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  • I should probably just do a shop-tool thread, but since the Denali broke it, I might as well do the repair here
    my poor lift


    I really don't treat it well. This was caused by an LS/4L65e/NPwhatever and lifting the front of the truck on the "1/2 ton" setting


    but someone needs to use it to pull a short block out of their Corvette so this is good enough


    in the end, it was pie cuts that solve its issues.... but once it gets back, it gets a new boom and internal
    Doing it all wrong since 1966

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    • So do my brother!! He is crazyyy!!

      Comment


      • Pulling the motor out of the 85 and putting the next back in all from the side , I had to pull my boom out 6 inches past the last hole or roughly half the distance from the last hole to the end . Had the kid standing on the back end for ballast. Yeah , I was nervous. As far as I had to lift the engine to clear the front tire ( while all four tires had cinder blocks under them ) I was afraid the boom was going to slide all the way back in with the engine on it . Oh yeah this was with my ballast pumping the cylinder to keep the decent of the engine in check as the thing has a medium leak of pressure.
        Last edited by Dan Barlow; January 19, 2019, 07:33 PM.
        Previously HoosierL98GTA

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        • meh, it's lived to fight another day - and the terrible secret is I'll probably never fix it - but I am looking for an air-tire forklift....
          Doing it all wrong since 1966

          Comment


          • so an update... the fan would work sometimes, other times not at all. Fan sounded fine when it worked.
            this is actually a pretty common issue... the fan controller fails - in this case, you can see how it failed

            make a hole

            fill it back up... simple task

            Doing it all wrong since 1966

            Comment


            • THE WANDERERS # 71



              HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS SUBHEAD: VINTAGE IRON

              BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




              Carl was fiddling with his radio as they cruised down the empty two-lane road at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit. Radio static filled the spacious interior of The Whale as he station-surfed, looking for something decent to listen to:

              "... another 16 people have quit the administration this week, as the scandal deepened with ..."

              "... so if you've always wanted a 214-speed food processor, but were afraid you couldn't afford one, here's the answer. Yes, with the new diesel-powered Whack-O-Matic, you can slice, dice ..."

              "... for only $99 a month, you can have a new car in your driveway. There are only a limited number of these great little Yugos left in our inventory, so be sure to stop by ..."

              "... a late news flash, as another 14 people resigned from the administration in the wake of the ..."

              "... to keep fleas and ticks off your poodle, there's no better product than Le Foo Foo Shampoo, available at ..."

              "... best in talk radio. So today, we're going to dig right in and chat with Assemblyman Johnson about the proposed new sewage tax ... "

              "... for people who want to make some real money, simply turn to investments that are out of the mainstream. For example, buyers of 50s vintage autos have made huge profits. One acquaintance of mine purchased a 1957 Chevrolet for $2000, spent another $5,000 fixing it up, and sold it for $20,000. Even vintage motorcycles can be money makers.

              "The secret is finding the vintage car or motorcycle for a good price. And this means hunting for those out of the way places. Search the back roads, hit those small towns in the middle of nowhere, check out vehicles that have been stored in barns for years. The bargains are out there; you just have to get busy and look for them!

              "Now, let's turn our attention to collecting ceramic dolls. Long ignored, this market ..."

              "Emma! Wake up! Did you hear that stuff on the radio just now about making big money on old cars and bikes?" "Yes, I caught the tail end of it. But what do you know about old cars and bikes?"
              "Hey, when I was growin' up, those old things were new! I remember old Packards, Fraziers, Nashes, Henry Js, DeSotos ... all that stuff. And I used to own an old BSA back in the 50s. That don't even count the three Harleys I owned when I was first in the Navy. I may not be a whiz, but I can damn sure tell an old Triumph from a new Honda. So let's take some of these back roads, hit a few out-of-the-way small towns and see if we can find us a money-maker."
              Carl peeled off when he saw the first sign on a narrow road: STUMPVILLE - 14 MILES.

              The road got cobbier as it wandered back, then turned into a hard-packed dirt two track. Stumpville was not much to look at. There was a gas station, a few dozen homes, a hardware store and a burger stand. It was located at a cross-road, which explained how the town managed to survive.

              Carl pulled the huge Suburban into the gas station and stretched his legs while the grumpy old attendant filled up two of the three gas tanks.
              There was a bulletin board on the wall of the gas station office, and Carl studied it for possible deals. Some of the stuff looked interesting:

              1955 PACKARD CARIBBEAN, Low mileage, good shape, runs like new. See Doc Parker at the Animal Clinic. $5,000 firm.

              Hmmm. That sounded a bit pricey. He looked further.

              1952 STUDEBAKER TWO DOOR HARD TOP. Body good, no motor. Will trade for lawn mower. (123) 555-1212.

              Nope. No sense in getting a vintage machine that required a bunch of work, now matter how cheap the initial price was. What Carl really wanted was something that was mechanically sound, and just needed some paint and such.

              The attendant returned and blew his nose on a greasy red shop rag. "That'll be ninety-two bucks, mister. I thought you had some bottomless tanks there for a while."
              "Nope. She takes about 150 gallons all total. That gives me some range. Say, I'm looking for some older vehicles. It's a hobby of mine. You wouldn't know the whereabouts of any nice old Scouts, or Broncos, or maybe a clean '55 Chevy convertible. I might even consider an old bike if it's in good condition."
              The attendant scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, there's a real nice dump truck for sale down at the Murphy farm. I think it's a '58 International, and it's got good tires on it."
              "No thanks, but I'm looking for something a little more sporty than a dump truck. How about bikes?"
              "Hmmm. I understand that old Jack Anderson has a motorcycle in his barn he's been tryin' to sell for years. I can write down some directions for you, if you want. He lives way back in the hills. Is that a four wheel drive rig you got there?"
              "You bet! Four wheel drive, Detroit lockers, big tires ... the works."

              The Whale lumbered down the north-pointing road of the intersection. A few miles later, Carl turned left down a road by a large Mail Pouch sign. The road deteriorated into a bumpy two-track, flanked by a rusty barbed-wire fence on both sides. Bored looking cows chewed on clumps of grass and ignored the passing of the huge Suburban.

              Eventually, the Anderson farm came into view, and Carl parked The Whale in front of the house. A white-haired gentleman came out and introduced himself.
              Carl got right down to business. "Glad to meet ya, Mr. Anderson. I understand you got an old bike for sale. I'm lookin' for something to fix up and fool around with, just as a hobby, you understand."
              "Hmmm. Got one in the barn, but it ain't been started for a good five years. My son used to own it, but he moved to China and became a missionary, so he told me to sell it."
              Carl followed Mr. Anderson back to the barn. Shafts of sunlight streamed in the open doors, catching flecks of dust and bits of hay tumbling in the air.

              Doing it all wrong since 1966

              Comment


              • In the back of the barn was the unmistakable shape of a motorcycle under an old army blanket. Mr. Anderson pulled the blanket off and Carl was disappointed. The bike was covered with mud to the point where there were no identifying marks visible.
                About all Carl could tell was that the bike was some sort of a V-twin. It sure didn't look like much. "You say it runs?"
                "Like I said, it ran five years ago. Then one night it was left out in the rain and got all muddy when the tractor drove by it. I pushed it in the barn, drained the gas out of the tank and covered it up. It ain't been touched since then. I'll pour some fresh gas in the tank and you can try to fire it up if you want." Carl wiped the area around the gas cap while Mr. Anderson got a gas can, so no dried-up mud would fall inside. Well, at least he could see what color the bike was where he wiped it: black.

                Mr. Anderson carefully poured a gallon of fuel into the tank, then screwed the cap back on. He threw a towel over the muddy saddle, then smiled at Carl: "Have at it. At least your pants won't get dirty now."

                Carl slung a beefy leg over the bike, reached under the tank until he felt the gas petcock, and turned it down, which he assumed was ON. He searched around for a while, but couldn't find any kind of OFF-ON switch.
                There were tickle buttons on the carbs; Carl jiggled them to prime the fuel supply, then he located neutral with the shifter, brought the kick starter up to the top of its arc and kicked it through a few times with the clutch held in to free up the clutch plates.
                There was a compression release mounted on the handlebars, which Carl squeezed in. He balanced himself carefully and then gave the kick starter a strong boot.
                Amazingly, the engine popped loudly on the first kick! Carl brought the kick starter up again and gave another strong kick. The bike coughed once, then roared to life! Carl could barely believe his ears! This huge pile of dried up mud fired up on the second kick!
                Carl let the bike sit there and idle, then got off the bike, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and squatted down behind the bike.
                Emma was puzzled. "What are you doing with that handkerchief, Carl?"
                "It's an old mechanics trick, Emma. You see, I'll just hold this clean white handkerchief over the end of the exhaust pipe, and if it's burning oil, it'll show right away on the cloth. Hmmm. Seems to be OK. No soot, or oil stains on the 'kerchief."

                Carl shut the bike down and fixed Mr. Anderson with a steely gaze. "What's your best price on this here machine? Bear in mind, I don't even know what brand it is, with all the crud on it. But I'm willing to take a chance if the price is right."
                Mr. Anderson thought for a long pause. "Two hundred dollars?"
                Carl shook his head. "One hundred bucks, tops. Cash on the spot. Take it or leave it."
                Mr. Anderson sighed. "Well, guess it ain't doing much good sitting in here. You got yourself a motorcycle."

                Carl paid Mr. Anderson and quickly got the portable trailer out of the back of The Whale, hooked it up and loaded the bike. Moments later, The Whale was back-tracking carefully down the two-track road, with the bike swaying from side to side on the light-weight trailer.

                A hour later, Carl pulled into the parking lot of a motorcycle shop. He explained to Emma, "I remember passing this place on the road. What I can do is have one of the mechanics here check the bike out to see if it's worth anything. And if it ain't, what the heck? I'm only out a hunnert bucks."

                The shop owner agreed to check the bike out for ten dollars, and Carl pulled The Whale around back and unloaded the filthy old bike.

                The shop owner, a huge man named Tiny, walked around the motorcycle and studied it. "You know what you got here?
                "Yeah. I got a muddy old motorcycle that runs and doesn't burn any oil."
                Tiny looked confused. "How do you figure that?"
                "Easy. I started this sucker up on the second kick and put a handkerchief behind the exhaust to check for black smoke."
                Tiny unscrewed the oil tank an peered in. "Hmmmph. No wonder it didn't smoke. There isn't any oil in the tank. It can't smoke if there isn't any oil. You might have ruined the motor by doing that, buddy."
                Carl's eyes got big. "What!? You mean there was no oil in the tank?"
                Tiny smiled. "Yup. It's a trick some unscrupulous people use when they're trying to sell a smoker engine."
                Carl let loose with a mild string of Navy curses. "Looks like I just wasted some money."
                Tiny raised one eye. "And just how much did you spend on this here bike?"
                "A hunnert bucks."
                Tiny scratched his stomach. "Hmmm. Well, I've been looking for an old bike to mess around with. Tell you what, I'll give you a hundred dollars and take that old pile off your hands."
                Carl considered this for a second. "Make it $150 and got a deal."
                Tiny stuck out his hand. "Deal! I'll write you up a receipt."

                ***

                Twenty minutes later, Carl was driving down the highway, chuckling to himself.
                "Looks like I did just fine on that deal. Made myself a quick fifty buck profit. Say, what's that paper you're lookin' at, Emma?"
                "Oh that? It's a receipt from that nice man at the motorcycle shop."
                "Really? What's it say?"
                "It says: Received one 1952 Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle, Series C, in exchange for the sum of $150 cash."
                "What? Did you say Vincent Black Shadow?"
                "Yes. Why, is that something special?"
                Carl let out a low moan. "Emma? Get the cellular phone out and call this magazine here, and find out what that bike is worth. The magazine is Old Bike Journal, and if anybody would know, they're the ones."
                Emma dialed and talked quietly for a few minutes. "Well, that's a surprise!"
                "Give it to me straight, woman. What's it worth? Two thousand? Three thousand?"
                Emma cleared her throat. "They said a nice one would be about $25,000, or maybe even more. Carl? Carl? Would you please stop beating your head on the steering wheel."


                Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                • THE WANDERERS # 72



                  HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

                  SUBHEAD: CARL AND EMMA MEET FOREST GUMP? BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN



                  We join them now as they're driving The Whale at night, with six lights cutting an arc through the moonless dark. Carl sucked down the last dregs of a warm Vernors ginger ale, took a healthy bite out of a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco, stifled a belch with the back of his hand and reached for the multitude of controls and switches on the dash. "You think we got enough lights on, Emma?"
                  Emma looked up from reading her copy of True Romance Quarterly. "Well, it's a dark night. How many lights do you have on now.?"
                  "Hardly anything at all. I got two Hella 100 watt pencil beams, two 100 watt Don-A-Vee fog lights and two 135 watt PIAA mid-range driving lights. Maybe I ought to put a few more on. Tell me when you think there's enough light, will ya?"
                  Carl reached over to the dash and flipped a toggle switch. "OK. That's two more Explorer long range pencil beams."
                  Carl's stubby finger moved another switch to ON. A near-blinding burst of light shot through the inky-black night. "Wow! Those six KC driving lights sure added some power."
                  Emma rubbed her eyes. "Six? How many lights do we have all total? And why do we have so many different brands of lights?"
                  "Oh, we have 24 lights all total. And the reason I got all these different kinds is that I got deals on some of 'em and some of 'em I just like real well."
                  "But why so many?"
                  "Well, I got a set of lights for most any situation. If I'm goin' slow off road, I have eight lights that illuminate close up and wide. If I'm drivin' on a deserted highway at night, I flip on eight long range pencil beams and eight mid-range driving lights. And every once in a while, I just flip 'em all on and it's like daylight. Here, lemmee show you."
                  Carl reached over and clicked a whole bank of switches. The entire road and the sides of the road ahead lit up like a football stadium! Dozens of light-crazed bugs made a bee-line for the light show and immediately splattered their tiny brains out against the windshield of The Whale.
                  A thick layer of dead bug-juice quickly covered the windshield. Carl flicked on the wipers and the bug juice immediately turned into a tapioca-like substance. In a mild state of panic, Carl hit the windshield washers and cleared a visual path.
                  "Dang, Emma! There's no way you can appreciate these here lights out on a regular road with kamakazi bugs out there in herds. Let's pull off the next dirt road and wander around a bit. Then you'll really see how good these things work. It's been a long time since I did any night time off-roading, anyway, and I never had a chance to try those eight new lights up on top."

                  A few miles later, Carl saw a likely turn-off and took it. It was a nice little two-track dirt road with a fence on one side and a small stream on the other.
                  Carl got out and thoroughly cleaned the windshield with a squirt bottle, before the bug juice on the edge of the windshield dried like 3M weatherstripping cement.
                  Back in the cab, Carl flicked all the lights on and smiled broadly. "Hey, take a look now, Emma. All 24 lights are on and you can see for a mile straight ahead and a hundred yards off to each side of The Whale."

                  Sure enough, a veritable blaze of intense white light shot out from The Whale and turned the landscape into something that looked like a white sandy beach at high noon on the equator.

                  Carl drove cautiously at first, then picked up the pace. "Lookee here, Emma. I can go as fast as I want to because I can see even clearer at night with these lights than I can in normal daylight. Ya see, all of the bumps and rocks and sharp edges are clearly outlined."
                  The speedo read 35, then 40. It inched up to 45, then 50. Emma squirmed nervously on here seat. "Carl? Are you sure you want to go this fast on a back country dirt road at night? There's no telling what might pop on the road."
                  Carl laughed. "What are you expecting, somebody out here doing some landscaping at nine o'clock at night?"
                  Just as he said that, a small motorized lawn mower rolled out under the fence and flipped over upside-down and landed in the right hand track of the dirt road.
                  Carl never had a chance to even touch the brakes, as the mower landed ten feet in front of The Whale. There was a loud clanging sound, followed by a hiss then the unmistakable flap-flap-flap sound of a tire gone flat.

                  "Ohhh, jeeez! What kind of a crazy nut-case would lose control of a lawn mower this time of night?" Carl's question was answered when he looked over at the sign on the fence. It read: "ILLINOIS STATE HOME FOR THE BEWILDERED".
                  "Great. Just great! I get a flat tire right next to a nut farm!"
                  Carl got out started changing the wasted tire. The Hi-Lift jack got the front end up in the air after Carl loosened the lug nuts. He turned the hubcap over and used it like a bowl to hold the lug nuts as he removed them.
                  Carl pulled on the tire and it didn't want to come off. So he tugged a little harder.
                  "Emma? Get out here with a flashlight, will ya?"
                  "Why would you need another light, dear? You already have 24 of them on."
                  "Just bring the light, woman. I want to get this wheel off before the mosquitoes eat me alive."
                  Emma brought big six-cell cop flashlight out and aimed it at the wheel, while Carl squatted down and tugged and pulled like a madman.
                  Suddenly, without warning, the wheel slid off the studs and Carl fell backwards, holding the big 35 inch tire in a near death grip. His butt hit the edge of the hubcap and the lug nuts shot up into the air and landed in the nearby stream with a plink-plink sound.
                  A string of very caustic Navy curses filled the otherwise still night air.
                  "What's wrong, dear?"
                  "Uhh, nothing much. I just flipped all of my lug nuts into that stream over there."
                  A strange voice came from over the fence. "Yep. Heard 'em hit. And that stream is four, maybe five foot deep."
                  Emma spun around and shined her light on a man who was leaning on the fence.
                  "You didn't happen to see a lawn mower come by here, did you?"
                  Carl shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I did. That's why I'm changing a tire right now. Some nut case must have been mowing the grass at night."
                  The man gave a dopey looking smile. "Yup. That was me. They let me cut the grass at night. They say it's good therapy."
                  Carl looked at the sign and then at the man on the fence and put two and three together. "So you're an inmate here, buddy?"
                  "Well, yup. But they call us guests. Are you having a problem, mister?"
                  "A real problem! I just knocked all of the lug nuts from my right front wheel into the stream, so how in the pluperfect hell am I gonna put my spare on and get down the road? You need nuts to hold a wheel on, and even crazy people know that."
                  The man scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. "Hey mister, why don't you take one lug nut off of each wheel and use it on the right front. That way you still got four lug nuts holding each wheel on, and this give you four to hold the front wheel on. That should be enough to hold you until you get to a gas station."
                  Carl's jaw hung slack. "Why ... uhh ... yes, that would work. Say, buddy. I don't understand why you're in here. That's a pretty smart trick."
                  The man continued smiling. "Ohh, I might be crazy, but I ain't stupid.

                  Doing it all wrong since 1966

                  Comment


                  • THE WANDERERS # 73



                    HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

                    SUBHEAD: SNAKE EYES!

                    BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




                    The Whale headed into the slanting rays of the setting sun. That could mean only one thing: they were headed west. Emma flipped the visor down to get the glare out of her eyes. "I guess I forgot to ask, but just out of curiosity, where are we heading?"
                    "Texas, Emma. We're headed for the Glow Star State."
                    "You mean the Lone Star state."
                    "That's what I said, woman. You got wax in your ears, or what?"
                    "So what are we going to do in Texas? Nothing weird or stupid, I hope."
                    "Emma, why do you always assume the worst? Isn't it possible that we're simply going to a nice camping and fishing area? Or maybe to just drive around Texas and try to find a road-side sign with no bullet holes in it? Heck, we might even be goin' to a rodeo."
                    Emma thought real hard for a few minutes. "No, I don't think we're going camping, fishing, or even to a rodeo. I've been married to you way too long to trust that innocent pitch. Now, why don't you just up and tell me what kind of bizarre thing, or place, we're going to. Then I'll have time to adjust to it before we get there. So, spit it out."
                    Carl sighed deeply, then mumbled in a low tone: "We're going to a rattlesnake roundup. It's no big deal."
                    "I'm sorry, but I couldn't quite make out what you were saying. Would you repeat it?"
                    "Uhhh, it's a kind of a reptile festival."
                    "Reptile! What kind of reptile?"
                    "Well, it's sort of like a snake, ya see."
                    "Snake?! What kind of snake?"
                    "Uhhh... well ... it's ... that's is ... ummmm ... just your basic ordinary rattlesnake."
                    "Rattlesnake!!! Are you out of what little mind you have left? And who in the world is having a festival for those awful snakes?
                    "It's not actually a festival. Ya see, it's more like a rattlesnake roundup."
                    Emma shuddered visibly and her eyes got real big. "Roundup? Carl, you better explain this to me right this very minute!"
                    Carl cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Okee-dokee, here's the deal. There's this little town in Texas called Dog Breath, and they hold an annual rattlesnake roundup. It's a real big deal and thousands of people show up to see who can get the biggest snake. The winner gets a giant trophy and ten thousand bucks in cash. I hear it's gonna be covered by ESPN this year, too. It sure sounds like a lot of fun."
                    Emma folded her arms. "Hmmph. It doesn't sound like much fun to me, but I suppose it is something different. Just don't ask me to get anywhere near those ugly snakes."

                    They drove in silence for a few minutes as the sun set all the way, then Emma popped up straight in her seat, eyes big again. "Carl, tell me you didn't enter that snake roundup? Please tell me you're not that stupid?"

                    ***

                    About 850 miles later, Carl pulled into the town of Dog Breath, Texas, and followed the signs to the Rattlesnake Roundup. Once there, he easily found the sign-up area and got in line with dozens of other people who were all entering the Roundup contest.
                    Emma stayed in The Whale, fuming, while Carl paid the $100 entry fee. After signing up, he was given a long stick with a "Y" fork on the end and a burlap sack with a string on the top. He also got a map and a sheet of instructions.
                    Carl walked back to The Whale with a big grin on his face. "Emma? We are gonna win us $10,000 with any luck at all. Now don't get all upset, because this ain't as dangerous as it seems. Ya see, you get this long stick here and you pin the snake behind the head, then you grab it and stick it in the sack. What could be easier?"
                    "I'll tell you what could be easier. Damned near anything else in the world, that's what! We could be somewhere by a nice stream, camping or fishing. We could be in a beautiful campground in a National forest. We could be in the middle of Death Valley in August at high noon, and that would be easier to handle than being surrounded by snake fans and sacks full of snakes. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
                    "Sure. You bet. Now, do you want to hunt in the north section, or maybe the south. There's more snakes in the south, but the bigger ones are in the north. I figger we head to the north section they show on this here map, because the grand prize is awarded to the contestant with the biggest snake. So which way do you want to go?"
                    "I want to go to the closest mental institution around here and get you committed.
                    "Aw, quit bein' such a spoil sport, Emma. Let's go out and have some fun."
                    "What do you mean by "us", Carl?"
                    "Well, most everybody is goin' out in the field in some kind of truck. Since the only 4x4 we got here is The Whale, I guess that means you either go out with me, or wait here, where they're gonna be bringin' the snakes in."

                    ***

                    The Whale lumbered over the flat high desert floor, sticking to the well-worn trails. When they got to an area with some heavy brush and large boulders, Carl stopped the Suburban, got out, and stretched. "This looks like a good place to start. And there's even some rabbit crap on the ground, which is a dead indication of rabbits. Now hand me my stick and that burlap sack, and you just take it easy while I find a trophy rattler. Last years' winner was about six feet long, so it'll take a bit more than that to win the big bucks."
                    Emma handed Carl the stuff and then rolled the window half-way up. "You go and have your fun; just don't expect me to move one inch from this spot!"

                    Carl started walking slowly around the heavy brush, poking gently with his forked stick. After a few minutes, he heard a tell-tale rattle and spotted a rattler all coiled up at the base of a manzanilla bush.
                    He caught it easily with a jab of the forked stick, and noted with satisfaction that it was a four-footer. So he grabbed it behind the neck, slipped it into the sack, and continued with the hunt.

                    After two solid hours of searching, Carl had caught and released another dozen snakes ... all of them on the small side.
                    Just as he was starting to get discouraged, he saw an enormous rattler laying in the shade behind a huge rock.
                    The thing was huge! Carl guessed that it was at least twice as big as the one already in the sack!!! He quickly pinned it with the forked stick, being surprised as to how slowly the big snake moved. It was as least six inches thick across the middle, and Carl figured it was a good eight feet long! A winner, for sure!
                    He tossed the four foot snake out of the sack to make room for the big boy, then carefully slipped the trophy rattler into the burlap bag, and tied the string on the top. He was amazed as to the strength of the snake as he handled it!
                    The sack was far too heavy to carry back to The Whale, so he left it in the shade and walked back to the Suburban, and drove it to the spot. When Carl put the writhing bag in The Whale, Emma bolted out like she was sitting on a running weed-whacker. "Hold it right there, buster! You're not actually going to put that huge snake inside The Whale!"
                    Carl grunted as he hefted the bag. "Got no choice, Emma. Can't really leave it out in the sun; the heat might kill the snake. Heck, don't worry, Emma. It's in the sack and I tied it good and tight with a real Navy knot."

                    Apparently, this logic didn't sit well with Emma, as she clambered up on the roof of The Whale, with a lawn chair in hand and a pistol in the other. "If you want me, I'll be on the roof. And if that snake wants me, I'm going to shoot it as many times as I have bullets in this gun. Now please do not bother me until you're ready to leave."

                    Carl spent another two hours, but couldn't find another snake even close to the size of that big boy he had tucked inside The Whale. By then, it was four o'clock and he had to be back at the judging center by six o'clock.
                    "OK, Emma. You can come down now. I'm gonna head back in."
                    "No way. I'm not moving off this roof until you get that snake out of the Suburban."
                    "But where am I going to put it for the drive back?"
                    "Put it on the roof, for all I care. Just make sure that slimy thing isn't in there with me!"
                    Carl opened up The Whale and reached for the sack, then did a double-take that nearly had him swallow his chew of Red Man tobacco. The sack was flat - and that could only mean one thing: the snake was no longer in the sack!

                    Carl got out and yelled up to Emma. "Hey, stay up there. The snake got out of the bag somehow. I'll see if I can find it."
                    A soda bottle bonked Carl in the head, and Emma let out with a string of obscenities that startled Carl. Some of those words he had never heard while he was in the Navy!

                    Carl poked around in the Suburban for a good half hour, but was unable to figure out where the snake had gone. Cautiously, he lifted all the cushions, moved the bedding around, shined a light under the stove and the storage shelves, and even shook out all the clothing.

                    Then he heard the unmistakable rattling sound coming from the front of the Suburban. Carl peeked under the two Captain's chairs and saw nothing, then heard the rattling again, this time further forward.
                    That meant the snake could be only one place: under the dash! Carl carefully aimed his flashlight under the dash, and sure enough, wrapped around all the wiring and the ducting, was the snake!

                    Doing it all wrong since 1966

                    Comment


                    • Carl got out and yelled up to Emma. "Hey, stay up there. The snake got out of the bag somehow. I'll see if I can find it."

                      A soda bottle bonked Carl in the head, and Emma let out with a string of obscenities that startled Carl. Some of those words he had never heard while he was in the Navy!



                      Carl poked around in the Suburban for a good half hour, but was unable to figure out where the snake had gone. Cautiously, he lifted all the cushions, moved the bedding around, shined a light under the stove and the storage shelves, and even shook out all the clothing.



                      Then he heard the unmistakable rattling sound coming from the front of the Suburban. Carl peeked under the two Captain's chairs and saw nothing, then heard the rattling again, this time further forward.

                      That meant the snake could be only one place: under the dash! Carl carefully aimed his flashlight under the dash, and sure enough, wrapped around all the wiring and the ducting, was the snake!



                      Carl clambered up on top of The Whale, folding lawn chair in hand, and sat down next to Emma. "Looks like we got a little problem, honey pot."

                      "Oh? Now how could that be, Great White Snake Hunter? Weren't you supposed to get the biggest snake and win the grand prize?"

                      "Well, hells-fire, I got the biggest rattler around, for sure. Or maybe its got me. I'm not sure who has who trapped. One thing for sure, I ain't about to get behind the wheel and drive back in, knowing that big sucker could drop down at any second. And the worst part is that I only got two hours to get back in before the time limit."

                      "So how are you going to get the snake out, genius?"

                      "I did the best I could. I left the doors open and put one of your stuffed rabbit toys out on the ground. Maybe the snake will think its real and go after it. Meanwhile, we'll have to wait and hope it leaves The Whale before we run out of time."




                      ***




                      The crickets chirped and the 3/4 moon shined brightly, as Carl and Emma sat on top of The Whale in their lawn chairs, snoring lightly. Then, very quietly, the huge snake slithered out of the Suburban and headed back toward its stomping grounds. As it passed the stuffed rabbit, it surely emitted what must have been the equivalent of a snake chuckle.
                      Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                      • THE WANDERERS #74




                        Carl drove as relaxed as any human being could. The comfy captain's chair was pushed well back, and he had his right arm poised on the arm rest. His left arm was laying on the door rest with a can of Texas Light non-alcoholic beer stuffed in his hand. A Burger King Double Whopper was held expertly in his right hand.
                        His legs were stretched out in front of him and his shoes were off. The Whale was on cruise control at exactly 57 miles per hour, two miles over the speed limit. There was almost no traffic on the smooth two-lane road. The radio was dialed in to a great country music station; the sounds of Willy Nelson twanged through the interior.
                        Carl stifled a belch, then leaned over to the right: "Emma? Splash me a little bit of that hot sauce on this here burger, will ya? Burger King makes a pretty good burger, but there's no punch to it."
                        Emma reached for the bottle of Louisiana Cajun Toxic Panther Hot Sauce, which was sitting in one of the cup holders on the console. She sprinkled a few drops on the half-eaten burger.
                        "Howsa 'bout a bit more. That's hardly enough to bring tears to my eyes."
                        Emma splashed on a generous dollop of the fierce red sauce and winced when she saw a drop fall on the top of the console. The vinyl surface curdled like paint remover had been spilled on it.
                        Carl took a massive bite out of the burger and chewed away. Tears came to his eyes. "Vammmmf, dutt zath prattt ztufff ..."
                        Emma interrupted. "Carl, you know I can't understand you when you talk with your mouth full. That's a disgusting habit."
                        Carl gulped the wad of burger down and his throat swelled like a boa swallowing a bowling ball. "Right. I was saying that this here is some pretty good stuff. I wish we had bought the gallon jug instead of this teeny-weeny one quart bottle. The way I figure it, is if it don't make you break out in a sweat and make your eyes water, it's hardly worth it."
                        Emma shook her head and got a napkin to clean up the console top. A small section of the vinyl came off the surface and when a tiny bit of the hot sauce got on her fingernail polish, it bubbled up and cracked. No way was she ever going to try that hot sauce!
                        Carl swilled down the last of the Texas Light and crushed the can easily between his thumb and stubby forefinger. "Boy, it don't get any better 'n this. Cruisin' along in no hurry, with no schedules to keep, go anywhere we feel like. What could go wrong on a beautiful day like this?"

                        As if answering Carl's rhetorical question, The Whale sputtered, coughed, hesitated and stalled. A bank of red lights glared accusingly on the dash board.
                        "What the plu-perfect hell could that be?"
                        Carl eased the huge Suburban over to the shoulder, put the trans in neutral and hit the starter again. The big 454 engine fired right up and all the red lights went away.
                        "Hmmmph. Musta been a computer glitch. You know these new motors have got all kinds of fancy stuff under the hood."
                        He put The Whale back into gear and rolled smoothly off again. Ten minutes later, the Suburban hesitated once again - and stalled. Carl let out a string of vile navy curses and pulled off on a wide part of the road shoulder.
                        He got out, popped the hood, and started peeking around for possible sources of the problem. Emma joined him. "Maybe it's just something simple."
                        Carl gave her a disgusted look. "Woman, you don't know squat about motors and such. Why, just take a look at the complexity we're dealing with here! We got oxygen sensors, computer chips running the whole show, vacuum tubes running everywhere, double-pumper carb, smog equipment on everything but the glove compartment and God knows what else. I sure wish trucks were simpler like in the old days. Back then, all we had to deal with was a set of points, a coil, plug wires and plugs."
                        "Well, what are we going to do?"
                        "I'll just do some basic trouble shooting. First I'll yank the fuel line off and see if we got gas. You spin the motor over and I'll check for fuel flow."
                        Emma turned the key and the starter growled. Emma leaned out the driver's side window. "Do we have gas, dear?"
                        Carl walked over to the window, with streams of gas dripping off his Caterpillar baseball cap. "Yeah, I think so. Meanwhile, hand me that jug of drinking water and gimme a towel before I go up in flames."

                        A half hour later, Carl had done all the usual checks: spark, fuel, clogged filters, split vacuum lines, loose connections ... the works.
                        "It appears we got us some deep-rooted problems. Get that map off the dash and see how far we are from the nearest town."
                        Emma ran her finger over the map and smiled. "Good news. There's a decent sized town maybe 15 miles down the road. "
                        Carl wiped his hands clean on a red shop rag. "OK. Let's try to get there. If this thing keeps acting up, it might take a while."
                        Carl was right. It took nearly two hours to cover the 15 miles. The Whale would fire up, run for a minute or two, then stall once again. In between bouts of nasty cursing, Carl managed to limp into town.

                        Emma pointed out a small gas station on the right side of the road. The sign said POPS SERVICE STATION, MECHANIC ON DUTY.
                        Carl eased The Whale into the station as the engine stalled once again. A very old man in overalls ambled out. "Got trouble, sonny?"
                        "Yeah. You got any diagnostic equipment here? You know, scopes and such?"
                        The old man scratched his chin. "Nope. Don't need none. A motor is a motor. You just find out what's wrong and fix it. Don't need none of that fancy crap to get things right."
                        Carl smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, old timer, but I'm afraid I'll need a real station with some real equipment. This here's a modern powerplant with computer stuff on it. Do you know where there's a station with some scopes?"
                        The old mechanic frowned. "Well, there's another station about three blocks down the road on the same side. Good luck, sonny."

                        Carl fired The Whale up again and grimaced when it stalled five more times in the three blocks. Things were getting worse. He pulled into the modern station with a sigh of relief. Two uniformed people came out.
                        "Yes sir. Can we help you?"
                        "You betcha. Got me a stalling Suburban here and I'll need some serious diagnosis."
                        "Just pull it right inside the bay here, sir. We've got every piece of diagnostic equipment known to man and we can fix you right up."

                        Five minutes later, The Whale was in the bay with a half-dozen different leads fixed to various parts of the engine. One mechanic flicked dials while the other one took readings. They took a lot of notes and punched all kinds of buttons. The computer screen emitted all kinds of lines, squiggles and blips.

                        After a half hour, they rolled the first piece of equipment away and brought another one forward. It was an impressive device, about the size of a phone booth, with a full computer keyboard, a huge screen and all sorts of tubes, cables, wires and probes.
                        The two mechanics fitted things to a dozen different points and started and restarted the motor 20 times. They frowned, got in a huddle and talked, then went out and came back with a third mechanic. He took charge of the situation and ran his own series of tests. An hour later, the three mechanics left the bay and went out to their office and whipped out a stack of thick manuals.

                        After poring over the books for 20 minutes, they came back and did some more testing. Carl just stood back and watched the trio of experts at work. These guys were impressive!

                        After another hour, they weren't quite as impressive. Clearly, the three ace mechanics were stumped.
                        "Uhh, sir, quite frankly we don't know what the problem is. But we'll keep trying."
                        Carl looked up at the sign on the wall that said LABOR RATES - $65 PER HOUR, and did some mental calculations. Hellsfire, he had already spent close to two hundred bucks and was no closer to solving the problem.

                        Right then, an ancient Dodge pickup pulled into the parking area with POPS SERVICE STATION crudely lettered on the side. Pop got out and limped over to the three mechanics. "You guys got a spare PH8A oil filter you could sell me? I got an oil change on the rack and I'm out."




                        Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                        • One of the mechanics nodded. "Sure thing, Pops. I'll just put it on your account." He tossed a bright orange Fram filter to the old mechanic.
                          "Thanks. Say, you boys got a problem here?"
                          "Yeah. This one's got us stumped. We've run every check we can, and the engine keeps stalling."
                          Pops scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Mind if I give 'er a look?"
                          The three mechanics smiled at each other. "Sure. Give it a go, Pops. What do you need? The Allen or the Sun Scope?"
                          "Neither. Just hand me a small straight-slot screwdriver and a clean paper cup."
                          The three mechanics and Carl all looked at each other.
                          Pops unscrewed the hose clamp holding the gas filter on the fuel line, and let the gas drain into the paper cup. He then took the gas outside, found a clean, dry section of cement, squatted down and slowly poured the gas on the cement.
                          Carl squatted down next to the old mechanic. ""Say, just exactly what are you doing there, Pops?"
                          "Well, I'm doing on old-time test to check for water in the gas."
                          Carl looked puzzled. "Just how are you gonna find out if there's water in the gas by dumping it on the ground?"
                          "Not on the ground. If you look close, you'll see that I poured it on some cement."
                          "So?"
                          "So when you pour gas on cement, the gas will absorb into the cement. If there's any water in the gas, it'll stay on top of the cement. I learned that trick about 60 years ago. Get real close and take a look."
                          Carl scrunched down and peered closely. Yep, sure enough. The gas was gone and there were very small puddles of water laying on top of the cement.
                          "Well, I'll be double-damned!" said Carl.
                          Pops slowly got back up and wiped his hands on his pant legs. "Now, chances are there's some water in your float bowl. All it takes is a little bubble of water to temporarily clog a jet. Drain your float bowl and you should be OK. And while you're at it, stick a fresh fuel filter on. Well, I gotta go now."
                          Carl held up his forefinger. "Wait a minute, Pops. What do I owe you for the trouble-shooting?"
                          "Oh, two bucks ought to cover my time."
                          Carl gave Pops a twenty and thanked him profusely, then went inside with a smile on his face from ear to ear.

                          The smile vanished when he got a bill from the three mechanics for $249.95 for services rendered.
                          Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                          • THE WANDERERS #75



                            HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

                            SUBHEAD: DANGEROUS MAPS AND TALL TALES

                            BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




                            We join them now as they're driving down a narrow, humped-in-the-middle dirt road, with The Whale pitching, bobbing and weaving heavily in the rain-ruts and rocks.
                            Carl hung on to the wheel with both hands and sawed away, trying to keep the wheels from dropping into the worst bumps and ruts. The Whale was still in 2WD, since the road was level, if nothing else.
                            Carl leaned over to the right. "Emma? If the map was right, we should be crossin' a paved road at mile nine-point-two. You wanna check that out?"
                            Emma pursed her lips and ran her finger over the map. "Hmmm. Well, the odometer says 13.4 miles, and we've been driving for an hour since we left the pavement and we haven't crossed any paved roads, so I guess we're not on the road we think we are."
                            Carl shrugged and spit a huge brown gob out of the driver's side window and splattered it against a tree trunk. "Well, then, Emma, would you mind pointing your finger on the road we are on?"
                            Emma thought for a minute. "Actually, I'm not real sure. You see, this is that topo map thing you gave me to use, and I've never read one of these before. I sort of, kind of, pretty much, don't know what all these different colors mean. A regular map just has black lines for normal roads and thick red lines for big highways. This one has different shades of browns, greens and yellows. It's very confusing."
                            "Not to worry. Ya see, those different colors show the different altitudes. When you look at the topo map, you can see if you're at sea level, or above 4000 feet. Now isn't that cool?"
                            Emma wrinkled her nose. "Well, I'm sure that's very nice, but that doesn't tell us where we're at, does it?"
                            Carl stopped The Whale and stepped on the parking brake. "What we got to do is get us located. So, in order to find where we are, the first thing we need to do is find north. Let's see ... hmmm ... the sun sets in the east so that would make north this way ..."
                            Emma's eyes opened wide. "What did you say? Why, everyone knows that the sun sets in the west! Don't you remember all those Gene Autry movies we used to watch when we were dating? The sun always set in the west then, and I have no reason to assume things have changed."
                            "Hells-fire, woman! I said west. You got wax build-up in your ears, or what? Now, the sun is over there, so that would make it west, and ..."
                            "Carl, I hate to interrupt you, but it's only 10:15 in the morning, so the sun is in the east now.
                            "Jeez! Make up your mind, woman! First you say west, now you change your mind to east. No wonder Sampson cut Cleopatra's hair off back in the bible days. She got him all confused."
                            Emma just shook her head from side to side. "Carl, just do me one favor. If Billy Graham retires, don't apply to take over his job. OK?"
                            "What does all that have to do with figurin' out where north is? I think all those TV soap operas have damaged your brain cells. We got to get down to basics and find out where north is."
                            Emma folded her arms and grinned widely. "Why don't you just get the compass out and look at it? It's sitting right there in the glove compartment right next to your pouches of chewing tobacco."
                            Carl looked more than a bit sheepish. "Uhh, well, yeah ... that was my next step. But sometimes I like to fall back on my Navy training and see if I can figure out things the old-fashioned way."

                            Carl got the compass out and set it on the hood of The Whale. He pointed a stubby fore-finger and proclaimed, "Aha! There it is: north!"
                            Emma sighed. "OK, Marco Polo. Now that you know where north is, would you mind figuring out where we are?"
                            Carl beamed. "Hah! All you got to do is lay the compass on the map and line things up. Now pay attention."

                            He unfolded the topo map, laid it flat on the ground, then placed the compass on the map. It was necessary to twist the map around to line up the "North" arrow with the compass. Carl got down on all fours and pointed: "There you go! North!"
                            Emma frowned. "OK. Now you know where north is. Do you know where we are?"
                            Carl scrunched up his lips. "Well, not exactly. But if I just place the regular map on top of the topo map, then I'll have a better idea. I think."
                            Carl shuffled the maps around and lined everything up just so, then proclaimed: "I think I got it! We are directly south of a 5,000 feet mountain. Emma? Do you see a 5,000 foot mountain off where I'm pointing?"
                            "Nope. I see a bunch of trees, some rocks, and a dirt road full of rain ruts that disappears under the trees. If there was a 25,000 foot mountain a mile ahead, I couldn't see it for the trees, let alone a 5,000 foot mountain. So what are you gonna do now, O Great Explorer?"
                            "Well, I could climb a tree, then if there is a 5,000 foot mountain up ahead, I'll be able to see it."
                            "Wouldn't it be easier - and a whole lot safer - if we just drove onward until we saw some kind of sign? This dirt road is just way too wide to not be headed somewhere."
                            "Emma, at the risk of insulting you, which I would never do, you don't know your elbow from your butt about finding your way off-road."
                            Emma folded her arms and pursed her lips; there was a certain disturbed attitude about her. She fixed Carl with a cold stare: "You go right ahead and climb your tree, buster. Just don't come crying to me if you fall out of the tree and kill yourself."
                            Carl realized that he might have gone just a touch too far and tried to smooth things out: "C'mere and give me a big hug before I scale that tree, honey pot. After all, how many men my age can climb a big tree like that one?"
                            "How many are stupid enough, you mean."
                            Carl ignored that barb and headed for the back of The Whale. "Ya see, the key to climbin' a tree nice and easy, is to use a good pair of gloves. The ones I got here are some old motocross gloves. Well, wish me luck, Emma. I'm headed up that tree and gonna find me a mountain!"
                            Emma muttered something under her breath.
                            "What's that you said, dear? Something about a bass in a tree? Now how in the heck am I gonna find a bass in a tree?"
                            Emma just shook her head. "Never mind, Tarzan. Just get your climbing over with so we can get on down the road."

                            Carl walked over to the base of the tall tree, eye-balled it straight up, and then started climbing. He went up amazingly fast for a short, fat, old guy, and was soon out of sight.

                            Emma got a folding lawn chair from the back of The Whale, sat down at the base of the tree and opened up a smarmy paperback with Fabio on the cover in a pirate outfit, shirt open, holding a middle-aged woman in his arms.

                            By the time she had read a dozen pages, she dozed off. A shout rang through the woods and it woke a startled Emma. "Emmmmmaaa! I'm stuck!"
                            She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Well, get un-stuck."
                            Carl let out a moan. "I can't. I slipped off and I'm hanging by my left pant leg cuff on the edge of a broken branch. If I move, I'll fall straight to the ground and kill myself severely! Emma, do something quick!"
                            She sighed, folded the chair up, put it in the back of the Suburban and started up The Whale. "Emmmmmmaaa! Where inna hell are you goin'?"
                            Emma leaned out the window. "I'm going to drive down the road and see if I can find a sign."
                            Carl groaned. "Ohh, jeez."
                            Emma peered up at the tree. "Now don't you go anywhere, dear. I'll be back as soon as I can."
                            Emma heard what sounded a great deal like a bunch of vile navy curses echoing through the trees.

                            ***

                            About an hour later, Emma returned and walked over to the tree.
                            "Carl, are you still there?"
                            "No, I'm somewhere else, but I'm doing a hell of a ventriloquist job by throwing my voice about 90 feet up in a tree."
                            Emma shielded her eyes against the sun and peered up. "Well, I've got this Forest Ranger with me and he said he'll climb up and help get you down."
                            "Where did you find a Forest Ranger in the middle of nowhere?"
                            "Oh, there was a sign about a half mile down the road, and it had an arrows pointing to all kinds of places. Would you believe that only three miles down the road, there's a horseback riding stable. And just five miles away, there's a lake, and ..."
                            "Emma, can you please put a lid on the guided tour and let the Ranger do his job. I think my foot is turning blue from lack of blood and my head feels like it's going to explode. And I don't know how much longer this pant leg is going to hold out.
                            Fifteen minutes later, the Ranger had a shaken Carl safe, back on level ground. Carl thanked him profusely while he tried to rub some circulation back into his leg.
                            The Ranger was more than a bit curious. "I don't mean to get nosy, sir, but what the heck were you doing up in a tree in the first place?"
                            "Well, we wuz sort of lost and I was trying to get my bearings."
                            The Ranger scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. Have you ever considered carrying some topo maps with you!"
                            A moment later, Emma was confused to see Carl banging his head against the side of a large tree, very loudly.


                            Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                            • For those who wonder - that last one is one of my favorite stories
                              Doing it all wrong since 1966

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                              • THE WANDERERS # 76



                                HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS SUBHEAD: JURASSIC DORK

                                BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




                                We join them now as Carl and Emma are winding down an evening camping out in the spacious Suburban, by watching a movie being played on the VCR. As the last scene of Jurassic Park faded on the big 46 inch screen, Carl let out a low whistle. "Wow! That was an exciting movie! I nearly crapped when those two dinosaurs were chasing the kids around in the kitchen. But the best part was when that big T-Rex thing ate the lawyer while he was sitting on the can. Now, that was great!"
                                Emma nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, this was a wonderful, and I got it for half price. Now all we have to do is eat all that Jello I had to buy to use the half-price coupon."
                                Carl smiled. "No problem. I already ate it."
                                Emma looked confused. "But there were 27 packets of Jello, all different flavors."
                                "Well, I mixed 'em all together while you were out shopping the other day, and made me one big bowl of Jello."
                                "How did you ... I mean, there were a half-dozen different flavors!"
                                "So it came out brown. Big deal. Anyway, this movie really got me thinking. Man, it would be fun to go out and dig for some dinosaur bones."
                                Emma smiled broadly. "Well, why don't we? We're only a days drive from the Badlands of South Dakota, and that's supposed to be the best source of fossils in the United States. I was reading about it in one of those travel magazines. In fact, I saved the magazine. Look here."
                                Carl leaned forward, deeply interested, as Emma spread the magazine open, and turned the pages. She read some facts as she ran across them: "The best place to see fossils is in Badlands National Park. It costs five dollars for a seven day vehicle pass, and there's all kinds of free lectures on the history of the area. It says here that the park contains one of the world's richest beds of fossilized mammals, most of them deposited here some 35 to 40 million years ago. It was called the Oligocene Epoch, and all of South Dakota was a swamp land that was slowly being covered with mud flows. Gosh, it's huge! The Park is 380 square miles and take a look at this picture. It looks like the surface of the moon!"
                                Carl was excited. "You sold me, woman! So let's hurry up and get to sleep, so's we can start driving first thing in the morning."

                                At first light, Carl fired up the huge 454 motor in The Whale and let it warm up, while they put stuff away and battened things down. In ten minutes, they each had a cup of coffee sitting in the console, and Carl glanced over the multitude of gauges on the dash. "Well, oil and water temperatures are perfect, oil pressure is 40 pounds at idle, two gas tanks are full and the center tank is 3/4 full, so we can go maybe 800 miles before we have to refuel. I've got plenty of chewing tobacco and once we get on the Interstate, you can cook us up some breakfast. We got about 800 miles to go as the crow flies, and about 980 miles as the crow walks. I figure I can cover a thousand miles in 24 hours with no sweat, so let's hit it!"

                                Carl and Emma were near the intersection of three states: Oregon, Idaho and Nevada, which left them a rather clear route to get to the Badlands.
                                Carl caught 95 north in Oregon, slipped east on 55 in Idaho and hooked up with Interstate 80, and put it on cruise control at exactly six miles an hour over the speed limit, a speed he knew would not attract attention from any decent highway patrol cop.

                                Emma busied herself in the back of the big Whale, frying up bacon and eggs, while Carl kept his eye on traffic and fiddled with the radio, trying to get a clear station with Rush Limbaugh on it.

                                The miles rolled under the massive tires of the Suburban, as the mighty 454 engine loped down the road, barely working. Carl stopped around mid-afternoon, just after they crossed the Wyoming/Utah state line, gassed up, hit the rest room, bought a sack of greasy burgers and 30 weight French fries, and hit the road again.

                                They drove easily and comfortably through the early night, and were far enough ahead of schedule to stop a bit north of Cheyenne to take a few hours to nap. Emma thought it might be a good idea to see the Badlands in the daylight to appreciate them.

                                At dawn, they were on the road again, and by 8 AM, they were on Highway 90, heading east of Rapid City, South Dakota. Another 40 miles of driving brought them to Badlands National Park.
                                The photos in the magazine didn't do justice to the staggering beauty of the Badlands! The early morning sun cast a golden glow on the sharply-pointed rocky peaks.

                                Our wandering duo pulled up to the Badlands Loop Road on Route 240 and paid the $5 fee to the ranger. He gave them a few brochures and warned them about taking anything from the Park.
                                Carl was stunned. "Hey, all I want is one of those dinosaur bones or claws like in the Jurassic Park movie. You mean I can't do that?"
                                The ranger patiently explained things: "Sir, the problem of fossil rustlers is very real. There are gangs of commercial rustlers who poach ancient sites and sell the stuff to local tourist shops. And there are others who specialize on selling fossils to museums all over the world. There wouldn't be much left for folks to see if we let these fossil crooks run rampant."
                                Carl got red in the face. "But I don't want a sack of fossils, and I'm not a crook! All I want is maybe one teensy-weensy little dinosaur bone or claw."
                                The ranger sighed. "Sir, we realize that the average citizen is not the problem, and we know that every now and then, somebody takes something out of here. But all we can try to do is discourage the practice. We're a whole lot more worried about the commercial fossil rustlers than we are about the odd tourist who sticks a bone in his pocket."
                                Carl looked puzzled for a moment, then his face brightened. "Well, you guys don't search everyone who goes in and out of here, do you?"
                                "No sir, but there is a stiff fine and perhaps a few nights in jail for anyone unlucky enough to get caught."
                                "Hmmm. Well, okey-dokey, then. We're just gonna wander around and look at things. Where would you say the best spots would be to actually see some fossils?"
                                "Your best bet would be to park over there where the signs to the marked trails are, and head off on any one of them. But after you get out a mile or so, get off the trail and wander around the cliff bases, or in the arroyos. Look in the colored clay and rock sections, especially where you can find some exposed horizontal layers of material stacked up like slate. And if you find something interesting, take a picture of it to preserve the memory. That way, the next person who wanders along the same route can have the same thrill of finding a fossil."
                                "Right. You got it, ranger."
                                "Good luck, folks. Would you like one of these pamphlets that identify the different fossils you're likely to find?"
                                "No thanks. Emma here bought one of those illustrated fossil books at a roadside stand, so we're covered. Also, I saw Jurassic park. Twice."
                                The ranger smiled. "Well, that certainly qualifies you for fossil hunting. Just keep an eye out for those T-Rex's."
                                Carl looked at the ranger intently. "Are you goofy? Those things have been dead for hundreds of years."
                                "Just a little bit of ranger humor, sir."

                                ***

                                Carl and Emma hiked for hours, wandering in and out of the narrow canyons, clambering up on top of rocks, and being rewarded with staggering vistas of a world that was young millions of years ago.

                                Emma located a few things that looked sort of like shrimp embedded in the clay, but Carl wasn't interested in that. "I wanna see some kinda dinosaur bones or claws. Who gives a rats butt about shrimp?"

                                As the sun started slanting down, the duo realized that they should head back to the Suburban. A few yards later, Carl let out a large whoop. "Emma! Get over here and take a look!"
                                She ran over and got down next to Carl, who was pointing at a small skull embedded in some yellow clay in a dried-up creek bed. Carl was excited: "Wow! Lookit that! See the size of those front teeth? Betcha anything that's the skull of one of those velocity-rapers."
                                "You mean velociraptor."
                                "Right. That's what I said. Now get that book of yours out and let's see what this thing is."
                                Carl shuffled though the pages. "Haw! Here it is. It's a Tylopodus, a four-toed, rabbit-sized creature that's a remote relative of the camel. Now quick, get that little plastic shower cap out of your purse while I dig this thing out of the clay."
                                Emma was shocked. "Carl! You heard what the ranger said! You could get a big fine and maybe even go to jail!"
                                "Aw, calm down, Emma. They ain't gonna miss one little skull. It's not like I'm gonna try to sell this here, uhhh, Tylenol, but I could probably get a pretty penny for it."
                                By this time, Emma's face was bright red. "It's not a Tylenol, it's a Tylopodus, and it's illegal to remove it."
                                "Hey, who's gonna know? Now let's get back to The Whale before it gets dark, and let's hit the road. I'd like to spend the night in Sturgis and see if any of the Hells Angels are still hangin' around."

                                Doing it all wrong since 1966

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