Good idea Taro. I guess this is the first spin-off of Sea Knights' thread:
https://forum.ih8mud.com/chit-chat-section/557629-greasey-spoons.html
One for small brewery's would be cool too.
Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (2 Viewers)
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Good idea Taro. I guess this is the first spin-off of Sea Knights' thread:
https://forum.ih8mud.com/chit-chat-section/557629-greasey-spoons.html
One for small brewery's would be cool too.
Good idea Taro. I guess this is the first spin-off of Sea Knights' thread:
https://forum.ih8mud.com/chit-chat-section/557629-greasey-spoons.html
One for small brewery's would be cool too.
or mini road trips...I know he has inspired a few...including me
- Thread starter
- #263
I guess this is the first spin-off of Sea Knights' thread:
https://forum.ih8mud.com/chit-chat-section/557629-greasey-spoons.html
One for small brewery's would be cool too.
Greasy spoon eateries and small breweries go hand in hand. Both great ideas. I'll probably have a couple more low down diners to plug as my thread continues.
IMO there's nothing more inspiring or for that matter more therapeutic than a road trip, even if it's just a day trip driving through the countryside. Better than counseling or medication, and way cheaper.
Army is stable and very argumentative, which must mean that he's in recovery mode. I'm workin' on completing the road stop chapter, hope to post it later tonight. Thanks for all the well wishes for my Dad, and for keepin' the thread alive.
Carry on,
Lee
Great news on Army and the next chapter
I was beginning to worry about Army. He sounds a lot like my dad (also and Ag and was in the Army). When he is onery, he is doing better.
- Thread starter
- #266
Thanks men. Army is gonna be OK, I think.
Stand by for the exciting conclusion of Colorado Road Stop Girl. Gotta smuggle a cheeseburger into ICU for my Dad. Then will post it up.
yooper
SILVER Star
good news!
- Thread starter
- #268
Danger Will Robinson, AKA The Colorado Road Stop Girl--Part Three
The highway to Raton was closed for almost three hours that afternoon. We sit waiting in the 40, prairie winds gusting over us, rocking the truck. It's nippy but The Turtle stays surprisingly warm inside. So there we are, confined in a cozy space, plenty of soundtrack tunes, nowhere that we have to be, Moose Drool flowing, all the ingredients for getting acquainted in a hurry. By the end of hour one I know Gayla's entire life story.
She was born in Dillon, Montana, where her Dad raised cattle. Mother died when she was young and her Dad never remarried. An only child raised by her Dad, her early life sounded like a combination of Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane, with her looks more resembling a cowgirl Elle Macpherson. Gayla was riding horses and shooting varmints with her .22 before she was ten, and by twelve she was driving trucks all over the ranch. She'd learned to drive in the old 40, the same blue 40 that was parked in front of us . Her Dad bought the truck when she was two. I guessed it was a '70 or '71, which would make her mid-thirties. She'd attended Montana State to study ranch management, her Dad's idea, but found it boring and dropped out after three years. Against the advice of everyone she knew, she married a hometown boy with a wandering eye and a drinking problem and the marriage barely lasted four years. No kids. She was embarrassed by the failure, joined the Peace Corps to escape, spent two years in Thailand, then returned to Montana and worked on the ranch. Several years of ranch life convinced Gayla to finish college and become a veterinarian. So now she's a third year vet student at Colorado State; only one more year and she'll set up her practice in Montana. It's a good place to start. She still has connections there.
By this time we need a pit stop, so I give up my slot in line and drive back to the rest area. There's several other cars there and it looks like they're having a spontaneous road closure party. Couple of guys grilling, beer coolers open, music playing. They invite us to join in, but Gayla says she'd rather not. She thinks it's too cold, and she wants to talk more. Back at the road block, everyone has moved forward and my place is gone so I pull into the grass behind Gayla's 40. We have another Moose Drool and she continues talking. I like listening. There's that wonderful raspy voice, and she doesn't use cliches. I haven't once heard her say "It is what it is," or "At the end of the day," or "Like," or "You know," or any of those other tired expressions that make your head want to explode. So I just sit and listen.
It's become a rambling conversation. She looks at the CD's I brought along and picks out an old Robert Earl Keen album, West Textures, with his first recording of "The Road Goes On Forever." It's old, late 1980's, before he was famous. Keen signed my album insert one night at Robert T Flores Country Store, and she asks about the autograph. I remember the night. It was a no cover performance by an unknown performer. He sang to a small crowd, passed the hat, sold and signed a few CD's. Sat at our table. We bought him a beer. Nice guy, fellow Aggie. Keen sings. We listen.
She tells me about vet school, and I mention Barbie, the aspiring vet student from the Hard 8 Barbecue. She's quiet, gets a wistful look, and says she wishes she'd been that mature at twenty. Then under her breath, in a whisper, says something about wasted years. She feels out of place at school; she's older than most other students, closer in age to the profs. Young students leer and hit on her and so do the profs, but she doesn't find any of them interesting and prefers being alone. She's cynical about men and relationships, lives alone in a small cabin on a ranch outside Fort Collins. She takes care of their horses in lieu of paying rent. It's an arrangement brokered by her Dad, who knows the ranch owner.
Gayla appreciates good beer; she brings back a couple of cases from Big Sky brewing every time she visits her Dad in Montana. She says it tastes better fresh from the brewery, and she's spoiled like that. She has more Moose Drool and some Big Sky oatmeal stout in the fridge at her cabin. We talk about kids and I tell her that I have two, both grown, one in Canada and another in Texas. She lays her hands in her lap, laces her fingers together, gazes out the window, moments pass, then says she'd love to have had children. She thinks she'd have made a great Mom. I begin to tell her it isn't too late and she cuts me off. "Yes, it is. Too late for me."
She asks a few questions about The Turtle and I confess that it isn't mine, but I do know something about Land Cruisers. She does her own basic maintenance, mostly tuneups and oil changes, and she recently replaced a clutch slave. She remarks that gapping points is a pain. I suggest that she ditch the points and drop in a Pertronix kit. She's never heard of Pertronix and wants to make a note, rummages around in her saddlebag until she locates a spiral notebook. She writes "Pertronix" and "Keen, West Textures," and as she returns the notebook to her bag I see what appears to be the butt of a little black automatic. I see a polymer frame, and the grips look like a Glock. I ask, and she says it's her new Glock 26. She pulls it out to show me. It's perfect for traveling, she says, because it's more compact than her other Glock, a Model 19. She says the mag only holds ten rounds but she figures that's plenty. This gal can probably shoot the eye out of a hummingbird. I can see why she's not perturbed by the Range Rover boys. Not a woman to trifle with.
Gayla tells me that she's returning home from a horse show in Amarillo. She knows that Seattle is my final destination, but we haven't discussed an itinerary. She's done most of the talking, and she's still going when we see the flagman walking to the head of the line. The road must be clear. We hear engines starting up, see headlights coming on.
Her: "How far do you plan to go tonight?"
Me: "Denver. I'm staying with friends in Denver."
I have no idea why I said this, because it wasn't true. My original plan was to camp the night at Sugarite Canyon at the base of Raton Pass. It's a convenient spot, rarely crowded, and only minutes off the highway. I'm actually not expected in Denver for another day. Maybe I was anticipating what came next.
Her: "I plan to stay in Raton tonight. I don't like driving through the pass after dark. My headlights aren't that good."
Me: "Oh. Makes sense."
Her: "I stay at the Robin Hood. It's an old motel downtown. Clean, and cheap."
Me: "OK"
Her: "If you wanted, we could have dinner together in Raton. And share my room. I mean, uh, just an idea. If you didn't want to drive all the way to Denver"
Me:WHAT ???? Danger Will Robinson !
I didn't say it. I just thought it. Awkward silence ensues...
I quickly begin processing this proposition. I know, I tend to over analyze. The Zinger girl was a kid and her offer was a joke, easily dismissed. This is a grownup woman and this definitely isn't a joke. I've known Gayla less than three hours. There's some chemistry. We were obviously enjoying the conversation. We seem to share many of the same tastes. This could be as harmless as her wanting to continue our conversation. It could be that she's just a genuinely nice person, a younger version of Nettie, offering me shelter from the storm. Or it could that all that and more. That's what I'm afraid of.
My maternal Grandfather, Homer Trammell, was a preacher, an old time Southern country preacher. When you think of Southern preachers, the stereotype that comes to mind is a red-faced guy in a cheap suit clutching a bible, screaming about hellfire and damnation, demanding that sinners repent. Then asking for money. Not my Grandfather. I never saw him excited, never heard him threaten, never heard him raise his voice. He was kindly, calm and soft spoken, and when he spoke, people listened. I doubt they ever went away disappointed. He died many years ago but even today, when confronted with a tough ethical choice, I often find myself wondering what advice he'd offer. This time I didn't have to do much wondering. As a small child, I once overheard him talking to his youngest son, my uncle, about something he'd done that was forbidden. I don't remember the deed, but my uncle was making a convincing argument that whatever he'd done hadn't caused any harm, and besides, no one knew about it. My Grandfather's response:
"Son, you can learn everything you need to know about a man's character from what he's willing to do when he thinks he won't be found out."
So there I had it from the Reverend Trammell. Unambiguous.
And then there's this...
Gayla appears embarrassed. She doesn't say anything, but she avoids eye contact and looks everywhere but at me. There's a sheepish look, and I imagine that she's wishing she hadn't said anything at all. I think she blurted out the invitation without thinking, and now she looks like she might cry. I don't hurt people's feelings, at least not intentionally, so I launch into damage control mode and tell her that my friends in Denver are expecting me, that they'll probably have a welcome feast prepared and I can't very well back out, not this late. She says she understands, and seems relieved. Most of the other cars have left by now, but the Range Rover full of college boys is still sitting there. Gayla's 40 is parked only twenty feet in front of me, but she asks if I'll walk her there. I walk her to the driver's side door and while we stand there, the Rover pulls out. Now it's just the two of us standing there, almost dark.
I'm not good at goodbyes.
Me: "Well..Uh, Good luck to you."
She's thinking, then...
Her: "I really enjoyed talking to you. Really."
Me: Thanks. Me too."
Silence. She rocks back and forth on her heels, like she's debating what to do next, then abruptly she reaches out and wraps her arms around me. It's an impulsive hug, but not perfunctory. It's a long lingering hug, her head resting on my shoulder. I hug her back. Seems the right thing to do, and it feels natural, but I've already decided this isn't gonna happen. I let go and walk back to The Turtle. I'm not leaving right away because I have another plan. A moment later Gayla comes running back and I look behind the seat to see if she's forgotten her cooler. But that's not it. She hands me a folded sheet from her spiral notebook. "My phone numbers. If you're ever near Fort Collins and need a place to stay...or just want to meet for coffee. Or a beer. Well...Be safe." She leans in and gives me a little peck on the cheek, turns, and leaves.
toss her sheet of paper into the Tuffy, wait until her taillights disappear, then wait another ten minutes. I'm not going to test my willpower by going to Raton, and there are no motels or campgrounds between here and Clayton. But there is a ghost town several miles back, Grenville. I've explored there before; there's nothing but several ramshackle buildings, and an abandoned motel. None of them are safe for habitation, but I've decided to stay the night behind the old motel. I backtrack a few miles and drive around behind the building. It's a good strategic choice. I'll be hidden from the highway, and the ground is flat and dry with nothing back here but tall grass and weeds. I drive back and forth until The Turtle's big MT's crush enough weeds to create a tent pad. It's starting to drizzle, or maybe it's snow. Doesn't matter. I quickly set up the tent, crawl into my bag, listen to the wind whistling over the rain fly, and drift off to sleep thinking things that I shouldn't be thinking.
I gaze into the doorway of temptation’s angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name.
--BOB DYLAN
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name.
--BOB DYLAN
The highway to Raton was closed for almost three hours that afternoon. We sit waiting in the 40, prairie winds gusting over us, rocking the truck. It's nippy but The Turtle stays surprisingly warm inside. So there we are, confined in a cozy space, plenty of soundtrack tunes, nowhere that we have to be, Moose Drool flowing, all the ingredients for getting acquainted in a hurry. By the end of hour one I know Gayla's entire life story.
She was born in Dillon, Montana, where her Dad raised cattle. Mother died when she was young and her Dad never remarried. An only child raised by her Dad, her early life sounded like a combination of Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane, with her looks more resembling a cowgirl Elle Macpherson. Gayla was riding horses and shooting varmints with her .22 before she was ten, and by twelve she was driving trucks all over the ranch. She'd learned to drive in the old 40, the same blue 40 that was parked in front of us . Her Dad bought the truck when she was two. I guessed it was a '70 or '71, which would make her mid-thirties. She'd attended Montana State to study ranch management, her Dad's idea, but found it boring and dropped out after three years. Against the advice of everyone she knew, she married a hometown boy with a wandering eye and a drinking problem and the marriage barely lasted four years. No kids. She was embarrassed by the failure, joined the Peace Corps to escape, spent two years in Thailand, then returned to Montana and worked on the ranch. Several years of ranch life convinced Gayla to finish college and become a veterinarian. So now she's a third year vet student at Colorado State; only one more year and she'll set up her practice in Montana. It's a good place to start. She still has connections there.
By this time we need a pit stop, so I give up my slot in line and drive back to the rest area. There's several other cars there and it looks like they're having a spontaneous road closure party. Couple of guys grilling, beer coolers open, music playing. They invite us to join in, but Gayla says she'd rather not. She thinks it's too cold, and she wants to talk more. Back at the road block, everyone has moved forward and my place is gone so I pull into the grass behind Gayla's 40. We have another Moose Drool and she continues talking. I like listening. There's that wonderful raspy voice, and she doesn't use cliches. I haven't once heard her say "It is what it is," or "At the end of the day," or "Like," or "You know," or any of those other tired expressions that make your head want to explode. So I just sit and listen.
It's become a rambling conversation. She looks at the CD's I brought along and picks out an old Robert Earl Keen album, West Textures, with his first recording of "The Road Goes On Forever." It's old, late 1980's, before he was famous. Keen signed my album insert one night at Robert T Flores Country Store, and she asks about the autograph. I remember the night. It was a no cover performance by an unknown performer. He sang to a small crowd, passed the hat, sold and signed a few CD's. Sat at our table. We bought him a beer. Nice guy, fellow Aggie. Keen sings. We listen.
"I never meant to stay an hour
I thought that I was passing through
Another town along the highway
I never meant to find you"
I thought that I was passing through
Another town along the highway
I never meant to find you"
She tells me about vet school, and I mention Barbie, the aspiring vet student from the Hard 8 Barbecue. She's quiet, gets a wistful look, and says she wishes she'd been that mature at twenty. Then under her breath, in a whisper, says something about wasted years. She feels out of place at school; she's older than most other students, closer in age to the profs. Young students leer and hit on her and so do the profs, but she doesn't find any of them interesting and prefers being alone. She's cynical about men and relationships, lives alone in a small cabin on a ranch outside Fort Collins. She takes care of their horses in lieu of paying rent. It's an arrangement brokered by her Dad, who knows the ranch owner.
Gayla appreciates good beer; she brings back a couple of cases from Big Sky brewing every time she visits her Dad in Montana. She says it tastes better fresh from the brewery, and she's spoiled like that. She has more Moose Drool and some Big Sky oatmeal stout in the fridge at her cabin. We talk about kids and I tell her that I have two, both grown, one in Canada and another in Texas. She lays her hands in her lap, laces her fingers together, gazes out the window, moments pass, then says she'd love to have had children. She thinks she'd have made a great Mom. I begin to tell her it isn't too late and she cuts me off. "Yes, it is. Too late for me."
She asks a few questions about The Turtle and I confess that it isn't mine, but I do know something about Land Cruisers. She does her own basic maintenance, mostly tuneups and oil changes, and she recently replaced a clutch slave. She remarks that gapping points is a pain. I suggest that she ditch the points and drop in a Pertronix kit. She's never heard of Pertronix and wants to make a note, rummages around in her saddlebag until she locates a spiral notebook. She writes "Pertronix" and "Keen, West Textures," and as she returns the notebook to her bag I see what appears to be the butt of a little black automatic. I see a polymer frame, and the grips look like a Glock. I ask, and she says it's her new Glock 26. She pulls it out to show me. It's perfect for traveling, she says, because it's more compact than her other Glock, a Model 19. She says the mag only holds ten rounds but she figures that's plenty. This gal can probably shoot the eye out of a hummingbird. I can see why she's not perturbed by the Range Rover boys. Not a woman to trifle with.
Gayla tells me that she's returning home from a horse show in Amarillo. She knows that Seattle is my final destination, but we haven't discussed an itinerary. She's done most of the talking, and she's still going when we see the flagman walking to the head of the line. The road must be clear. We hear engines starting up, see headlights coming on.
Her: "How far do you plan to go tonight?"
Me: "Denver. I'm staying with friends in Denver."
I have no idea why I said this, because it wasn't true. My original plan was to camp the night at Sugarite Canyon at the base of Raton Pass. It's a convenient spot, rarely crowded, and only minutes off the highway. I'm actually not expected in Denver for another day. Maybe I was anticipating what came next.
Her: "I plan to stay in Raton tonight. I don't like driving through the pass after dark. My headlights aren't that good."
Me: "Oh. Makes sense."
Her: "I stay at the Robin Hood. It's an old motel downtown. Clean, and cheap."
Me: "OK"
Her: "If you wanted, we could have dinner together in Raton. And share my room. I mean, uh, just an idea. If you didn't want to drive all the way to Denver"
Me:WHAT ???? Danger Will Robinson !
I didn't say it. I just thought it. Awkward silence ensues...
"Oh mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men"
--Shakespeare
--Shakespeare
I quickly begin processing this proposition. I know, I tend to over analyze. The Zinger girl was a kid and her offer was a joke, easily dismissed. This is a grownup woman and this definitely isn't a joke. I've known Gayla less than three hours. There's some chemistry. We were obviously enjoying the conversation. We seem to share many of the same tastes. This could be as harmless as her wanting to continue our conversation. It could be that she's just a genuinely nice person, a younger version of Nettie, offering me shelter from the storm. Or it could that all that and more. That's what I'm afraid of.
My maternal Grandfather, Homer Trammell, was a preacher, an old time Southern country preacher. When you think of Southern preachers, the stereotype that comes to mind is a red-faced guy in a cheap suit clutching a bible, screaming about hellfire and damnation, demanding that sinners repent. Then asking for money. Not my Grandfather. I never saw him excited, never heard him threaten, never heard him raise his voice. He was kindly, calm and soft spoken, and when he spoke, people listened. I doubt they ever went away disappointed. He died many years ago but even today, when confronted with a tough ethical choice, I often find myself wondering what advice he'd offer. This time I didn't have to do much wondering. As a small child, I once overheard him talking to his youngest son, my uncle, about something he'd done that was forbidden. I don't remember the deed, but my uncle was making a convincing argument that whatever he'd done hadn't caused any harm, and besides, no one knew about it. My Grandfather's response:
"Son, you can learn everything you need to know about a man's character from what he's willing to do when he thinks he won't be found out."
So there I had it from the Reverend Trammell. Unambiguous.
And then there's this...
"There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice."
--Mark Twain
--Mark Twain
Gayla appears embarrassed. She doesn't say anything, but she avoids eye contact and looks everywhere but at me. There's a sheepish look, and I imagine that she's wishing she hadn't said anything at all. I think she blurted out the invitation without thinking, and now she looks like she might cry. I don't hurt people's feelings, at least not intentionally, so I launch into damage control mode and tell her that my friends in Denver are expecting me, that they'll probably have a welcome feast prepared and I can't very well back out, not this late. She says she understands, and seems relieved. Most of the other cars have left by now, but the Range Rover full of college boys is still sitting there. Gayla's 40 is parked only twenty feet in front of me, but she asks if I'll walk her there. I walk her to the driver's side door and while we stand there, the Rover pulls out. Now it's just the two of us standing there, almost dark.
I'm not good at goodbyes.
Me: "Well..Uh, Good luck to you."
She's thinking, then...
Her: "I really enjoyed talking to you. Really."
Me: Thanks. Me too."
Silence. She rocks back and forth on her heels, like she's debating what to do next, then abruptly she reaches out and wraps her arms around me. It's an impulsive hug, but not perfunctory. It's a long lingering hug, her head resting on my shoulder. I hug her back. Seems the right thing to do, and it feels natural, but I've already decided this isn't gonna happen. I let go and walk back to The Turtle. I'm not leaving right away because I have another plan. A moment later Gayla comes running back and I look behind the seat to see if she's forgotten her cooler. But that's not it. She hands me a folded sheet from her spiral notebook. "My phone numbers. If you're ever near Fort Collins and need a place to stay...or just want to meet for coffee. Or a beer. Well...Be safe." She leans in and gives me a little peck on the cheek, turns, and leaves.
toss her sheet of paper into the Tuffy, wait until her taillights disappear, then wait another ten minutes. I'm not going to test my willpower by going to Raton, and there are no motels or campgrounds between here and Clayton. But there is a ghost town several miles back, Grenville. I've explored there before; there's nothing but several ramshackle buildings, and an abandoned motel. None of them are safe for habitation, but I've decided to stay the night behind the old motel. I backtrack a few miles and drive around behind the building. It's a good strategic choice. I'll be hidden from the highway, and the ground is flat and dry with nothing back here but tall grass and weeds. I drive back and forth until The Turtle's big MT's crush enough weeds to create a tent pad. It's starting to drizzle, or maybe it's snow. Doesn't matter. I quickly set up the tent, crawl into my bag, listen to the wind whistling over the rain fly, and drift off to sleep thinking things that I shouldn't be thinking.
Last edited:
- Thread starter
- #269
Colorado Road Block Girl
Sorry, forgot to attach the pics.
Photo Credit goes to my cuz, AKA 1911 here on MUD
Sorry, forgot to attach the pics.
Photo Credit goes to my cuz, AKA 1911 here on MUD
Well worth the wait sir....
I am glad your dad is doing better. I will continue to keep him in my prayers
I am glad your dad is doing better. I will continue to keep him in my prayers
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Is that really the hotel?
- Thread starter
- #272
Abandoned Grenville Motel
If you mean the abandoned motel that I camped behind, Yes Sir, that's really the motel. Somewhere I have several photos of The Turtle parked outside, but I can't find them. Those pics were taken last week by 1911 at my request. Because this tale is all about accuracy, ya know?
If you mean the abandoned motel that I camped behind, Yes Sir, that's really the motel. Somewhere I have several photos of The Turtle parked outside, but I can't find them. Those pics were taken last week by 1911 at my request. Because this tale is all about accuracy, ya know?
kling-on
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Wow that's cool ... Glad your dads doing better great story ... Come to my family compound at round up and drink a wisky on me
Sent from outer space via my mind
Sent from outer space via my mind
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I thought it might be the hotel where gayle stayed? By any chance does she happen to be a mud member seeing that she cruises around in a 40 and does her own work? Or is this the fictional side?
Nice chapter Lee.
- Thread starter
- #276
Nope, it's Gayla, and she stayed at the Robin Hood Motel in Raton. Or that's what she told me. I certainly wouldn't have any personal knowledge.
Not a fictional character. I told a couple of Austin guys about this incident as soon as it happened. No idea about her being a MUD member. That was almost 7 years ago and I can't even remember if we discussed MUD at the time. I'd assume she still owns that 40 since it was a family heirloom.
Amazing story, thank you for sharing.
Another good one!
Lee, we need to retrace the Turtle's route when we do Alaska Cruiser Trek 20XX.
Lee, we need to retrace the Turtle's route when we do Alaska Cruiser Trek 20XX.
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davegonz said:
Where do I sign up for that adventure?
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