We all could be inspired by a man of this much character to leave this world as he has - a better place .
Sarge
Semper Fi
Sarge
Semper Fi
Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (5 Viewers)
- Thread starter Sea Knight
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Dunbar
SILVER Star
Will the flag from Army's coffin fly at Katemcy?
- Thread starter
- #543
Remembering Army
David,
I'd intended for my next post to be a new chapter of the rustbucket tale but in answer to your question, the flag is folded and resting in a display case alongside a photo of Army as a young man. His flag won't be flown at Roundup but I assure you there will be many toasts offered to Army around the campfires of Katemcy.
Last week Army's pastor suggested these words from Willa Cather as best describing his final days.
That's the way I choose to remember him.
David,
I'd intended for my next post to be a new chapter of the rustbucket tale but in answer to your question, the flag is folded and resting in a display case alongside a photo of Army as a young man. His flag won't be flown at Roundup but I assure you there will be many toasts offered to Army around the campfires of Katemcy.
Last week Army's pastor suggested these words from Willa Cather as best describing his final days.
"I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived."
That's the way I choose to remember him.
Lee
Bomar
SILVER Star
We need more people in this world like Army.
What a great man.
What a great man.
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Lee,
I am looking forward to reading the next chapter. I know it might be a short while until you have the time to do so but I imagine it will be one of the best. Hope you are doing well mate!
I am looking forward to reading the next chapter. I know it might be a short while until you have the time to do so but I imagine it will be one of the best. Hope you are doing well mate!
- Thread starter
- #547
Welcome To Friendly Sheridan
I wake up in Sheridan feeling refreshed, and relieved that The Turtle and I made it here in one piece. As much as I poke fun at Motel 6, I have to admit this one is way better than expected. It appears to be new construction and looks more like a Holiday Inn Express than any Motel 6 I've ever seen. I have a large third floor room with a great view of the Bighorn Mountains, and the bed is excellent. No complaints, except that Jorge isn't here to bring me breakfast tacos. From the window I can see scattered patches of snow but nothing fresh and none on the streets. Better yet, the skies are blue and endless, and the sun is shining brightly. The TV weather chick says the Winter storm system is behind us, with all of Montana looking clear for the next few days. Best news I've had in a week. The drive across Big Sky Country should be spectacular.
Normally I'd have read up on Sheridan beforehand but this stop was not part of the original travel plan and I know nothing about the town, except that it was named after General Philip Sheridan of Civil War fame. I'd intended to spend last night in Casper, but that two day delay in Pueblo forced me to tweak the itinerary. Now that I'm back on schedule, delivering The Turtle to the shipper on time should be a slam dunk. It's 1,000 miles to Seattle, four easy 250 mile days and maybe even a little time for some sightseeing. There's a tourist brochure in my room and I see that there's a number of interesting attractions around town--an old West museum, a downtown historic district, and several battlefields from the Indian Wars of the 1870's. I decide to hunt down a monster breakfast, cruise down Sheridan's Main Street, which according to the brochure is lined with forty buildings on the National Historic Registry, then drive to the Little Bighorn Battlefield seventy miles north. As a kid we must have reenacted Custer's Last Stand a hundred times, and I can't pass up the chance to visit the battleground. Not sure if there's any significance to this, but I was always an Indian.
But before going anywhere, I need to follow orders and call home. I spoke with my wife last night and technically that's home, but for some reason, when I say home, I always think of my parents house, and the familiar feel and smell of it.
Me: Dad's, it's me. Calling from Wyoming.
Army: You in Casper?
Me: No, I'm in Sheridan.
Army: This list you gave us says Casper. Are you OK?
Me; Yes Sir. Had to adjust the plan after the clutch problem in Pueblo.
Army: You need to keep us informed.
Me: That's why I'm calling. To keep you informed.
Army: I know Wyoming. We drilled a lot of wells out there in the 70's. Mostly wilderness. You be careful.
Me: I will. I'm sticking to the highways. Is Mom there?
Army: No. She's at church. Someone died. She was up all night cooking a meal for the family.
Me: Anyone I know?
Army: No. We don't know them either. It's just your mother. You know how she is.
Me: Yeah, I do. Well, I'd better go. Was just checking in.
Army: You should call more often. Doesn't cost you anything. Let us know you're alive.
Me: I will. I'll call again tonight.
Army: Don't call during the news. But call. Your mother will want to hear from you.
Me: Yes, I promise.
Army: Because we....uh...she worries.
Click...dial tone.
I lug my bag to the checkout desk and there's a cheerful looking young girl on duty. She's pleasingly plump and looks like she probably knows her chow. I inquire about the best place to eat breakfast and the first thing she recommends is the pancake combo meal at McDonalds. Young people. No wonder society is crumbling. If that's her best suggestion there's no point in continuing the conversation, so I turn in my room key and proceed to The Turtle, which I discover is covered with a thin coating of ice. It's parked in the sun and the ice is melting off quickly, but at the moment the truck is entirely encapsulated and I can't get a key into the door lock. Walking around the parking lot I see a little old man with a huge handlebar mustache emptying trash cans. He looks exactly like Yosemite Sam, or a character out of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show--worn boots and faded jeans, rawhide vest with fringe and those silver concho things on the front, ten gallon hat, everything but chaps and spurs and a brace of Colt .45's. I'd bet serious money this guy doesn't eat at Mickey D's, so I walk over and ask if he's a Sheridan native, just to jump start the conversation. He seems a bit defensive and says "Why? Don't I look like a native?" I assure him that he does indeed look like a man of the West, a real cowboy, and that's the reason I want his advice on an eating establishment. That seems to please him and he says "Silver Spur Cafe, on Main Street. You won't be disappointed." I thank him and begin walking back to The Turtle when he calls out "I'm from Cleveland. Just retired from the postal service and moved out here to get away from the big city. You really think I look like a cowboy?" I say "Yes Sir, you do. You sure had me fooled." Then I remember some trivia that might make him feel better about his new image, so I tell him that he's not the first man to follow this path; Roy Rogers was from Cincinnati, and John Wayne was from a small town in Iowa. That seems to make his day. Hard to tell for sure, but he may have even smiled underneath that stash. I walk back to The Turtle and find that enough ice has melted to permit opening the driver's door. I mount up, and head for town in search of the Silver Spur Cafe. Exiting the parking lot we pass Yosemite Sam and he touches the brim of his hat, just like an actual cowpoke. He'll probably be in the movies by the time I make it back to Texas.
Sheridan isn't a big town and finding Main Street is simple; less than a mile from the motel and we're at the Silver Spur. It doesn't look like much but the best places never do, and there's at least a dozen big pickups lining the street so it appears to be exactly what I wanted, a local greasy spoon. I don't see a parking lot but we luck out and find a spot right in front of the windows, too small for a pickup but the right size for a 40. It takes some maneuvering, but the Saginaw helps me wedge in with inches to spare. A few words to refresh your memory about The Turtle. It's distinctive. There's a four inch lift with a shackle reversal, rear quarters armored with black quarter inch thick steel diamond plate, fat BFG MT's, and topping it off there's a new Flowmaster exhaust. It's loud, not in an obnoxious rice-burner way, but a deep throaty tone that makes anyone in hearing range turn around and take notice. This is a manly truck that Mad Max would have been proud to drive, and it's attracted attention everywhere I've been. Sheridan is no exception.
I walk through the door and it reminds me of the scene from every old Western flick you've ever seen. You know the scene. There's a saloon, packed with rowdy locals, cigar smoke hanging in the air, loud conversation from a crowd of tough whiskey drinkin' cowboys, playing poker and flirting with bar girls, a piano player banging away in the background. A stranger enters and in an instant there's complete silence. Everyone inside stops what they're doing and stares at the stranger, waiting to see if he's looking for trouble. At the Silver Spur there's no whiskey or poker players, no bar girls, no piano player, but there's a cloud of smoke in the air and everyone stops talking and stares in my direction as soon as I walk in. I notice two things right off. First, there's several guys standing at the front window looking at The Turtle. I'm guessing they heard the Flowmaster growling and got up to see where all the racket was coming from. And second, everyone I see is huge. It looks like a convention of Paul Bunyan look alikes. Now I don't consider myself a large person; I'm 6'1" and 220, and compared to most of my friends I'm about average. Not here. The hostess tells me to seat myself and as I walk to an empty table directly in front of the 40, I pass by those guys standing at the window. Close up, they have to be at least 6'6", and I'm beginning to feel like one of the little people from the Wizard of Oz. They look down on me as I walk by and I'm wondering if McDonald's would have been an OK breakfast after all, but there's no turning back now. I sit at the empty table by the window and it's obvious why it was vacant. It's way too small for any of these giants, but it's just right for me. Everyone starts talking again and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now that they've had their look at the outsider, I'm home free. Right? Sure. In my dreams. The waitress approaches my table. She's wearing Carhart overalls with a name tag that says "Hi, I'm Betty," a flannel shirt, and combat boots. Betty looks every bit as massive as the Paul Bunyan guys and to complete the look, she has a 5 o'clock shadow, at 0800.
Betty: Something to drink?
Holy $hit, Her voice is two octaves lower than James Earl Jones as Darth Vader.
Me: Yes, coffee please.
I'm pretty sure my voice came out sounding like Richard Simmons.
She brings a steaming mug of coffee. It's pitch black, and I'm thinking these guys probably appreciate strong java as much as I do. Then I make a mistake. Instead of taking a sip right away, I pause and look at the condiment caddy.
Betty: Something wrong?
Me: No, I was just looking for the cream.
Betty: You want cream?
Me: Yes please.
Betty: That your Jeep outside?
Me: That's a Land Cruiser but yes, it's mine.
She looks at me, then The Turtle, then me, then The Turtle. Then in a booming voice they could hear in Denver...
Betty: I wouldn't have figured you for the sort that needed cream.
Deadly quiet again. The Paul Bunyan clones all stare, again. Then they all laugh. This must be the way a bull calf feels while being castrated with a rusty machete. The waitress doesn't go for cream. She yells to someone in the kitchen.
Betty: Joe, this boy out here needs some cream. For his coffee.
More laughing, then my cream appears, and a menu. I order the Rancher omelet with hashbrowns and a side of biscuits and sausage gravy. I must have redeemed myself a bit, because Betty says "Good choice." My order comes out quickly and it's outstanding, the biggest omelet I've ever seen. I'd even go so far as to say it was worth the ridicule. While I'm eating, a couple of the big boys stop by my table on their way out and tell me not to pay any attention to Betty. They say she gives everyone $hit and you have to expect abuse when you walk through the door. Today was just my turn in the barrel. Great. Yosemite Sam must have forgotten to warn me about the routine, but I'm a good sport and give Betty a generous tip. If I ever come back, maybe she'll cut me some slack. And then there's the flip side. If I short her, she'll probably chase me down and kick my ass.
The next order of business is a leisurely drive down Main Street. As western towns go, Sheridan is old and the tourist brochure says the historic 19th century buildings on Main are worth a look. One of them is an old hotel where Buffalo Bill lived, and somewhere there's an old saloon and brothel that's now a museum. I don't have time for a lengthy tour so the idea is to drive through slowly and make a brief stop if something looks particularly interesting. About halfway through town I begin seeing a series of life size bronze sculptures on street corners along Main Street. There's an Indian, a scout, a miner, a cowboy, a buffalo, all life size, and I get the great idea to take a few poser pictures of The Turtle in front of these sculptures. They're all mounted on the sidewalk at intersections, and I notice that they have sidewalk aprons as wide as driveways at each intersection, plenty wide enough to drive a 40 onto the sidewalk. It's still early and there's very little traffic, and most of the retail stores don't appear to be open. I look around and don't see anyone in authority to ask for permission, and I calculate that each photo won't take more than a minute. I'll be on and off the sidewalk before anyone even notices.
The first statue I pick is a cowboy and behind it I see a couple of people moving around inside a store, probably employees preparing to open. It looks like a trendy western wear store, high dollar clothes on display in the windows. The bronze cowboy is only a few feet from their door and I think it might be wise to tell the people inside what I'm doing before driving onto the sidewalk. The door is open. I park at the curb and go inside, and the first person I see is a girl folding shirts. I introduce myself and tell her I'd like to take a picture of my truck in front of the cowboy. Without even looking up she says "So why tell me? People take pictures of that statue all the time." I tell her that I don't want to alarm anyone when I drive onto the sidewalk and thought giving her a heads up was appropriate. Hearing that I plan to drive onto the sidewalk, she says I'd better talk to the manager. She calls and an uptight looking guy comes out of a back room and impatiently asks what I need. I repeat what I want to do, a quick photo in front of the cowboy. He says "You want to drive a truck onto my sidewalk?" I point to the 40 and tell him it's a little truck, really no bigger than a sedan, and I'll only be there a minute. He isn't friendly. He informs me that driving a vehicle onto a city sidewalk is probably a violation of some city ordnance, and if he sees me on the sidewalk in front of his store he'll call the police. I tell him that if he finds it that upsetting, I won't do it. I may have been a little sarcastic. He follows me outside to the truck, looks it over, and says he'll be watching me. If I drive onto the sidewalk at any other intersection, he'll call the police. This is another scene from the old Westerns, except this time I'm not being run out of town by the sheriff. In the modern day version, it's a prissy boutique manager. I can take a hint. They don't like foreigners here. No point in pressing my luck in a town where my only friend is a faux cowboy from Cleveland.
I may not have mentioned this before, but after spending the last couple of months together, The Turtle and I have bonded. And sometimes we talk. That's right. It doesn't happen often, but when it's something important, we talk. I climb into The Turtle with prissy guy standing there glaring at us and fire up the 2F. I goose it a couple of times for maximum noise pollution and before pulling away, I confer with my travelin' pardner.
Me: You get the feeling we're not wanted here?
The Turtle: Yep.
Me: You ready to get the hell out of Dodge? I mean Sheridan?
The Turtle: Damn straight. Let's roll.
Me: Giddyup.
And we're off. Off to Montana...
"Mister, We don't want your kind around here. I want you out of town by sunset."
--Marshall Matt Dillon
--Marshall Matt Dillon
I wake up in Sheridan feeling refreshed, and relieved that The Turtle and I made it here in one piece. As much as I poke fun at Motel 6, I have to admit this one is way better than expected. It appears to be new construction and looks more like a Holiday Inn Express than any Motel 6 I've ever seen. I have a large third floor room with a great view of the Bighorn Mountains, and the bed is excellent. No complaints, except that Jorge isn't here to bring me breakfast tacos. From the window I can see scattered patches of snow but nothing fresh and none on the streets. Better yet, the skies are blue and endless, and the sun is shining brightly. The TV weather chick says the Winter storm system is behind us, with all of Montana looking clear for the next few days. Best news I've had in a week. The drive across Big Sky Country should be spectacular.
Normally I'd have read up on Sheridan beforehand but this stop was not part of the original travel plan and I know nothing about the town, except that it was named after General Philip Sheridan of Civil War fame. I'd intended to spend last night in Casper, but that two day delay in Pueblo forced me to tweak the itinerary. Now that I'm back on schedule, delivering The Turtle to the shipper on time should be a slam dunk. It's 1,000 miles to Seattle, four easy 250 mile days and maybe even a little time for some sightseeing. There's a tourist brochure in my room and I see that there's a number of interesting attractions around town--an old West museum, a downtown historic district, and several battlefields from the Indian Wars of the 1870's. I decide to hunt down a monster breakfast, cruise down Sheridan's Main Street, which according to the brochure is lined with forty buildings on the National Historic Registry, then drive to the Little Bighorn Battlefield seventy miles north. As a kid we must have reenacted Custer's Last Stand a hundred times, and I can't pass up the chance to visit the battleground. Not sure if there's any significance to this, but I was always an Indian.
But before going anywhere, I need to follow orders and call home. I spoke with my wife last night and technically that's home, but for some reason, when I say home, I always think of my parents house, and the familiar feel and smell of it.
Me: Dad's, it's me. Calling from Wyoming.
Army: You in Casper?
Me: No, I'm in Sheridan.
Army: This list you gave us says Casper. Are you OK?
Me; Yes Sir. Had to adjust the plan after the clutch problem in Pueblo.
Army: You need to keep us informed.
Me: That's why I'm calling. To keep you informed.
Army: I know Wyoming. We drilled a lot of wells out there in the 70's. Mostly wilderness. You be careful.
Me: I will. I'm sticking to the highways. Is Mom there?
Army: No. She's at church. Someone died. She was up all night cooking a meal for the family.
Me: Anyone I know?
Army: No. We don't know them either. It's just your mother. You know how she is.
Me: Yeah, I do. Well, I'd better go. Was just checking in.
Army: You should call more often. Doesn't cost you anything. Let us know you're alive.
Me: I will. I'll call again tonight.
Army: Don't call during the news. But call. Your mother will want to hear from you.
Me: Yes, I promise.
Army: Because we....uh...she worries.
Click...dial tone.
I lug my bag to the checkout desk and there's a cheerful looking young girl on duty. She's pleasingly plump and looks like she probably knows her chow. I inquire about the best place to eat breakfast and the first thing she recommends is the pancake combo meal at McDonalds. Young people. No wonder society is crumbling. If that's her best suggestion there's no point in continuing the conversation, so I turn in my room key and proceed to The Turtle, which I discover is covered with a thin coating of ice. It's parked in the sun and the ice is melting off quickly, but at the moment the truck is entirely encapsulated and I can't get a key into the door lock. Walking around the parking lot I see a little old man with a huge handlebar mustache emptying trash cans. He looks exactly like Yosemite Sam, or a character out of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show--worn boots and faded jeans, rawhide vest with fringe and those silver concho things on the front, ten gallon hat, everything but chaps and spurs and a brace of Colt .45's. I'd bet serious money this guy doesn't eat at Mickey D's, so I walk over and ask if he's a Sheridan native, just to jump start the conversation. He seems a bit defensive and says "Why? Don't I look like a native?" I assure him that he does indeed look like a man of the West, a real cowboy, and that's the reason I want his advice on an eating establishment. That seems to please him and he says "Silver Spur Cafe, on Main Street. You won't be disappointed." I thank him and begin walking back to The Turtle when he calls out "I'm from Cleveland. Just retired from the postal service and moved out here to get away from the big city. You really think I look like a cowboy?" I say "Yes Sir, you do. You sure had me fooled." Then I remember some trivia that might make him feel better about his new image, so I tell him that he's not the first man to follow this path; Roy Rogers was from Cincinnati, and John Wayne was from a small town in Iowa. That seems to make his day. Hard to tell for sure, but he may have even smiled underneath that stash. I walk back to The Turtle and find that enough ice has melted to permit opening the driver's door. I mount up, and head for town in search of the Silver Spur Cafe. Exiting the parking lot we pass Yosemite Sam and he touches the brim of his hat, just like an actual cowpoke. He'll probably be in the movies by the time I make it back to Texas.
Sheridan isn't a big town and finding Main Street is simple; less than a mile from the motel and we're at the Silver Spur. It doesn't look like much but the best places never do, and there's at least a dozen big pickups lining the street so it appears to be exactly what I wanted, a local greasy spoon. I don't see a parking lot but we luck out and find a spot right in front of the windows, too small for a pickup but the right size for a 40. It takes some maneuvering, but the Saginaw helps me wedge in with inches to spare. A few words to refresh your memory about The Turtle. It's distinctive. There's a four inch lift with a shackle reversal, rear quarters armored with black quarter inch thick steel diamond plate, fat BFG MT's, and topping it off there's a new Flowmaster exhaust. It's loud, not in an obnoxious rice-burner way, but a deep throaty tone that makes anyone in hearing range turn around and take notice. This is a manly truck that Mad Max would have been proud to drive, and it's attracted attention everywhere I've been. Sheridan is no exception.
I walk through the door and it reminds me of the scene from every old Western flick you've ever seen. You know the scene. There's a saloon, packed with rowdy locals, cigar smoke hanging in the air, loud conversation from a crowd of tough whiskey drinkin' cowboys, playing poker and flirting with bar girls, a piano player banging away in the background. A stranger enters and in an instant there's complete silence. Everyone inside stops what they're doing and stares at the stranger, waiting to see if he's looking for trouble. At the Silver Spur there's no whiskey or poker players, no bar girls, no piano player, but there's a cloud of smoke in the air and everyone stops talking and stares in my direction as soon as I walk in. I notice two things right off. First, there's several guys standing at the front window looking at The Turtle. I'm guessing they heard the Flowmaster growling and got up to see where all the racket was coming from. And second, everyone I see is huge. It looks like a convention of Paul Bunyan look alikes. Now I don't consider myself a large person; I'm 6'1" and 220, and compared to most of my friends I'm about average. Not here. The hostess tells me to seat myself and as I walk to an empty table directly in front of the 40, I pass by those guys standing at the window. Close up, they have to be at least 6'6", and I'm beginning to feel like one of the little people from the Wizard of Oz. They look down on me as I walk by and I'm wondering if McDonald's would have been an OK breakfast after all, but there's no turning back now. I sit at the empty table by the window and it's obvious why it was vacant. It's way too small for any of these giants, but it's just right for me. Everyone starts talking again and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now that they've had their look at the outsider, I'm home free. Right? Sure. In my dreams. The waitress approaches my table. She's wearing Carhart overalls with a name tag that says "Hi, I'm Betty," a flannel shirt, and combat boots. Betty looks every bit as massive as the Paul Bunyan guys and to complete the look, she has a 5 o'clock shadow, at 0800.
Betty: Something to drink?
Holy $hit, Her voice is two octaves lower than James Earl Jones as Darth Vader.
Me: Yes, coffee please.
I'm pretty sure my voice came out sounding like Richard Simmons.
She brings a steaming mug of coffee. It's pitch black, and I'm thinking these guys probably appreciate strong java as much as I do. Then I make a mistake. Instead of taking a sip right away, I pause and look at the condiment caddy.
Betty: Something wrong?
Me: No, I was just looking for the cream.
Betty: You want cream?
Me: Yes please.
Betty: That your Jeep outside?
Me: That's a Land Cruiser but yes, it's mine.
She looks at me, then The Turtle, then me, then The Turtle. Then in a booming voice they could hear in Denver...
Betty: I wouldn't have figured you for the sort that needed cream.
Deadly quiet again. The Paul Bunyan clones all stare, again. Then they all laugh. This must be the way a bull calf feels while being castrated with a rusty machete. The waitress doesn't go for cream. She yells to someone in the kitchen.
Betty: Joe, this boy out here needs some cream. For his coffee.
More laughing, then my cream appears, and a menu. I order the Rancher omelet with hashbrowns and a side of biscuits and sausage gravy. I must have redeemed myself a bit, because Betty says "Good choice." My order comes out quickly and it's outstanding, the biggest omelet I've ever seen. I'd even go so far as to say it was worth the ridicule. While I'm eating, a couple of the big boys stop by my table on their way out and tell me not to pay any attention to Betty. They say she gives everyone $hit and you have to expect abuse when you walk through the door. Today was just my turn in the barrel. Great. Yosemite Sam must have forgotten to warn me about the routine, but I'm a good sport and give Betty a generous tip. If I ever come back, maybe she'll cut me some slack. And then there's the flip side. If I short her, she'll probably chase me down and kick my ass.
The next order of business is a leisurely drive down Main Street. As western towns go, Sheridan is old and the tourist brochure says the historic 19th century buildings on Main are worth a look. One of them is an old hotel where Buffalo Bill lived, and somewhere there's an old saloon and brothel that's now a museum. I don't have time for a lengthy tour so the idea is to drive through slowly and make a brief stop if something looks particularly interesting. About halfway through town I begin seeing a series of life size bronze sculptures on street corners along Main Street. There's an Indian, a scout, a miner, a cowboy, a buffalo, all life size, and I get the great idea to take a few poser pictures of The Turtle in front of these sculptures. They're all mounted on the sidewalk at intersections, and I notice that they have sidewalk aprons as wide as driveways at each intersection, plenty wide enough to drive a 40 onto the sidewalk. It's still early and there's very little traffic, and most of the retail stores don't appear to be open. I look around and don't see anyone in authority to ask for permission, and I calculate that each photo won't take more than a minute. I'll be on and off the sidewalk before anyone even notices.
The first statue I pick is a cowboy and behind it I see a couple of people moving around inside a store, probably employees preparing to open. It looks like a trendy western wear store, high dollar clothes on display in the windows. The bronze cowboy is only a few feet from their door and I think it might be wise to tell the people inside what I'm doing before driving onto the sidewalk. The door is open. I park at the curb and go inside, and the first person I see is a girl folding shirts. I introduce myself and tell her I'd like to take a picture of my truck in front of the cowboy. Without even looking up she says "So why tell me? People take pictures of that statue all the time." I tell her that I don't want to alarm anyone when I drive onto the sidewalk and thought giving her a heads up was appropriate. Hearing that I plan to drive onto the sidewalk, she says I'd better talk to the manager. She calls and an uptight looking guy comes out of a back room and impatiently asks what I need. I repeat what I want to do, a quick photo in front of the cowboy. He says "You want to drive a truck onto my sidewalk?" I point to the 40 and tell him it's a little truck, really no bigger than a sedan, and I'll only be there a minute. He isn't friendly. He informs me that driving a vehicle onto a city sidewalk is probably a violation of some city ordnance, and if he sees me on the sidewalk in front of his store he'll call the police. I tell him that if he finds it that upsetting, I won't do it. I may have been a little sarcastic. He follows me outside to the truck, looks it over, and says he'll be watching me. If I drive onto the sidewalk at any other intersection, he'll call the police. This is another scene from the old Westerns, except this time I'm not being run out of town by the sheriff. In the modern day version, it's a prissy boutique manager. I can take a hint. They don't like foreigners here. No point in pressing my luck in a town where my only friend is a faux cowboy from Cleveland.
I may not have mentioned this before, but after spending the last couple of months together, The Turtle and I have bonded. And sometimes we talk. That's right. It doesn't happen often, but when it's something important, we talk. I climb into The Turtle with prissy guy standing there glaring at us and fire up the 2F. I goose it a couple of times for maximum noise pollution and before pulling away, I confer with my travelin' pardner.
Me: You get the feeling we're not wanted here?
The Turtle: Yep.
Me: You ready to get the hell out of Dodge? I mean Sheridan?
The Turtle: Damn straight. Let's roll.
Me: Giddyup.
And we're off. Off to Montana...
Last edited:
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Excellent! Great chapter Lee!
MScruiser
obsessive-compulsive oppositional-defiant wise-ass
That is some pretty country you are in. I spent some time there a few years ago; wish I could go back.
yooper
SILVER Star
I needed that morning laugh, thanks. Richard Simmons. 
That's some serious tech
Sent from my iPhone using IH8MUD
Sent from my iPhone using IH8MUD
Thanks for that morning laugh. Good post, Lee.
I will count the hours 'til the next chapter Lee...
Sarge
Sarge
I just had to try and get a handle on the distances ....
Thats our little Island of Ireland sitting there in New Mexico
Brilliant .. one days driving by Sea Knight would run out of land
oh .. thanks MScruiser .. 2013 is the time to come
Thats our little Island of Ireland sitting there in New Mexico
Brilliant .. one days driving by Sea Knight would run out of land
oh .. thanks MScruiser .. 2013 is the time to come
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- #556
I just had to try and get a handle on the distances ....
Thats our little Island of Ireland sitting there in New Mexico
Brilliant .. one days driving by Sea Knight would run out of land
That's cool and an interesting distance comparison, but the route isn't correct. I'll confer with my tech peeps and try to generate a complete map of the Austin to Seattle route. As you may have gathered from the thread, I didn't take the most direct route. Total distance traveled on this trip was something just short of 4,000 miles, not counting the flight to Kona.
I loved traveling in Ireland. My son studied at Trinity College in Dublin, in the late 90's. Every time we visited, I'd buy unlimited bus passes. We could travel anywhere in the country in a matter of hours, and did so many times. Never rented a car. RHD cars and I don't agree.
Guinness and I do agree.
dont mean to be distracting from the ongoing book in the making ..
but I would be very interested to see the actual route ... plus the idea of solo drive if really great ... compared to heaps of so called 'solo trips' where there is a bunch of support crews and camera men ... this is far more interesting
as for RHD's .. I've had plenty of LHD problems in the states ... only real difference is there is more room to make a mistake over there
Guinness is an aquired taste ... there must be something in your blood
but I would be very interested to see the actual route ... plus the idea of solo drive if really great ... compared to heaps of so called 'solo trips' where there is a bunch of support crews and camera men
... this is far more interesting as for RHD's .. I've had plenty of LHD problems in the states ... only real difference is there is more room to make a mistake over there
Guinness is an aquired taste ... there must be something in your blood
Great story Lee...
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- #559
dont mean to be distracting from the ongoing book in the making ..
but I would be very interested to see the actual route ... plus the idea of solo drive if really great ... compared to heaps of so called 'solo trips' where there is a bunch of support crews and camera men
Not a distraction at all. All contributions to the thread are welcome. I'll write up the route in detail and see if my tech friends can create a map. Probably easy to do, for anyone but me.
I'm big on solo road trips, especially in a 40. I like it because it's primitive. Several MUD friends, along with my Dad and brother-in-law, have suggested that I'm nuts to keep doing it. Maybe I am, but IMO there's nothing more inspiring than a man and his truck on the open road, and I don't mind the solitude. When I get the rustbucket back together and expedition ready, I intend to drive it from Texas to Alaska, hopefully next year. I made that same drive in 1999, in my Isuzu Trooper. Went across the Yukon Territory and British Columbia on the way to Alaska. Another trip I'll never forget.
as for RHD's .. I've had plenty of LHD problems in the states ... only real difference is there is more room to make a mistake over there
I lived in Australia for a few months and never got comfortable with RHD. My brain never adjusted to the change, and I was constantly drifting to the wrong side of the road. Lucky I didn't kill myself, or someone else.
Guinness is an aquired taste ... there must be something in your blood
Yes Sir, there is. I'm Irish on my Mom's side, and Scot-Irish on my Dad's. I don't drink much Guinness here in the states, except for Saint Paddy's Day. For some reason it always tasted better in Ireland and I didn't have a problem downing my share over there. There's lots of better stouts available on this side of the pond, IMHO.
Way off topic, but this is a local oatmeal stout that's spectacular.
Link--> Convict Hill Oatmeal Stout - Independence Brewing Co. - Austin, TX - BeerAdvocate
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myquestoyota
SILVER Star
The local brewery here in Centralia makes some fantastic beers, including a great Imperial Stout. The best Oatmeal Stout I've ever tasted cam from Boundary Bay Brewing in Bellingham, WA. My daughter was going to school there and on weekends she'd bring me a growler. Makes wonderful ice cream floats, try it with your Oatmeal Stout!
imperial stout |
imperial stout |
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