Day Two: Trapped
Thankfully I wasn’t trapped between these two semis, just trapped in… uh, actually, I don’t know where. Somewhere in eastern OR. I later found out it was Hermiston of Hermiston melon fame. Seriously, that’s a thing.
Up at 5:58. Time to get moving.
Since Shimmy seemed to do alright on the back of the rig I had left a cinnamon roll out overnight figuring it would probably also do okay. I forgot to mention the face-sized pastries at the Space Age, holy shit, these things were the largest donuts I’d ever seen. I actually asked the station attendant if they had any that weren’t the size of my head and, clearly insulted, she scoffed and said no.
Even the gloves were cartoonishly large.
Naturally, my cinnamon bun being the size of a small cat or large rodent, I had some left over for the next morning. It went well with day old coffee and a lingering orange from the Jo Dad U Da Bub Jacksons. The orange, btw, was the one redeeming quality of the sad-apple breakfast I’d bought at the Jacksons the day before. It was surprisingly good.
I spent the bulk of the morning making calls to repair shops and fielding texts from fretting relatives. I also had the now unavoidable and unenviable task of calling my soon-to-be-employer and letting them know that I was not going to make it. No amount of sleep-inhibiting substances would make my car go any faster than the meager 25 mph it could currently muster. There are about 7 people who could’ve taken my call (big leadership team) and the one guy I got said to send an email once I had a clearer ETA. Will do.
Finding a mechanic on a monday probably wouldn’t have been too hard, but it was Memorial Day (do you capitalize the D in Memorial Day?). The Dodge dealership service center (where I really wanted to take it) was, of course, closed. I might miss my 6/3 start date, but that didn’t mean I was going to sit idly by and wait for some shit to open. No. I had to get there ASAP. The clock was still running and every passing minute put me deeper in the red with my new employer. Too far into the red and I’d be out of a job.
The only people open for service were semi shops. I tried Freightliner figuring as they had briefly produced Sprinters they might have the know-how. Got a friendly guy who told me that they were two weeks out but gave me a couple of names to call. I tried the first one and they said they’d see me.
To protect their identities, I’m going to use fake names. You’ll see why on Day 3.
A few people who, though not mechanics, had plenty of lived experience said that what I was describing sounded like a fuel filter issue. Okay. I know jack shit about cars,* so sounded reasonable to me, especially since multiple people came to the same conclusion. The shop I called, H.D. Santiago (not their real name) said they could change the fuel filter for me. Could you do it right now? Yeah, we can squeeze you in, do you have the part? No. Okay, it might take us… I’LL GET THE PART.
*Bookending anecdote about knowing fuck-all about cars (also, does the asterisk come after the comma or before?). At the beginning of this journey 12 years ago (I’ll get to that full story later) I passed through SLC on my way to Oregon. I stopped to visit Stephen and Joanne, the funny and adventurous parents of my friend Dory who I’d met earlier that year (2009) in Guatemala. (I’ll get to the story of Maya Pedal later also). The three of us went out for a hike and on the ride back, in a Volkswagen I think, there was a squeal. Stephen asked me what I thought it was. Put on the spot I felt obligated to give some sort of answer and I just pulled something out of thin air. Stephen disagreed and said what he thought it was: a belt (which was probably much closer to the truth). Joanne laughed, “HA! Two men who don’t know what they’re talking about pretending that they do.” You got me Joanne, I didn’t and still don’t know anything about cars. Though future me was about to get a crash course.
I limp my car over to the Napa annnnnd they’re closed. Shit, should’ve called ahead. Silver lining? There’s a bar (I think) across the street that has precisely the aesthetic I want for the exterior walls of my tiny house. Loved the bleeding dye look of the weather-stained wood, the barn door design, and the barn light on this building. I guess I’m building a tiny artisanal barn.
Twinsies.
Several people have intentionally, or not, given names to my rig. People have asked me what I call it. Don’t have a name yet. The trip will likely produce a clear answer. Here are some of the suggestions:
Moon Unit (this came from Todd, and if you know Todd, you’d be like “oh, that’s so Todd”)
Truck Wagon (courtesy of Michael)
Ho-Ho-Hotel (Eleva)
Limpy (Paige)
USS Danny
That last one was a suggestion from I-don’t-know-who, after they commented that I was building a ship. They said what will you name your ship? I don’t know. Usually, people name their ships after the person or place that they are sailing to. Ah, well, that would make it the USS Danny. Or is it just the Danny. Don’t know, never named a boat before.
Aww, Danny.
He’s 6, in case you were wondering.
Back to the saga.
It’s 11:34, I call AutoZone, their Google listing said they were open, but then again so did Napa’s. They’re open. Limp over there and get the after-market part. They don’t seem particularly confident that it’s the right part, which doesn’t sit well with me.
I head toward the shop, but I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I don’t have the right part. Travel in limp mode is so cumbersome that I want to avoid any extraneous trips. There’s an O’Reilly auto parts store across the street, so I double back to go there. Park in the closed bank’s lot next door out of convenience and walk over. On my way, there is a dead cat, which strikes me as a bad omen. It doesn’t look like it was hit, it’s frozen in a standing position, though it’s on its side. Flies everywhere. Terrible smell. My curiosity kept me as long as my nose could stand it. I would normally post a picture, but I know my mom is reading this and that would upset her. She is a huuuuuuuuge cat person. (Love you mom 😘)
I buy the duplicate part at O’Reilly, it’s clearly the same exact part and same price, but better safe than sorry. I can always return it. I tell them about the cat. They’re not pleased.
Limp over to the shop and it’s way back in an industrial section by some junkyards and a “transfer station.” I always thought that was a peculiar euphemism for a dump.
The first thing that strikes me is how close they are to what looks like awesome hiking, I mean it’s right there. I imagine doing a hike while they change the filter. Also, the junkyard next door seems to be exclusively littered with cool old cars. I imagine wandering through it. Neither of these things happened.
I pull up and am greeted by Hernando (again, fake name), the H in H.D. Santiago, he tells me to pull my van over to a different building. This place is a massive compound with several buildings and a ton of semis in various states of repair (or disrepair). I park it and am greeted by the guy who’ll fix it. No formal introductions, but I later learn that his fake name is Juan. Juan tells me to pull forward to the side of the building. Oh, and this is all in Spanish. Mine is basic and very rusty, but thankfully we can communicate.
Pop the hood and he starts looking around with a flashlight. Then he jumps under the car with his light. I could tell that he wasn’t sure where the filter lived, so I pointed it out to him. I knew this because, while in the parking lot of the AutoZone I watched a YouTube video on how to change your filter yourself. At the beginning of the video I was like ‘oh, I could do this,’ by the middle I was less sure, and by the end I knew that I needed a professional. But at least I could tell him definitively where it was. Under here, I pointed. Cuanto tiempo? Una, dos horas. Okay, where can I get some lunch around here? They’re making carne asada up there, just go get some. You guys have your own restaurant? He laughs, no, they’re just making it, go ahead. Can I pay you guys? No, don’t worry about it.
No restaurant, but definitely commercial kitchen equipment. Hernando is watching a remake of Chips on a giant flat screen, while Roberto (I wish I could use his real name, it’s so much better) is skillfully making enough food to feed a small platoon. I sheepishly announce that Juan said I could join them, I offer to pay, they say not to worry about it and offer me a beer. Don’t drink. We’ve got pop. It was diet Dr. Pepper, blehk. Didn’t want to be rude, so I took one. The tacos were baller. So so good, and Roberto kept insisting that I eat more. Um, yes please. I love Latin American hospitality. The crew is curious, but not too curious, about my rig and what I’m doing. So I briefly tell them the story. I get a fist bump from one of the guys who’s impressed. I eat and ask if I can go hike while they work, it’s clear Hernando doesn’t really want me to do that. Can I go check out the junkyard? He doesn’t really want me to do that either. All good, plenty of amazing things to document at their sprawling shop.
I fell in love with this mirrored surface.
This one was interesting too, but not quite as flashy
Don’t worry, I was respectful. I leaned over the fence for this one.
Of course, I couldn’t help but take some shots of my own rig. I’m in love with it.
I come back to the van to see that the part’s been installed. The old one is left sitting out. I find Juan and he explains that the old one is clean and new. He left it out because he wanted to make sure that I saw it’s condition and, moreover, that he had actually done his job. He tipped it to pour out clean, clear, yellowish fluid (diesel?). Limpio. Fuck, okay. What else could it be? Let’s check the air filter. Okay. Also limpio. Son of a bitch. There goes my easy fix.
This all points to a much larger, and more costly, problem. I’m now fairly certain that some sensor somewhere got triggered. I was warned about this. The sensors, they’ll rack up a hefty bill. Goddamn it. I’m about to run out of my vacation pay, I went over budget on the build (who am I kidding, there was no budget), and I’m clearly going to miss the start of my job, i.e. inbound cash. Fingers crossed this isn’t one of those 5K repairs I’d been warned would pop up every now and again.
I check in with Hernando. He’s arriba in his office. He says to pull over to where lunch was served and Robert would pull the codes with their digital reader. Quick side note, I thought it was interesting that Roberto kept being called Robert, was it his preference? For my benefit? Curious. Anyway, I pull the car back to the other building and Roberto tries running the code. Can’t read it. Their software is for semis and my Sprinter is a whole nother animal. Damn. But you can get a read out at one of the parts stores in town, maybe they’ll have the part for you too.
I limp back to O’Reilly. Cat’s gone, thank goodness. They pull the codes and the clerk doesn’t know what any of them mean. K, not helpful. I drive across the street to AutoZone, return the extra filter that didn’t get used and have them pull the codes. This time it’s clear that I’m dealing with someone knowledgeable. Not the guy who pulled the code, but the guy that guy asked to interpret the digital tea leaves. You’re going to need to take this to a dealer, it’s probably that your DPF is clogged and needs to be cleaned or replaced, but they’ve got specialized software that will do a deeper dive and give you a full diagnosis. Dealer was closed, holiday remember? Tomorrow.
I text Hernando and let him know that I’ll have to take it to the Dodge dealership. What do I owe him. Not too worried about it, whatever I think is fair. Do I want to park my rig at their shop overnight? I’m good, just going to drive out into the desert. I’ll swing by in the morning, how early you open? 8, come by after you go to the dealership. Okay.
The night is mine. Might as well explore.
Driving around I see there’s a movie theater that’s open and showing A Quiet Place II. Loved the first one, so that was an easy choice. Bought a ticket for 8 and kept rolling. Down the street a little there’s a nursery, Kopacz, I think it’s called. They’re closed, but I’ve been wanting to find some fresh cut eucalyptus to hang inside the camper. Funny, they are on Eucalyptus street. I’ll come back in the AM. Something tells me to drive a little further, I think it was the roofline of an old house I caught out of the corner of my eye. Cool house. Keep going and then I see it off in the distance. A butte akin to the plateau in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, albeit much smaller.
I had to go to it. It called to me.
I circled around the butte for a while looking for a way to drive up, the power lines convinced me that there must be a road up there. But there was none. After making this assessment, I decided to go get some take out and come back to eat my dinner atop it. Went to a place called Midway, a little seedy, but they had a decent selection. Got a salad and came back.
The spot where I parked was alongside a field and playground at the base of the butte. The playground was closed for renovation. It had a Conestoga wagon, lol.
I slowly made my way up the butte, a short hike that I took twice as long to make for the sheer number of photos I took. And now a slideshow:
I didn’t have long to eat before the movie started, but I savored it for as long as I could. There’s probably 20 minutes of trailers.
I got to the theater at 8:12, sat in the lot for a minute to take notes (lots of daily note taking, too much weed smoking in college). A security guard told me I couldn’t sleep there. I have a ticket for 8. Oh, well the theater is about to close, we only do 10 mins of previews. Whoops.
The movie was great, I won’t give anything away, but the girl is a total BADASS. And they’re definitely making a third. John Krasinski, what a stud. Not as much of a stud as Shimmy, of course. Who, btw, is still on my rig as I write from Boise (yes, I do eventually make it out of Oregon).
After the movie I squatted in a McDonalds parking lot to internet. There were a number of other folks clearly doing the same. Then out to the desert to find a place to slumber.
I didn’t have to drive for too long before I found the perfect spot, next to water, big gravel landing spot, no one around anywhere. As I parked a cop stopped and shone their light on me in the cab. I smiled. They turned off their light and drove away.