The Wanderer

[SuperBuickGuy]

They walked back to parking lot and got in the big Suburban. Emma sat there with a grim look on her face and her arms folded. "Now will you calm down. Look, I'll just stuff the skull up under the visor, just in case the ranger decides to check me over."

They pulled up to the gate and the ranger walked over to The Whale. "You folks have a good time out there?"
Carl let out a big, big smile. "Sure was pretty out there, but all we saw was a couple of shrimp or something like that."
"OK then, you folks have a safe drive home. And watch out driving in the late afternoon soon with that dirty windshield you've got there."
"No problem. I'll just flip my visor down." And Carl flipped the visor down, letting out a groan the micro-second he realized what he'd just done.
The skull bounced off the dash, hit Carl on the forearm, rolled down his arm, then fell out of the open window and onto the ranger's highly polished right boot. "Ahem. What do we have here?"
Emma let out a wail: "It's a Tylodopus skull, and I told him not to take it! We're going to rot in jail, and it's all his fault!"
The ranger studied the skull carefully for a few minutes. "Well, it's not a Tylopodus, ma'm. What we've got here is the skull of very old jack rabbit."
Carl breathed a sigh of relief. "Heck, I knew that all along. I figured I'd fool my friends with it."
The ranger drew himself up to his full six feet, 3 inches of height, and fixed Carl with a stern look. "Listen up good, sir. It's illegal to take anything out of here, even a rabbit skull. You could get a ticket for this. I suggest, sir, that you walk back, put this rabbit skull where you found it, and get out of here before I lose my patience with you."

As Carl trudged back with the pathetic little skull in his hands, a Tylopodus stood in the shade of a ponderosa pine, chewing on a cone, and wondered what all the fuss was about.

[SuperBuickGuy]

THE WANDERERS # 77
UBHEAD: STRANGE TIMES IN PARADISE

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




We join our wandering friends now, as they're taking a break from retirement, to actually have a vacation. Since money was a little bit tight, Carl suggested that they visit his Uncle Dexter, who lived in Paradise, California.
Paradise is located in northern California, about 80 miles due north of Sacramento. At least, that's what Emma found out by looking it up in her collection of Auto Club maps. She was still curious: "Tell me about this town of Paradise. I've never been there with you."
Carl spit a brown wad out of the window of The Whale, and replied, "It's a small town in the foothills, real close to Chico. Chico is a college town, and a lot of the people who live in Paradise teach at the college, or are retired. It ain't big ... maybe 20 or 25,000 people. There's a lot of pine trees, and nice hills. It's right around 3,000 feet altitude.
"You can go fishing, do some off-roading on really neat fire roads, maybe run around in a boat. There's a good sized lake real close called Oroville. Heck, even if there was nothing to do, the place is easy on the eyes. Basically, I don't want to do much of anything for a few weeks, and Uncle Dexter has a big place up there high on a hill with a great view."
Emma was curious. "Tell me about Uncle Dexter. I don't know anything about him."
"Oh, he's sort of eccentric, compared to the rest of the family."
Emma raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
"Anyways, he's a college professor. He teaches folk dancing, shoe repair, art appreciation and black history."
Emma raised the other eyebrow. "Isn't that an odd collection of subjects to teach?"
"Naw. He used to teach some strange stuff before he settled into these four specialties. Not too long ago he used to instruct in Gregorian chants, blimp construction, harmonica theory, and turbo-diesel trouble-shooting.
"Since his wife died about 15 years ago in a dog sled accident, he's been pretty much a loner."
"A dog sled accident?"
"Yeah. She used to compete in the Iditarod in the Senior Class, and one year, she got eaten by a crazed polar bear. Uncle Dexter never re-married, and even sold all his bear-skin rugs."

***

Carl and Emma drove the last few hundred miles across the vast open high desert of Nevada, heading west on Interstate 80. Eventually, the brown of the desert turned into small hills spotted with green vegetation. This turned into real hills and lots of greenery, and soon they were driving though Grass Valley, Marysville, Uba City and Oroville.

Eventually, they entered the city limits of Paradise, wound their way through town, and found the narrow dirt road leading up to Uncle Dexter's house in the hills.

Uncle Dexter came out of the house on a unicycle, juggling three chain saws. Luckily, none of them were running. Carl and Uncle Dexter hugged warmly, as Emma just stared, her jaw hanging. Uncle Dexter looked exactly like a movie-typecast mad professor. He had a bald head with thick tufts of hair on the side, and his glass were extremely thick and he wore them half way down his nose.

"So, this must be the little lady I've never met, Carl? Come over here and give me a hug, dear, and try not to step on those chain saws."
Carl was curious. "Uncle Dexter, what gives with those chain saws and the unicycle? That's a bit strange, even for you."
"Oh that? Well, I'm going to be teaching a course in History and Appreciation of the Circus this fall, and I figured I'd better learn some of the basic skills. I've got the unicycle-juggling thing down pretty good, but haven't worked up the nerve to try it with the chain saws running yet."

Uncle Dexter showed them around the big A-frame log house. Emma was impressed by the huge glass windows that gave them a spectacular view of the valley spreading out below.
Carl was mightily impressed when Uncle Dexter showed him the mammoth ten car garage/barn built out behind the house. When the electric door was raised, Carl sucked in his breath. Sitting there were a half-dozen of the most beautiful Jeep CJ-5s he had ever seen. All of them were sparkling clean and gleaming in the glow of a bank of fluorescent lights.
"Wow, Uncle Dexter! I knew you liked Jeeps, but I had no idea you had a collection like this!"
"Well, when Rosie died - that's my ex-wife - I collected a hefty piece of insurance money. I didn't want to waste it on anything stupid, so after I spent half of it on a UFO research project, I built this shop and bought all the Jeeps from a collector."
Carl strolled around the CJs and drooled. "These are beautiful! I betcha they run as good as they look, right?"
Uncle Dexter looked a little bit sheepish. "Not exactly. As you know, I teach a class in turbo-diesel trouble-shooting at the university. Well, all of these CJs have different turbo-diesel engines under the hood. That red Jeep, for example, has an engine from a Peugeot station wagon. You see, I bring the students up here for the class, and they have to trouble-shoot all the Jeeps for turbo-diesel problems. The real problem is that I've dialed in so many hidden problems, that none of them run at all. In fact, the first student to get one of them running will get an "A" and a scholarship!"
Carl's jaw hung slackly. "So none of these run? Well, how do you get around?" Uncle Dexter pointed to a bizarre machine over in the corner. "I use that street-legal snowmobile over there."
"But what about when there's no snow?"
"Oh, I use it all the time. Since it has one of the old stock Jeep CJ engines under the cowling, I was able to get license plates for it at the local DMV."

Carl was visibly stunned and Emma just shook her head. So this was the eccentric Uncle Dexter!

***

Actually, Emma found her vacation time at Uncle Dexter's place delightful. She spent most of her time reading romance novels on the sun deck and taking leisurely hikes through the woods.

Meanwhile, Carl and Uncle Dexter decided to go fishing every day, since the weather was utterly perfect. Carl insisted that they drive The Whale to nearby Lake Oroville, since he was more than reluctant to pack double on the snowmobile.

On the first trip out to go fishing, Uncle Dexter, ever the trouble-shooting expert, pointed out that the exhaust on The Whale was smoking heavily. "Yeah, I know. I've got a couple of leaking valve guides and I've been putting off yanking the heads and doing the work. I just keep an eye on the oil level, and I'll get to fixing it when I get the time."
Uncle Dexter waved his forefinger in the air. "I better warn you about the police around here. They've been issuing real expensive tickets to cars that are smoking. You better be careful, young fellow."
Carl smiled. "Now don't you go worrying about that, Uncle Dexter. I got that all covered, just in case."

The day of fishing went great, and they both hit their limit in two hours, then caught and released another half-dozen fish each. Carl fired up The Whale and they headed for the cabin, drooling over the thought of some grilled trout for supper.
Just then, red lights flashed in Carl's rear view mirror, and he let out a groan. "You were right, Uncle Dexter. Looks like the smoky patrol is out in force."
A tall officer ambled up, ticket-book in hand. Carl rolled the window down. "Hi there, officer. Beautiful day. What can I do for you?"
"Did you know that your Suburban is smoking excessively out of the exhaust, sir?"
"Oh, that? Well, you see officer. I ran out of gas a few miles back, and I had to dump some motorcycle pre-mix gas in the tank. And as you know, two-stroke motorcycles require oil mixed in with the gas, so that would explain the smoke you see. Just as soon as I get to a station, and fill the tank, it should get back to normal."
"I see. Then I'll be on my way. Have a nice day, sir."
Uncle Dexter was impressed. "Hey, pretty slick, sonny. You talked your way right out of that one!"
"It was no big deal. After all, what's he gonna say when he see's a pair of trail bikes on the bumper racks? Yessir, old Carl just out-slicked one of California's finest!"

[SuperBuickGuy]

That evening, they had a great meal, and settled down for a few drinks afterward. Possibly a few too many for Uncle Dexter, as he was ready to fire up the chain saws and try some juggling. Luckily, Emma was able to talk him out of it.

The days flew by, with Carl and Uncle Dexter spending the days exploring Lake Oroville and catching fish, while Emma wallowed in pure relaxation.

On the last day, as Carl and Uncle Dexter drove The Whale back toward his home, the cooler full of tasty fish, the rear view mirror was once again filled with red flashing lights.
A short officer stepped out and walked over to the window. Carl noticed that it was a different officer than the one who had stopped him a few weeks earlier. He rolled the window down. "Hi there, officer. Beautiful day, isn't it? What can I do for you?"
"Are you aware that your Suburban is smoking heavily, sir?"
"Oh, that? Well, ya see, I ran out of gas and had to put some motorcycle pre-mix gas in the tank, and ..."
The officer butted in. "And since there's oil in the gas, that would explain the smoking, right?"
"Uhhh, right."
"And you're going to go right from here to a gas station and fill your tank up, and the smoking will go right away, right?"
"Duhhh, yes. You bet."
"Did it ever occur to you, sir, that you told the exact same story to my brother about two weeks ago? My brother, the tall highway patrolman?"
"Ahhh, well ... there's a possibility that there might be some sort of confusion here, and ... uhhh ..."
"Perhaps, sir, I can clear up that confusion. May I see your license and registration, please? I think there just might be a ticket in your future."

***

As Carl and Emma drove away from Paradise a week later, Emma sighed and settled back in her seat. "Gosh, that was a great vacation. I feel like a new person. And it didn't cost us a dime! Isn't that wonderful. Carl? Carl? Why are you gripping that steering wheel so hard?"

[SuperBuickGuy]

THE WANDERERS # 78
HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: THE STANGE CASE OF THE MISSING SUBURBAN

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




We join them now, as they've driving The Whale in the fading light of the day. Carl flipped down the visor to keep the sun from his eyes and a huge wad of papers fluttered down, nearly blocking out his vision of the highway in the process. The papers floated around the cab like one of those glass globes with artificial snow flakes inside. Emma sighed. "Carl, I told you not to store all those fishing licenses up there."

Carl pulled The Whale over to the side of the road and started gathering up all the fishing licenses, swearing profusely all the while. "Dang-blasted *%#@*&%*#$@$**$@ rubber band broke. I sure hope I don't lose any of those licenses."
"Well, how many of them do you have?"
"I got 46 of 'em. Two more and I got the whole United States covered."
"Aren't you forgetting Hawaii and Alaska?"
"Heck no! There's great fishin' in them places. Hope they make 'em states some day. Then I can shoot for an even 50 fishing licenses."
Emma looked at Carl with pure astonishment. "Uh, Carl. I hate to break this to you, but Hawaii and Alaska have been states for some time now."
"What? So Reagan finally up and did that, eh? Boy, I got to start paying a little more attention to the evening news instead of watching WWF wrestling and Bill Donahue."
"You mean Phil."
"Right. Him too."
Emma just sighed. "Never mind. How much further are you going to drive before we stop for the night?"
Carl scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Well, I'd sort of like to stay in a motel tonight. I want to do a little work on The Whale ... maybe change the oil and filter, and crawl underneath with a grease gun. It's starting to get a little squeaky here and there. I took a look at the map and there's a good sized town about an hour ahead. It's called Stumpville."
Emma audibly sucked in her breath. "Ooooooh, we better not stop there! I read in the Auto Club magazine where that was one of the towns with the highest auto theft rates in the whole country."
Carl laughed out loud. "Hah! You think anybody is going to be able to steal The Whale? Hells-fire, woman, I got just about every anti-theft device known to man. You just wait until we get to the motel tonight, and I'll show you some real security!"

A short time later, they pulled into the outskirts of town and Carl pulled over to a convenience store to buy a six-pack of beer and sufficient snacks for the evening. While he was in the store, Emma bought a copy of the local newspaper, The Stumpville Gazette, and reacted sharply when she read the headlines. "Carl! Look at this! It says right here on the front page that the car thefts have gotten worse during the last week. Why, just last night, there were four cars and three trucks stolen from local residents. This is awful! Let's stay at some other town tonight."
"Hey, not to worry. We're gonna stay here because I only got an hour of daylight left and I gotta get some work done on The Whale. And there ain't another decent-sized town for a hundred miles. So let's find a motel here real quick before it starts gettin' dark."

Five minutes later, Carl and Emma pulled in to the parking area of the Dew Drop Inn Motel and Trailer Park. After parting with $22.95, Carl pulled The Whale up in front of the door of room 7A and started to work on the Suburban.

First, he jacked both ends of The Whale up in the air and put jack stands under the frame rails, just to play it safe. Then he slid underneath The Whale, using a copy of the Stumpville Gazette to keep from getting dirty, and pulled the pin on the quick-release oil pan drain plug he'd installed. The darkish oil gurgled out into the funnel and from there into the five gallon plastic jug Carl used for collecting used oil.
While the oil was draining, Carl slithered around underneath with his mini grease gun, and gave all the zerk fittings a sptriz of fresh grease, taking care to wipe away the excess grease with a few pages from a Ford truck manual. He also greased all the drive shaft U-joints carefully, then spent a few minutes spraying some WD-40 on spots that looked a bit rusty, or possibly the source of a squeak or two.
Then, lastly, he checked critical nuts and bolts to make sure they were snug. He knew that a simple thing like a loose U-bolt over an axle could let leaf springs flop around and cause trouble, and didn't want any of that.
He then secured the drain plug, yanked the old oil filter, slapped in a new one and poured in 12 quarts of Valvoline 20-50 Racing Oil. That over-sized oil pan sure held a lot. Carl fired the engine up, check for oil pressure and leaks, then shut 'er down and let the oil settle before checking the dipstick level.

Emma wandered out from the room just as Carl was putting the tools away and wiping his hands on an old Ford t-shirt. She was clearly worried. "Carl, I really don't think we should stay here. This motel is right on the main drag and our Suburban is visible from the highway. And you read those headlines!"
Carl just chuckled. "Pay attention, woman, while I set up the ultimate security system. First off, I put two clubs on the steering wheel, then I wrap a chain around the clubs and lock it down tight.
"Next I put this here device that runs from the steering wheel and locks on to the brake pedal. Then I take the hidden chip from under the dash, so The Whale can't be started without it. After that, I take the coil wire off and stick it in my pocket. Now, does that make you happy?"
Emma still looked concerned. "Actually, no. I'm still worried."
"Well, hells-fire, woman, what do you want me to do, take the wheels off?"
Emma smiled sweetly and gave Carl a little hug. "Would you, dear?"

What else could he do? Since The Whale was still up in the air and on the jack stands, removing the wheels was quick and easy, and within minutes, the four tires were stacked neatly inside the motel room next to the TV set.

That night, Carl and Emma watched TV, ate a bucket of fried chicken, drank a six pack of beer (Carl), four bottles of Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda (Emma), 23 Slim Jims (Carl), three Whoppers (Carl) and a Twinky (Emma). They fell into a sound sleep while David Letterman was half-way through Stupid Pet Tricks on the slightly fuzzy motel TV set.

The next morning, Emma was up first, as usual, and peeked out of the window blinds to see what kind of day it was going to be, then did a quick double-take! The Whale was gone! Sitting there in the spot where The Whale was, were four bright orange jack-stands and a jack.
She got a grumpy Carl up and he walked to the window in his shorts, scratching and yawning as he looked out. When he saw that The Whale was gone, he went ballistic and broke into some major-league Navy cursing. Emma just sat on the bed until the tidal wave of verbal explosions subsided, then quietly asked, "What do we do now? Call the police?"
Carl thought for a minute, then got a crafty look in his eyes. "Yup. We do that, just in case the thief abandoned The Whale somewhere, or if the cops stumble on it by accident. But to get The Whale back, I'm gonna have to do a little bit of bar-hopping tonight."
Emma was confused about that statement, but didn't say anything when she saw the stony look on Carl's face.

***

At 11:35 that night, Carl wandered in to the Kit Kat Klub, the 5th bar he'd been in since dark, and sidled up to the bar. The bartender wandered over and shoved a bowl of peanuts in front of Carl. "What'll it be, buddy?"
"Give me a cold draft and maybe some information."
The bartender immediately looked suspicious. "You a cop or something? We don't want no trouble around here."
"Naw. I'm just sort of broke and got a nice set of mounted tires for sale, real cheap."
"Hmmm. What kind, and what are they for?
"They're 35 inch BF Goodrich Mud Terrain tires in real good shape, and they're on Chevy or GMC one-ton truck rims. Nice polished aluminum ones. I got four of 'em, and I'll let 'em go real cheap."
"How cheap?"
"Uhhh, maybe two hunnert bucks for the whole bunch."
"Hmmmm. Lemme make a phone call or two."

Carl sat there, sipping his beer, munching the stale peanuts and listening to a Patsy Cline song. About 20 minutes later, the bartender returned. "I got you a customer, but he says he can't go $200. He'll go a hundred bucks, maximum."
Carl put a pained look on his face. "Aw, c'mon. You know those things are worth a whole lot more $200. Look, I gotta have $125 to get my Dodge out of the garage, so I can get out of this town. Tell him it's $125, or no deal."
The bartender went away for a few minutes, then came back and said, "OK. You got a deal, but only if the tires are in primo condition. My friend will be here in about 15 minutes. Have another bowl of peanuts on the house."

A short while later, a short, stocky man entered the bar and sat down next to Carl. He wore a work shirt on that said "Stumpville Auto Salvage" above the pocket.
"You the guy with the tires?"
"Yeah. You got the $125?"
"Sorry. All I got is a hunnert bucks. Take it or leave it."
Carl acted upset. "Aw, c'mon, pal. I need $125."
"The short stocky man grunted. "Hey, this ain't a charity and I ain't got all night. You want the hundred or not?"
Carl sighed. "Guess I ain't got much choice. I really need the money."
"Good. Where are the tires?"
"I got 'em stashed down the road out in the woods."

[SuperBuickGuy]

Carl got in his rental car and had the short stocky man follow him to a place on the highway with a cluster of trees just off the road. The man looked at the tires and quickly gave Carl a hundred dollar bill. "These are just what I need. By the way, where'd you get 'em?"
"I found 'em out behind that motel near the main highway. Some dummy must have left them there, so I rolled 'em off here in the woods and figured I'd make a few bucks real quick."
The short stocky man let out a smile. "So that's why that Suburban didn't have any wheels on it. Somebody stole his wheels before we got to the Suburban! Man, that's weird."
With that, the short stocky man loaded the tires quickly in the back of his truck, and drove off.
Carl waited a minute, then followed a good distance back, with his lights off.

***

The sheriff patted Carl on the shoulder and positively beamed. "I can't tell you how happy we are, sir, that you helped us break this car and truck ring. That was good thinking, following them to where they had your Suburban stored. I wish we had more citizens like you around."
Emma positively glowed with pride as the reporter from the Stumpville Gazette snapped photos of Carl for the paper. The reporter then whipped out a pad and pencil. "One question, sir. How did the car thief get injured? As you know, he's in the hospital right now."
Carl looked puzzled. "Well, I sort of tripped him when he tried to run away. He must have fallen at a funny angle or something."
"Sir, he claims you beat him up with a bumper jack."
The sheriff looked hard at Carl. " Is that true, Carl? Did you beat that man with a bumper jack?"
Carl stood up straight and his nostrils flared wide with indignation. "Of course not, sheriff! What do you take me for, some kind of animal?"

***

Later, as Carl and Emma drove out of Stumpville in The Whale, she slid over next to him and put a chubby little arm around his shoulder. "Well, I'm very proud of you and the way you handled this whole situation. There's only one thing I'm curious about, and that's where that crook claimed you beat him up with a bumper jack. But you told the sheriff you didn't beat him with a bumper jack. Carl? Did you beat him up with a bumper jack?"
Carl let out an evil grin. "Nope. Not even. However, I did whomp on him pretty good with a floor jack. One of those big shop types, about five feet long. It wasn't easy to swing, but it sure made an impact on that crook."

[SuperBuickGuy]

and this is why I have tracking in my vehicles... but never fear, a thief will never complain about how he died.

[SuperBuickGuy]

THE WANDERERS # 79



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS SUBHEAD: THE GREAT POKER RUN

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN



Emma folded up the Triple A road map carefully and placed it neatly back in the pocket on the inside of the door of The Whale. All the maps of 49 states were stacked carefully in order, with the western states in the right hand door packet, and the eastern states in the driver's side.

It was almost noon near the end of summer and Barstow, California, was just ten minutes down the road. Heat waves danced off the near-boiling pavement and distorted vision in the distance. The desert off to the side of the big Interstate highway was brown and dry. Even though it had been a wet spring in the area, a solid four months of intense heat had pounded the desert mercilessly.

Emma hit the LED readout panel on the dash and a red number came up, which indicated the outside temperature. The glaring over-sized readout said 123 degrees! Emma punched another button, and this one gave the temperature inside The Whale. Hmmm. This one read a comfortable 76 degrees. It was a good thing The Whale had two heavy-duty air conditioners.
Emma picked up the flyer on the dash and read it again. "Carl? Are you sure you want to go this event? After all, it's being held in Baker, which is one of the hottest spots in the US most of the time. And this is only Barstow, which is above sea level. Baker is below sea level, according to the map. It's gonna be a zillion degrees there."
Carl hit the button and the drivers' side window rolled down. A wall of heat immediately blasted in. Carl spit a big, brown glob of chew at a speed limit sign, and nailed it in the upper right hand corner. When the window slid up again, it took the twin air conditioners a few minutes to cool the interior down again.
Carl mopped his brow with the back of his hand. "Whew! It sure is hot out there. But I wouldn't worry none about things. After all, the event we're goin' to is just a poker run, and we can just keep the air conditioners on if it stays hot."
Emma looked puzzled. "What's a poker run? Some kind of gambling?"
"Naw. Basically what it you do is drive all over a prescribed route, and every time you get to a checkpoint, you get to draw a playing card from a box of cards. The best hand wins the prize. There's all kinds of prizes, but the one I want is that $2500 chunk of money!"
"Gosh, it sounds exciting! Do both of us get to play? I mean do we both get poker hands?"
Carl gave Emma a hard look. "Hey, woman! The entry fee is a stiff seventy-five bucks. You want to enter, well then, you'll have to use your own money. I ain't sponsorin' nobody."
Emma protested meekly. "Carl, you know my allowance is only five dollars a week. Why, I'd have to spend ... let me see ... hmmm ... 15 weeks worth of allowance! That'll put a big dent in my fun money."
Carl let out an evil grin. "Listen, if you want to play the game, you got to pay to play. That's just how it is."

Emma went back to the kitchen area of The Whale, extracted a cookie jar from a top shelf, fished in the jar for a while, and extricated a wad of five dollar bills wrapped up in a rubber band. Then she slowly counted out the money on the center console. "Sixty-five, seventy and seventy-five. There. Now I'm going to sign up."
Carl just shook his head. Women. Go figure 'em.

***

The drive into Baker on Interstate 15 drove the temperature even higher. When they arrived in Baker in the afternoon, it was obvious the day was a real cooker. Carl pulled off the ramp and drove through the narrow two-lane road that dissected the center of town. Up ahead, a local land mark loomed. "Lookit that, Emma! That's the worlds largest thermometer! It must be a hunnert feet tall!"
Emma shaded her eyes and peered up at the huge thermometer built alongside the road. And then she did a double-take when she saw the temperature: 129 degrees!

After gassing up, they found a small over-priced motel and checked in. The pathetic room air conditioner roared and strained mightily, but all it could do was take some of the edge off the blistering heat.
Carl figured it would cool off later, so they hit a local restaurant and pigged out. At 9:00 o'clock that night, the temperature in beautiful downtown Baker was 108 degrees.

***

The next morning, Carl and Emma located the gas station being used as a sign-up area. A local 4-wheel drive club was putting on the poker run, with profits going to charity. The turn-out was big, and several hundred people signed up. Route maps were handed out and drivers were started off one every 30 seconds.
Carl checked the map out. It looked like an interesting run, with sections of the Old Mojave Road thrown it, as well as a trip around Calico Ghost Town. The course then wandered down to the desert floor - well below sea level - and criss-crossed the winding back road 127 that headed toward the Nevada state line. The route covered about 200 miles, most of it off-road on graded or unimproved two-tracks. Some gnarly cross-grain was thrown in, so Carl spent a few minutes lashing everything down with bungee cords and tie-down straps. No sense having a coffee pot fly out of a cupboard and whack you in the back of the head in a rough section.

At 8:07, the Whale left the line and headed west on a beat up fire-road that ran parallel to Interstate 15. At Razor Road, the first stop at a Chevron station, Carl drew a card and was pleased to see that he had a king. Emma reached in the box and drew a two.

The second check was on a gravel-covered road on the top of a hill north of Calico Ghost Town. Carl drew another king and gave out a big grin. Emma drew a five, and frowned.

The third stop was at Tecopa, way back near the Nevada border. Carl drew a queen and Emma drew a six. When Carl started The Whale back up to head for checkpoint four, a loud whining noise came from, under the hood and stinky smoke started filling the cab of the Suburban.

Carl popped the hood to check the problem, and let out a loud groan. "Oh, jeez! The air conditioner compressor just went up in smoke and all the wires around it are melted!"
Emma peered over Carl's shoulder. "Can you fix it?"
Carl looked disgusted. "Nope. All I can do is snip the wires, tape 'em up out of the way and run without the air conditioner until we can get it to a shop."

Fifteen minutes later, they were under way again, but now the windows in The Whale were all down in a vain attempt to cool things down. By mid-day, the heat reached blistering ranges and Carl and Emma were forced to drape wet towels over their heads and shoulders to cool off.

At the fourth check, Carl let out a loud whoop when he drew a third king, while Emma looked more than a little glum as she drew a three. Carl looked at her cards. "Well, it ain't all that bad. If you get a four, you'll have a small straight. Lottsa luck."

At the final check at Mountain Pass, Carl nearly went nuts as he drew another queen. This gave him a full house. Emma fumbled around in the cardboard box for a long time, hoping for a four. But instead, she drew an ace.

They drove back to Baker, with Carl feeling real good about things. By 6:00 o'clock, everyone was in and the checking of the hands started. For a while it looked like Carl's full house would hold up for the $2500 prize, but a somebody else had a full house with aces over tens. Still, Carl managed to get the consolation second prize of $500.

Just about the time Carl was ready to walk away, money in hand, the announcer picked up the microphone. "Let's not forget about that super-duper low-ball prize, folks."
Emma was puzzled. "What's a low-ball, Carl?"
"Well, that's the exact opposite of a good poker hand. It's a variation of the game where the worst hand wins."

The announcer checked out a few hands. "So far, the best low-ball hand is a 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 2. Anybody got that beat?"
Emma spread her cards and studied them. There it was: 6 - 5 - 3 - 2 - ace! She raised her hand timidly. "Uhh, is this any good?"
The announcer checked it out. "Wow! The little lady has a seriously good low-ball hand. Any body out there beat a 6 - 5 - 3 - 2 - ace? No? Going once ... going twice ... we have a winner. C'mon on up, and get your $2500 cash prize. And congratulations!”

***

It wouldn't have been so hard for Carl to take that Emma had beat him in the poker run, but the worst part came later, when the mechanic in Baker charged Carl slightly over $500 to repair the air conditioner. To add insult to injury, Emma refused to contribute a dime of her winnings to the repair, and tucked the money back up in her cookie jar, then hid it behind the Ritz Cracker box where it was safe.

[SuperBuickGuy]

THE WANDERERS # 80



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS SUBHEAD: THE WORLD'S FASTEST GOURMET

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN



We join The Wanderers as they're driving north, heading toward Canada, with no real time-table in mind. Carl figured they would go through Montana, check out some of the scenery, and then visit both sides of Glacier National Park. This park is unusual, in that it's in two countries. About 4/5ths of it is in the US, and the balance of it is right on the border of BC and Alberta, while the Canadian part of it is actually in Alberta. The Canadians call their portion Waterton Park.

Carl was curious about the park: "I gotta see this place. There's no way those Canadians can run a park like we do here in the good old USA."
Emma looked startled. "Carl! How can you say such terrible things about our northern neighbors? They're wonderful people and share many of the same things that we do." Carl grunted. "Hmmmpf. I don't know about that. Think about it for a second, woman. Their national sport is hockey, which consists of a bunch of guys dressed up like Eskimos, whacking each other on the head with sticks. Now what kind of a sport is that? Hells-fire, they can't even play football right. Three downs instead of four and a goofy-sized field. If they run that Glacier Park like they play football, you'll probably need a hunting license to go fishing, and a fishing license to build a camp fire."
Emma folded her arms and got a sour look on her face. "I'll have you know that my Uncle Marvin lives in Canada, and he's normal."
Carl laughed. "Normal? You call a guy who lives in a log cabin on top of a mountain normal? And not only that, he drives one of those stupid old Broncos that look like those stupid old Scouts. So go figure. And while you're figurin', go back there in the kitchen area and cook me up somethin' good, like beans and franks. Something hot, 'cause it's gettin' cold outside."

Indeed, it was getting colder outside, in spite of the fact that it was simply the middle of fall. They were heading north on Montana highway 209, near Seeley Lake. A half hour further up the road, the elevation would kick up to over 10,000 feet as they neared McDonald Peak. Higher altitude almost always meant cooler temperatures.

Emma fumbled around in the kitchen for a while, let out a big sigh, then got back in the passenger seat. "Bad news, dear. We're out of propane for the stove. I told you we should have filled that tank up back in Idaho Falls."
Carl rubbed his stomach, which let out an audible growl. "Well, then put something in the microwave oven. I gotta have me a good, hot meal."
"Sorry. The microwave has been broken for almost a month. You promised me you'd fix it. Remember?"
"Aw, geez. I'm starving."
"Well, I can fix you a sandwich, or open a bag of chips."
"Emma, maybe I ain't makin' myself clear. My body is yearning for a real meal. Somethin' steaming hot. Somethin' I can splash some ketchup on. Somethin' that'll make my forehead break out in sweat. Somethin' I can dip a chunk of bread into. Do you get the message, Emma?"

Emma just mumbled under her breath, and it sounded suspiciously like swearing, even though Carl knew that Emma never used bad language.
Then it hit him like a flash. "Hey, Emma! Get a bunch of that bacon out of the 'fridge, and while you're at it, get the aluminum foil out of the top cupboard."
Emma brought the bacon and the foil, and put it down on the center console. "What are you going to do, cook it with your cigar lighter?"
Carl smiled broadly. "Better than that, Emma. Ya see, I remember readin' a book about 10 or 12 years ago, called the Off-Roader's Handbook. I think Spence Murray and James Crow wrote it. Well, anyways, in the back of that book, they talked about a little trick of cookin' your food on the engine. So that's what we're gonna do. Now you take out about a half-dozen strips of bacon and wrap it in foil, just for an experiment. If this works OK, then we'll take it from there. Now lay the bacon out flat, so the heat will get to it nice and even. Then make sure you cover it with foil, and fold the edges over so you don't get any bacon grease leakin' on the engine."

Carl stopped The Whale, popped the hood, and carefully placed the bacon between the intake manifold and the bottom of the air cleaner. He used a section of coat hanger to hold the foil in place.
He closed the hood, fired the engine up and headed down the highway. In about ten minutes, the delicious aroma of cooking bacon wafted through the spacious cab of The Whale. Having never cooked bacon like this before, Carl wasn't sure how long to keep in on the manifold, so he stopped after a half-hour and took a peek. Wow! The bacon was darned near perfect!
He poured the excess bacon grease out of the foil, then proudly took his culinary delight inside to show it to Emma. "Hey, woman. Lookee here! This is some first-class bacon. Have a bite."
Emma cautiously picked up a piece of bacon and munched delicately at it. "Gosh. It's good. Carl, I am surprised!"
"Guess I'm just a genius. Well, as long as this works, I guess I'll just rustle up a complete meal. Emma, go get me a can of pork n' beans, a can of stew, some more bacon wrapped in foil, and some of that french bread."
Without saying a word, Emma bustled into kitchen area and got all the requested items. Carl found a rest area, pulled off the side of the road, and went about the business of loading up the engine with all the food to be cooked.

First, another batch of bacon wrapped in foil was placed on the intake manifold. The frozen french bread was safety-wired in place on top of the air cleaner, which - Carl figured - would warm it up nicely, being slightly less hot than under the air cleaner.
The cans were placed on the exhaust manifold; beans on the right and the beef stew on the left. Carl carefully safety-wired them into place so they wouldn't slip around and maybe fall off on the road from vibration.
With a huge smile of satisfaction on his face, Carl fired the big Suburban up and headed north once again. "Well, Emma. I figure a half-hour ought to do everything. We know that 30 minutes is just right for the bacon, and those big 32 ounce cans of beans and stew should heat up real good on the exhaust, 'cause it's hotter than the intake manifold."

A short time later, the smell of frying bacon once again filled the cab. Carl took a deep breath and his mouth started watering. "Boy-oh-boy, I can almost taste that meal already. Emma, why don't you fold the table down and get some plates out?"

A few minutes later, Carl could make out the unmistakable smell of pork n' beans, then right after that, the smell of stew cooking. "You smell that, Emma? That's the smell of beans and stew being prepared by a master chef."
Emma looked puzzled. "Carl, I have a question that might seem a bit silly. If the beans and the stew are in cans, then how can you smell them?"
Carl's jaw sagged, then his eyes got wide! "Whoa, we got some problems!"
He quickly pulled The Whale over to the shoulder and popped the massive hood, just as the can of beans exploded like a small land mine. About five seconds later, the seam in the stew can gave way, and this can let loose like a bad dream.
Emma got out of the Suburban with a damp dish rag in hand, and started to wipe the beans and stew off of Carl. "What happened, dear?"
"Guess maybe I should have punched a little vent hole in those cans." With that, Carl scooped some beans from the top of his head and tasted them. "Not half bad."
Emma just shook her head and went inside The Whale for a giant roll of paper towels and a bucket of water.

[SuperBuickGuy]

THE WANDERERS #81



HEADLINE: THE LAST WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: RETIRING FROM THE ROAD

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN



FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, known as 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.
For the last seven years, they've been on the road (and off the road), living in The Whale most of the time. But now, Carl seems to be tiring of the near-constant traveling. We join them now as they're driving down a narrow road north of Billings, Montana.

***

"Emma? You feel like takin' the wheel for a while? I'm gettin' flat-butt tired of driving."
"Sure, Carl. Tell you what, I'll drive until we get to the Canadian border, then I'll wake you up."
"Good idea! I think I can use a solid ten or 12 hours of sleep. Maybe that'll perk me up. If you get woozy, or goofy, jist whistle or somethin', and I'll come forward and relieve you."

With that, Carl got up out of the big captain's chair and ambled toward the flip-down bed in the back of the huge stretch Suburban. Emma let out a little shriek: "Carl! What in high-heaven are you doing? The Whale is still moving, and you just got up and left!"
Carl let out an evil little grin. "Well, then, maybe you better get your butt in that there driver's seat real fast before we roll off the road."
Emma scuttled quickly into the driver's seat, all flustered, and slipped the belt over her shoulders, shaking her head from side to side. "Men! I'll never understand them if I live to be a hundred, and when they pull stunts like that, I know for sure I'll never reach a hundred!"

Carl extracted a cold can of Tree Frog Light beer from the fridge, sucked it down in two well-trained gulps, and in less than three minutes, was fast asleep, snoring like a badly tuned chain-saw. Emma reached back with one arm and slid the partition closed, effectively shutting out the raspy snoring sounds.
She set the cruise control on exactly 48 miles per hour, just to play it safe, knowing that Carl never had the speed re-calibrated after mounting the big tires. There was no sense getting a ticket, she figured.

The Whale loped comfortably down the road, eating the miles up, with the big 454 engine turning over a lazy 1800 rpm. About an hour later, she glanced at the gas gauge and noticed that she was getting low on gas on tank number one. She flipped the switch to tank two, and it was also low. Less than a quarter tank. Slightly alarmed now, Emma flipped the switch to tank number three and got big-eyed when she saw it was on "E", almost!
Emma whipped out a Montana map, and checked it with one eye as she drove. Hmmm. The small town of Peckerwood was about 20 miles ahead. She turned the map to the index and saw that it had a population of about 20,000. Surely there would be a gas station open there, even at night.

Less than a half-hour later, Peckerwood rolled into view, and sure enough, a mile later, she saw a small gas station on the right side of the road with as easy-off exit.
Emma pulled The Whale next to the ancient pumps, got out and started filling up. As the pump ding-ding-dinged happily away, she went inside and bought some Beer Nuts and a bottle of Yoo Hoo Chocolate soda.

While she was inside, Carl got up, and heeding the call of nature, exited the back door and sleepily walked to the men's room at the side of the station. Because he was still sleepy, he simply sat down on the throne, relaxed, took care of business, and fell asleep.
Emma paid for the 65 gallons of gas, stuck her snacks and drink into the console holder, fired up the engine, and drove off down the road. She was happy that no snoring sounds were coming from the back. This usually meant that Carl was deeply asleep, laying on his side, with his sizable nose buried in the pillow.

However, in this case, Carl had his nose leaning against the wall of the toilet, right next to some scribbling that read, 'FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL DEBBIE AT 555-1212.

About an hour later, Carl was rudely awakened by some thumping on the door. "Hey, buddy! You havin' a barbecue in there? I got a customer here who needs to use the restroom."
Carl rubbed the sleep from his eyes, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and walked outside, blinking in the glare of the large gas station mercury-vapor lights. He looked around for the Suburban, but didn't see it anywhere. So he walked around the station, then looked up and down the street. No Suburban. And the small diner across the street only had two semis in the parking lot.
He walked into the office, where a white-haired man sat at the desk, reading a copy of Field and Stream, and looked up: "Well, I'm glad you made it out of the crapper. For a minute there, I thought you had fallen in."
"Nope. Just fell asleep at the controls, old timer. Say, you didn't see a big red Suburban around here, did you?"
The old timer scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Yup. About an hour ago. A nice lady filled up like she was fueling the Exxon Valdez, bought some munchies, and took off, headin' north. Is that your ride?"
Carl groaned. "Yeah. At least, it was. Maybe I should have told her I was takin' a pit stop. Well, if it's OK with you, can I just wait here until she figures out I'm gone?"
"Sure. Pull up a chair and have a magazine. I got Field and Stream, Off-Road and Hooters Illustrated. Take your pick."

Carl read all three magazines, drank six sodas, and looked at the clock. Over three hours had passed.

Meanwhile, Emma reached the Canadian border, and thought about waking Carl up, but figured she would let the poor guy sleep. She cross the border on highway 91 south of Lethbridge with no problems. The guard just waved her through. She drove north into Alberta, referring to her map every now and then, with the radio playing some nice, pleasant country music. It wasn't until the first light of dawn cracked over the horizon, that she stopped at a roadside diner for breakfast, and went back to wake Carl up.

***
Carl and the old-timer (his name was Fred) talked during the night, and the conversation was pleasant, since they both had an interest in hunting, fishing, off-roading and scantily clad statuesque women. Fred was the owner of the station, and he was getting ready to retire.
He had a nice little business. Pumped about 14,000 gallons a month, and did a lot of repair work on the side, mostly for the local 4x4 people in the area. Fred showed Carl around the shop, and he was impressed with the four big Snap-On tool boxes filled to the brim with clean tools, a modern Coats tire changer, a Millermatic 200 MIG welder, two lifts, large steel work benches, a ceiling mounted chain hoist, chop saws, a tubing bender, a small heli-arc machines in the corner, a full-sized sand blaster cabinet and a 30 ton vertical press.
"Whew! Nice set-up, Fred. And you're gonna walk away from all this?"
"Well, I been at it for over 40 years, and own some property. So I figure it's time to do some serious fishing and learn how not to put in 12 hour days."
Carl thought real hard for a minute or two. "Say, what are you askin' for this place?"
Fred scratched his chin again, and looked around his shop. "Well, I figure it's worth a hundred thou', but I'll take forty for the whole works, tools and all."
Carl let out a low whistle. "Forty thousand for all this? Including the Snap-ons?"
"You see, Carl, this here is a small town. There's enough work to keep one good mechanic and a helper busy, and that's about it. The gas income pays for the utilities and such, and I knock down about 30 grand a year on repairs and mechanical stuff. So it ain't no Fort Knox, but a fella can make a decent living. Why? Are you interested?"
This stopped Carl right in his tracks. "I'm not sure. Me and the missus have been on the road for the better part of the last seven years, and we got a house back in Ohio that's paid for and rented out. And I sorta been thinkin' about gettin' a place where I can plant my feet and maybe tinker on some projects. This looks like it just might be the ticket. I'll talk with Emma about it. If she ever gets back, that is."

It took Emma a full day to back-track and figure out where Carl might be, and she pulled into the station, tires screeching, eyes all big. "Carl! I've found you. You've been lost!"
"No I ain't, woman. You been lost. I know exactly where I been. Say, you look a little bit frazzled and tired. Why don't ya come on in here and Fred will pour you some hot coffee and fix ya up a pastrami sandwich."
Over coffee and an excellent, juicy pastrami sandwich, Emma met Fred, and Carl gave her the pitch.
She thought long and hard. "Do you really want to settle down, dear? Because if you do, I think I'm ready. And if it doesn't work out, well, we can always go back on the road again."
Carl beamed. "Fred, if Emma is willing to pump a little gas now and then, I think we might have us a deal here!"

***

One week later, Carl and Emma stood outside of the gas station, and looked with pride at the new sign which had just been painted over the old sign. It read "CARL & EMMA'S GAS STATION & FIX-IT SHOP."

Carl breathed a sigh of satisfaction: "You know, Emma. this could be the start of something big."

[SuperBuickGuy]

That is the last one. Thanks for reading them, I hope you enjoyed them

[Deaf Bob]

I sure did!

Relate to too much, unfortunately, fortunately...

[SuperBuickGuy]

Back to updates of the real white whale

I've been collecting parts, and outside of a water tank, I'm about ready to dive back in so this is done before NWOR (northwest overland rally in late June)

First
heat

diesel heaters have become very popular because there are some good Chinese ones available

Of course, cooling, I found in the last 'burb that this powered fan is more then enough to keep the air moving and cooler inside

also the water pump is there. The next thing is the powered vent, seat heaters, decent stereo, HAM radio, and wiring for the solar panels. Also there will be a side cabinet that houses the heater, water tank and the spigot for a sink (that will attach outside). I have to order a new roof awning, my wife stole the batwing....

[SuperBuickGuy]

Finally back to this... but it's mostly forced. 250k miles and pretty much all the controls need replacement in the dash HVAC


though the first problem was the plug for the headlights....



bottom left of that picture is the heat control - it was fine, but since I had it all apart for a door error code in the controls - replace them both


finally this


I'm still digging to get the fan out - but time was out tonight. I've spent the last couple days clearing brush so if we get a long, hot, dry summer and the worst happens (fire) - there's nothing readily ignitable.... that means the the hemlock torches are on the ground - now just clean up and brush burn Funny thing is you'll never be able to tell other then dead, trees won't be in my skyline. Hemlocks are dying off due to some bug - what happens is they have these dense-brush branches that once defoliated got up like a sparky match. The fix is drop the tree, burn the branches and give away the firewood. At this point they're not commercially salvageable because they die from the inside out.

[SuperBuickGuy]

this has to be done by the end of May for a trip east, then there's another trip at the end of June, a wheeling trip in August, and potentially (presuming we don't take a friend's Bonanza) to the Reno Air races in September ,,, heat, water, vent, upgrades to the propane situation, a sleeping space....

[Deaf Bob]

Busy busy.