The Story
Thought I would post a little travelogue describing the journey to get my Mercury. It may ramble for some long while, but at least my co-pilot can't say I never did it. The title is part of an inside joke, and we'll cover it off toward the end. By way of introduction though, we should start with a brief outline of how we got on the road to Oregon and why.
It had been a long time since wrenching on my 66 Pontiac convertible I used to own, so I bought a 1966 Mercury Monterey Breezeway sedan after finishing up the renovations on the house. I bought the Merc on e-Bay. From a guy in Oregon. Klamath Falls, Oregon to be precise. And now I had to go and get it. Now, those mothers out there are already asking why did I have to go and get it, why not just ship it home. Well, apart from actually wanting to go on a road trip, it would have cost me a couple of thousand dollars more than going and getting it. The round trip was slightly north of 5,100 miles. It had to be done in 5 days or less.
Recruiting someone to ride shotgun turned up James and (a) once he'd secured spousal consent (b) I'd gotten the export paperwork to US Customs (c) drummed up the balance of payment in greenbacks and (d) a fair number of other sundry items like arranging trailer rentals, making sure the truck was fitted out and other travel plans, we left on 3/22/06 at 8pm for Klamath Falls. Oregon.
The route took us across the Canada/US border at Sarnia/Port Huron along I-69, I-94, I-80 and into the back country of Nevada and Oregon to get to the pick-up point. we were aiming to be at the Uhaul shop by noon on the 24th - 40 hours to get 2550 miles. Quick math meant we'd need to average about 70mph and drive straight through... we filled up the tank before hitting the highway, grabbed an extra-large Timmies coffee and headed out. The drive to the border was uneventful and we made it across by 11pm and followed the I-69 to the I-94 around such famous Michigan towns as Flint and Lansing and then hooked into the I-80 on the east side of Chicago. We made our first of many fuel stops in Mokena Illinois around 4am in the morning on the 23rd. So far, so good.
The sun came up as we were nearing our crossing of the Mississippi, and after pulling over for the first of many bio breaks we caught the sun coming up behind us to start the Thursday. Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah and Nevada lay ahead before the day would be done.
The Mississippi. The border between Illinois and Iowa. The difference between Davenport and Rock Island. This shot is from the I-280 looking north up the river to Rock Island Illinois on the right bank and Davenport Iowa on the left bank. You can see the Soo railway line bridge and the island near left is the site of the Credit Island Park & Golf Course. Crossing into Iowa was the start of the "straight roads".
Iowa's a pretty nice part of the world as you can see in the next snap. The problem with the interstate is that it generally doesn't take you anywhere near anything interesting; but that's the price you pay for fast and direct routes. The morning also provided a burst of energy followed very shortly thereafter by the body's natural response of 'you were up all night, now you'll pay'. The coffee had gone cold and the breakfast bars were a little off-putting so James kept flipping through the cd's and I kept driving.
The hours rolled by fairly uneventfully. Not a lot of traffic out here on a Thursday other than some truckers and the odd soul on their way to who knows where. Not very many interesting bumper stickers. No cute signs. Not a whole heck of a lot of anything really. Just miles of farm fields along a straight road. The second fill-up came in Bluffs County and that would get us mostly across the next two states. Des Moines came and went. The weather was good, if a bit on the cool side for the end of march. And the road kept on goin' straight.
But nothing like the flat straight road... Nebraska. Now interestingly enough, the state flower of Nebraska is goldenrod, known around my neck of the woods as quite a nasty little allergen, but to each his own. The border between Iowa and Nebraska is the Missouri river and the I-80 crosses at Omaha Nebraska. Once past Omaha, the road became mile after mile of flat, straight tarmac, occasionally interrupted by a slight elevation change or overpass. The I-80 turned southwest for a while before resetting its needle at Lincoln, due west for the coast. This is farm country; wide open with fields sprawling as far as you could see. Lancaster, Seward, York, Hamilton, Hall; county after county rolled by.
We hit some weather halfway across. A little cloud, the threat of some snow and the temperature dropped below zero for a bit, but it went as quickly as it had come and still we were crossing Nebraska. The third tank of gas came at Sidney Nebraska. Odd assortment of locals and travelers milled about inside the gas station's store, picking up snacks and items that I suppose passed for souvenirs. James had done the last stretch of driving while I caught cat naps, so it was time to switch back and make our way to Wyoming.
After Sidney, the skies brightened and we picked up the union pacific line on the north side of the interstate. A few trains rumbled east and west and kept us company as we passed more miles of wide open country. Oil derricks dotted the fields, and we strained west to see if we could make out the mountains we hoped were getting closer.
You cross into Wyoming at a place called Pine Bluffs, aptly named for the small rock outcroppings (yes, covered in pine trees), where a sign welcomes visitors with all the imagery of the old wild west. Once through the odd geology of this area, we were again crossing some fairly uninteresting landscapes, although the clear skies and the nearness of the mountains were keeping spirits up and eyes open. We skirted Cheyenne and then began climbing into the foothills, the real mountains off in the distance. Laramie was approaching, as was dusk.
We were climbing constantly now as the sun was setting. The varied terrain and the sight of a town here and there dotting the side of the interstate helped the tedium. We passed a very strange town: Sinclair, Wyoming. Strange not because it seemed to be a refinery surrounded by small homes, but because the first thing you would see as you drove east into Sinclair along Lincoln Avenue is the word "BAR" in bright red neon. I suppose the most important things come first...
Just west of Sinclair, Rawlins and Wamsutter, the sun finally gave up for the day and we were back to driving in the dark. We pulled off in Evanston Wyoming for a tank of gas and some dinner. It had been a long time since we'd had real food, and we both needed a break from the truck and the road. After topping the tank at the Chevron, we ate at Lotty's family restaurant, and it was good. James hadn't seen the country gravy before, but the biscuits and chicken fried steak went down good. James took over behind the wheel for the next stint through the mountains into Salt Lake City and across Utah to the wilds of Nevada. Only sixteen more hours of driving and we'd hopefully be to our destination.
I woke up as James was trying to negotiate the downgrade into Salt Lake City. His eyes were wider than I'd ever seen and the traffic, well the trucks, were barreling along at well over the posted speed limit. I guess we were waiting for 'the big one', but it never did happen, and we finally emerged into the lights of Salt Lake. As some of the frenzy died down, I mapped James through the spaghetti ribbons of highway in the middle of town, and once clear of the Mormon stronghold, I dropped back into a doze while James crossed the great salt lake.
The next time I woke up it was around midnight. I don't really remember the time, but that seems about right. James was done. I think there'd been a few near nod-offs while he was crossing the lake. It's pretty mesmerizing in the dark, especially with the waves on either side of the highway reflecting back in the headlights. We were now in Nevada though, so he'd done an entire state on his own, and kept us off the rock walls and out of the ditch. Wendover Nevada, where we stopped for fuel, has the distinction of being the only town we filled up in twice, both at the same filthy gas station, but beggars can't be choosers. It's also about the closest town to the Bonneville salt flats speedway, and that's probably why it's still on a map. We stocked up on more snacks, Coke and Red Bull and hit the road to Winnemucca.
Under four hours later, and after a tunnel through the mountains just east of Carlin, we arrived in Winnemucca. It was Friday 2 a.m. and everything was closed up. We needed to top up the tank before striking out north into the back country of Oregon, so we loaded up on gas and weak coffee at Winner's corner gas station, pointed the nose up US-95 and headed out into the black. No cars. No lights. No houses. No nothing. Half an hour or so up the road we hung left onto SR-140 and were on our way to Oregon. Now this part of SR-140 is a dangerous road at night. I counted about a dozen jack rabbits that we actually hit (the worst being the one that thumped the floorboard under James' feet) which was a small percentage of the ones we saw darting around on the road and on the shoulders. But worst were the deer. Every five minutes or so the headlights would catch the eyeballs of a small group of deer standing not 30 feet off the road. All it would have taken was one to spook across our path, and the fun trip would have become un-fun fast. Johnny Cash on the cd, James humming and singing along, it's a wonder we made it.
It seemed like forever we were in that eerie corridor of nothingness, but as the sun started to break the dead darkness, we hung a left at Denio Junction, pulled over and evacuated our bladders. It had been 32 hours since Dundas Ontario, and while we'd enjoyed some sleep on the way across, the weariness was starting to show. It was cold. We were almost there. It was desolate. We started off again. The sun started up again.
As we zigged and zagged through the high altitude desert that fills this part of Nevada and Oregon, we finally saw another soul on the road; it had been well over four hours. As we approached, we made out a van parked on the opposite shoulder. It was a non-descript Chev, but as we neared it, the headlights flashed. We didn't slow down or stop, but looked at each other thinking something along the lines of "that's how people disappear".
Not too long after and just past the border between Nevada into Oregon, as I was driving up a slight slope, the road started to turn a bit to the right and a warning sign announced that there was a steep'ish hill down in our future. The sign told no lies. The road rather abruptly swung hard right and clung to the side of a modest mountain. The road was covered in small gravel and sand, leftover from the winter maintenance, and we skidded to a stop. I couldn't believe how narrow and steep this was. James snapped some photos that really don't do the grade any justice. We slowly made our way to the bottom and pulled over. All I could think was how we were going to haul the Merc back up that...
SR-140 kept going. We made a jog at US-395 for a couple of minutes and then swung back west at the main intersection of Lakeview, Oregon. The road continued but now we were back in the mountains proper and the scenery was tremendous. We hit a little snow between Bly and Beatty, but as we followed the river through that stretch the flakes didn't seem to matter much. We were nearing Klamath Falls, and we were nearing 9 a.m.
The Red Balloon. A Uhaul dealer in Klamath Falls. We made it. After cruising down the main drag in Klamath Falls and hanging left on Summer's Lane we arrived at the Red Balloon Uhaul. It was just after 9am and the place had just opened. As such, the dude who was going to take care of the paperwork was just booting up the computers and getting organized for the day. We did see the trailer on the lot, which was reassuring. So we asked where the best spot was for some breakfast and were directed to the Black Bear Diner as the closest, so we reversed course back down South 6th Street to Kane. The food was great, the coffee kept coming, the service very friendly, the bathrooms (sadly) were lees than magnificent. It's funny how the focus of your expectations is transferred to the quality of the facilities the longer you go without sleep. After filling up on eggs, flapjacks, and all the other breakfast staples, we got back to the Red Balloon to find out the computers were still acting up. After doing the paperwork, on paper, we hitched up and the Merc's owner's dad dropped down to direct us to the car. As advertised, the Merc had the few blemishes described in the listing and wouldn't go into reverse. No worries, we loaded her up on the trailer, exchanged the remaining cash that had been traveling securely in my jeans since we'd left, double-checked the tie-downs, thanked everyone for their hospitality (but no we'd just eaten and needed to get going) and got back on the road.
Oddly we didn't take any pictures in Klamath Falls. Not that it was a conscious decision to ignore the place, but when the only things you see are the strip, which looks exactly like any other American strip of fast food joints, gas stations, small businesses, parking lots and banks (lots of banks) there's really nothing to take a lasting memory of. We topped up the tank for the road to Winnemucca, Nevada. Back the way we'd come. We'd discussed heading due south to pick up the I-80 at Reno and then cutting back west, and had even given some thought to heading northeast to get onto US-2 and cut up to Alberta and take the Trans-Can back. But with the brains churning at half measure we took the approach that we were better off with the known devil and slipped away to "the hill" with an extra 8000 lbs looking over our collective shoulders. It was noon Friday.
The first part of the road back was pretty uneventful, just a little slower as we adjusted to our cargo. This might be a good time to tell you a bit about the truck - it was a 2005 F-350 crew cab 4x4 with a 5.4l V8. It had pretty much all the toys you'd need, except for massaging seats and an espresso machine. We were getting about 800km to the tank on the way out, that would suffer a bit on the way back.
We snaked back along the 140 through Lakeview, then Adel and then out into the wilderness. No traffic, no towns, no people. Then we got to "the hill". Now, I'd like to reiterate, it really doesn't look like that much from the pictures, but we did stop to steel our nerves, check the straps and hitch before trekking back up it.
So to try and give you some perspective I pulled an aerial shot looking northeast from our good friends at Google earth to show you our wicked little hill. You can see at the top that there's a bit of a nasty turn. When we had reached the top, we pulled off to the side of the road to check over everything again and with a satisfactory inspection, we drove east to try and get to the Red Lion Inn and Casino in Winnemucca before the sun set to curtain us in darkness again.
The driving now had become pretty quiet. We pulled over one more time to fix one of the tire straps that had come loose. While we were stopped, some guy in an Expedition from somewhere that wasn't Oregon pulled over in front of us (he was heading east too) and got out to ask directions to somewhere I hadn't heard of. I mentioned to him that we were bout 3000 miles from home and that we couldn't help, other than to let him look at our maps. He said no thanks and got back in his SUV and drove off. It struck me that he didn't ask if we needed some help or anything, but then people is people. We got back to US-95 just be fore 4pm and made the right turn to Winnemucca.
We pulled into the Red Lion just before 6pm. The parking lot was pretty full, so we wiggled truck and Merc into the back and took up about 4 spots to give us enough room to get back out early in the morning. We grabbed our bags and went to check in. The place was nice enough, room was clean, beds looked way too good, but rather than collapse then and there we grabbed a quick shower each, logged into the laptop to send out some "we're still alive" emails to family, and headed down to the restaurant to get some dinner.
The beer was delightful. Been a long while since we'd enjoyed a cold one. We grabbed a table in the dining room which was a strange set-up just off the casino floor and had club sandwiches; nothing else looked that great. After the third MGD, the eyes were getting very heavy. We wandered back through the casino to have a go at the slots, have another couple of beers, but by 9pm and just after the crowd dynamic changed we headed back to the room to put heads on pillows and get some sleep. I took a side trip to the parking lot to make sure all the locks were on and that no one had decided to do anything stupid, then got some sleep. Don't remember James' snoring, don't remember the alarm going off, don't remember getting up and going out to check on the Merc, but around 6am I was outside checking the rig over and getting some fresh air.
Now this is the start of "the flat". While we were packing up to get on the I-80 for home I made a tour around the trailer to make sure all the gear was in working order and noted that one of the tires on the trailer had no air pressure. It didn't look flat, so I checked it again, and no PSI. I figured it had been low since we'd left Klamath, so on the way to the interstate we pulled into a gas station to fill the tank and the tire. After both were taken care of I could hear the hiss I was hoping I wasn't going to hear. Confirmed by James, I pulled out the paperwork and began a phone exchange with a lovely and very helpful girl at Uhaul. She indicated they'd call a service supplier in Winnemucca who'd be over in 30 minutes to fix us up and get us on our way. Well 30 minutes was more like an hour, but it was Saturday morning at 7:30 and I'm sure we were getting Dave out of bed. He showed up and told us we'd have to get to his shop across town to get things back in working order. We followed. And this is another of those times that exposure to mass media works against your better judgment, since I was getting the feeling that we'd never get out of this industrial area and back home. But we arrived, the wheel was pulled off the trailer, the nail was found, the patch was set, the wheel went back on and we were back in business. Many thanks to the crew at the Tire Factory. I still have the nail.
Noon Saturday. Back on the I-80 eastbound. Sun cloud mix. Mountains and desert. And the mountains were spectacular. Mount Gilbert, Grey's Peak, Pilot Peak. And then we were back in Wendover Nevada at the Chevron for more gas before crossing the great salt lake.
As mentioned earlier, Wendover likely is only around because of the Bonneville speedway on the salt flats. If we hadn't had to get back I would have pulled off to have a wander around and souvenir a bit, but the best I could manage was a well timed photo from the highway.
As Saturday wound along, we crossed the great salt lake heading for Wyoming and the next sojourn through the mountains. This is a unique part of the planet; two ribbons of road with the feeling that you're suspended over the lake, and with the breeze picking up the water into whitecaps, paired with the flatness, it added to the sensation that you were going to run out of road before getting to the mountains on the other side.
At some point we were trying to figure out if we had enough of a head-start on the return journey to pull off for another night in a hotel, but as the day wore on and we did the calcs it became clear we'd need to push pretty hard to get back for the Monday, so we went through Salt Lake City (far nicer in the daylight) and back into the hills. The haul back up this road to the plateau above in Wyoming was a slow climb, but once to the top and with the sun retreating again we were joined on the road by a couple of crazy drivers. Jerk 1 had raced up behind Jerk 2 and was a little put-off by the slow manner by which Jerk 2 moved out of the way. So, for the next 20 miles or so it was racing ahead of each other and slamming on the brakes, hand gestures and some pretty worrisome near bumper cars. It took a bit of the splendour away from the rock formations, but we managed to grab a snap anyway, before the day was done. Along this stretch too, we were passed by a line of gravel trucks that did their best to pelt us with stones, one of which managed to hit the windshield of the Merc, spidering a crack in the tinted portion. Our first incident, but now at least it was my car and we'd gotten the first ding out of the way.
We traveled through the high ground of Wyoming as the sun went down to get us closer to the start of Sunday. The weather stayed sunny and cool and we stopped in rock springs for a tank of gas and a bite to eat. The food was good. but then we hit the Exxon for some fuel, and while filling up a guy, with most of the glass in his car shot / kicked out, pulled in and we again felt as though we were in a David Lynch film waiting for something really bad to happen. It didn't. But it was late and the grey matter was over-analyzing everything about these surroundings, so we got stocked up on junk food for the night and got back on the road heading for Cheyenne.
The night was cold, and boring. The tunes had been played one too many times, the lack of a second good night's sleep was wearing on both of us and then we hit the fog. Coming down out of the high country into Cheyenne to land back on the great plains we drove for an hour through pea soup fog. We found a truck ahead of us and stayed behind it just so you could see the brake lights on the trailer, hoping that would provide enough time to avoid the accident we both believed was imminent. Nothing happened, and once we'd descended far enough from the higher altitude, we could see the lights of Cheyenne. It came and went. And it was now Sunday. In need of some rest to get through the remainder of the night, we looked for a town to grab some winks and fill the tank, as we were near to running on fumes. The map suggested Chappell, Nebraska. So we waited for the exit and pulled off hoping to find both requirements met. As we pulled up and over the bridge for US-385, we found a town that was completely asleep. We meandered through the town and not a light was on anywhere. No open gas stations, nothing.
Back to the I-80 to see if there was anything at the next town. The next exit in Big Springs held some hope as right off the highway we saw a T/A truck stop and pulled in. I got the tank filled, some coffee and more snacks and we parked ourselves (too close to a light, according to the co-pilot) and drifted off for 60 minutes. When I woke up, turned on the truck, checked the trailer and popped the transmission into gear, I was greeted with a "what are you doing? you couldn't feel rested" series of gentle complaints, but reassuring shotgun James that all was well at hand, we got back on the road for Lincoln and beyond.
The morning broke with some sun and high cloud and snow on the sides on the road. We managed to make it to Lincoln and pulled off into a Cracker Barrel for some breakfast. The backs, legs and eyes were weary and even after shoveling as much food, juice and coffee into ourselves as we dared, and strolling around the parking lot, we knew we were still faced with the prospect of the rest of the flat state, Iowa, Illinois, Michigan and Ontario before the real rest would come. It was Sunday morning and after some quick figuring while pumping gas, it looked possible to get it all done in 24 more hours if all went well. Or we could arrive Monday night back home and have another night on the road. We agreed that we'd see where we were at and how we felt around dinner time and make the call then. Then Shania was on the cd player. Not sure how that happened but it seemed fitting.
The next stop for fuel happened in West Liberty, Iowa. It was late afternoon and we needed to figure out if we were going to drive straight through, which would get us home Monday morning, or have a night on the road somewhere west of Chicago and get home late Monday. I was feeling okay, but wasn't sure how another all-nighter would be. James I don't think cared one way or the other, since he was on shotgun duty for the trip back. We were sitting around the gas station at the exit to West Liberty, on Garfield Avenue and making another pit stop and reload on road food, and we decided to just head for home. If it became too much we'd just pull over and get a room and admit defeat. We probably should have opted for the hotel if we'd known what was ahead of us.
The sun set on Sunday and we were heading past Ottawa Illinois. Not far afterwards, as we were approaching Joliet, we stopped. Everyone was stopped. It was the start of a construction zone and everyone had to funnel though one lane as the I-80 was under repair. We were backed up for a couple of miles, but managed to get the scoop on what was going on from a trucker in the neighbouring lane. We crawled for what seemed like an eternity, but just as we'd cleared that and gotten some more road behind us we hit the mother of all construction zones south of Chicago. The uneven lanes, the narrow lanes, the unmarked lanes, the lack of signage, the speed at which we were being passed all made for an extremely stressful and near catastrophic crossing under lake Michigan. We found the exit for the I-94 which would take us up the east side of the lake and into Michigan and the construction ended.
We were both pretty tired now, that construction had taken the last of the good humour from us and replaced it with that ratty persona you get when there's no patience left. I knew from glancing at the map that we needed to switch onto the I-69 somewhere to loop up and around Flint Michigan to get over to Port Huron and across to Canada at Sarnia. What I didn't know was how much father along the I-94 that was, and we needed gas. It was late now, well really early on Monday actually. Maybe around 1am. Not sure. But we were on fumes and so I asked James to tell me what the exit number was for I-69 north. He scanned the map, and in his tired haze told me it was exit 38. That was impossible, since we were heading north/east on I-94 and the exit numbers were getting bigger (we were around 72). 38 was just no on. So I told him. and he told me there were lots of numbers around there, but the map said 38. I told him that was wrong again. So he lost it, and told me to read the (expletive) map myself. And he was quite justified in losing it, I'm quite sure I wasn't using any tact. So I fumbled with the map and tossed it back to him with my finger on the spot where exit number 108 was marked. And so we argued about that for about half an hour until the actual sign appeared. And all the way home from there, we discussed the quality of the maps we were given and our respective abilities to read them.
Safely now on the I-69, it was time for the last tank of fuel. We found the truck stop at Charlotte Michigan was still open, so we pulled in and I got the woman behind the bullet-proof glass to pas through the carousel a couple of big cups of coffee, after giving her the money first of course. That had been the only Fort Knox gas station we'd seen and figured it was a Michigan thing. We got back on the road and I guess the tension had been broken by the stop. The rest of the trip back to the border was a pretty humorous. The border on the other hand was pretty serious.
We got through the US side without any hiccups, it just took about 30 minutes to process the paperwork once I'd found the right building to be in. Friendly folks at customs too. The Canadian side was a different story. After a full search of the truck and the car, and the customs folks making you feel pretty much like a criminal, we managed to pay the duties and complete the paperwork and get onto the 402. As the sun was coming up it all got to be a bit much. After riding the rumble strips once too often for the co-pilot, we pulled off to get some coffee and have a break. Don't really remember too much of the trip from there back to Dundas. I remember dropping James off about 10am and then getting back to my place around 11. I had a shower and did not lie down on the bed right then, instead I dropped the trailer off at our local Uhaul shop, returned home and slept for 16 hours straight.
Tuesday came, the alarm went off and I went to work. I had a 66 Mercury Monterey Breezeway now. A great adventure, not soon to be repeated. Maybe...