a vast realm of nothingness and finally on into Baker. I-15 doesn’t exist yet, but a lesser highway carries hopeful revelers through Baker from L.A. to Las Vegas with their pockets full of money and their arms itching to pull the slot handles until they see that triple seven and heaven. Others are returning to L.A., their pockets empty, plotting to raise enough money to try again.
I refuel the car and head up the Baker grade, back toward L.A. But something isn’t right. The engine is overheating. I pull over to the side of the road and give the engine a rest. After a while I start it and head up the hill again. The needle on the temperature gauge quickly climbs toward the boiling point. I realize that I can’t make the grade. I do a U-turn and coast back down to Baker.
It is evening now. I look for an open garage. Fortunately, on the road to Vegas there is always an open garage. I spot one almost immediately. This is good luck. I hope. I pull in and tell the mechanic what is happening. He looks under the hood. It doesn’t take him very long to find the problem. He says that two of my four sparkplugs aren’t sparking. They’re as dead as General Custer.
I check my wallet. I have exactly five dollars to my name. No credit cards. No debit cards. No cell phone. And nobody to rescue me. I am on my own.
I hold my breath and ask the mechanic how much two sparkplugs cost. He says five dollars. My relief is palpable. I tell him to install the new plugs. I don’t think about what I would do if his quote were higher.
With no money and a lighter heart, I take to the road again. The engine purrs the way my girlfriend would—if I had one. I float on air all the way home.
enjoyed the read, my natal state has many wonderful folks and lovely areas, glad you had such a good experience