Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (2 Viewers)

[davegonz]

Andrew, do you hang with Greg Thompson and the rest of the Cottonland gang? We must have missed you when we were down there in November.

 

[SHUSH]

Dave I JUST sent him a pm telling him about Cottonland....I think I saw him the other day if his new 40 is green....it was nice!!

 

[MScruiser]

Andrew, do you hang with Greg Thompson and the rest of the Cottonland gang? We must have missed you when we were down there in November.

I do know Greg, but didn't realize that he was a Cruiser guy until the other day. Heck, I just became one myself.

I will see you guys at the Cherokee.

cheers,

Andrew

oh and I do not drive a green 40; mine is red!

 

[DSRTRDR]

The story about Patsy was especially moving to me and it helped me understand that I'm not the only one who can't achieve closure over a lost love. Thirty-five years later and my mind still goes there with embarrassing regularity. Just accepting that it once was a beautiful thing that happened to me somehow doesn't seem to be enough.

 

[bruff]

Sea Knight - I have just caught up to the end of the current posts. You sure have a way to get your thoughts across. You kept me enamoured with your writing - blending the past and the present. Sorry for the loss of Army!

I can be found lingering in the 80 section here on MUD but found a link in someone's signature line about this thread so made my way over. Glad I did. Keep the posts coming! This is the stuff needs to go beyond MUD someday.

 

[Ouiser]

Well, there are two ways to look at it. I just read this thread over a few days between projects at work. I'm sorry to come to the end of it, but happy that I'll be able to comment as it develops.

 

[georgec]

AAAHHHHHHHGGGGG!


page 6, its friday, customer emergency call, and all my trucks are out.


good yarn. it'll likely go down tastier with a case of pacificos later, anyway.

.

 

[TS888]

Howdy gents. Over the course of reading this thread, I forgot how I ended up here, but I know I started on the 60 board.

Lee, I can't remember when I last enjoyed a story this much. I've laughed, I've cried, I've lusted...er, for the beers! Yeah, the beers!

I've done a similar drive in a similar vehicle, but there is no comparison to your journey. Amazing story, keep it coming!

 

[patride71]

I do know Greg, but didn't realize that he was a Cruiser guy until the other day. Heck, I just became one myself.

I will see you guys at the Cherokee.

cheers,

Andrew

oh and I do not drive a green 40; mine is red!

Is that yours?
Nice!

 

[Sea Knight]

and.
I'm ready

I have my Milk Stout and peanuts in waiting.

Take us for a spin

With my bottle of Smithwick's in hand, I wait ....
Sarge

BTW, Commander Sir, can't wait for a new chapter!

Stand by, Men. Next chapter coming right up.

 

[Sea Knight]

Please Mr. Custer, I Don't Wanna Go

Turn me loose, set me free,
Somewhere in the middle of Montana.
Big city turn me loose and set me free.
--Merle Haggard​

Leaving Betty, Yosemite Sam, and the prissy boutique guy in our rear view mirror, The Turtle and I find our way out of Sheridan and begin creeping northwest toward Big Sky Country. In case it isn't already apparent, I have a long standing aversion to interstate highways, particularly when driving a 40. As much as I love road trips, long straight superhighways have always struck me as boring, and the constant jockeying for position with cross country truckers and speeding yahoos is a chore rather than a pleasure. I prefer meandering back roads, and when I'm forced onto a highway, old paths like Route 66 are more my style. Fighting your way down Texas interstate highways can be a life threatening experience, much like a scene from Mad Max, but Interstate 90 through northern Wyoming and Montana is a different story. This morning there's no one on the road. Literally no one. It's so deserted that I begin to wonder if the road is closed, but there are no road closure signs so we keep moving, slowly. In the seventy miles between Sheridan and the Little Bighorn turnoff we see no 18 wheelers and only a handful of passenger vehicles. Solitude, just the way we like it. Off to the left is the Bighorn National Forest and Big Horn mountain range, extending more than 200 miles from the Wyoming plains northward into south central Montana. These are serious mountains, with a dozen peaks rising from the plains floor to more than 12,000 feet. I've driven this route several times, but never had time to linger and enjoy the scenery. Today the skies are clear and visibility is unlimited, with blankets of snow covering the road sides and capping the Big Horn peaks. With breathtaking picture postcard views in every direction, I can't bring myself to rush. In the distance I see a network of blacktop feeder roads winding through the forest and into the mountains, and I can almost feel The Turtle begging me to veer off the highway and into the wilderness. I'm able to resist the urge but still manage to make several unplanned stops, gawking at the mountain vistas and stretching the seventy miles into a relaxing two hour drive.​

I was a kid in the days before video games existed, but I doubt they would have interested me even then. There was a dense forest bordering a lake within a half mile of our house, where my friends and I staged real games on sets we built in the woods. The games would vary, but were usually a rotation of cowboys and Indians, or war games, or some combination of Tarzan of the jungle and Robinson Crusoe. We built forts and teepees, dug foxholes and trenches, fished in the lake shallows, shot rabbits and squirrels, and cooked our game over open fires. Our greatest achievement was a three level treehouse built from scrap lumber we scavenged from various construction sites. It occupied the topmost branches of a massive oak, thirty feet off the ground and invisible to anyone below. From our vantage point in the tree tops we could easily pick off German and Japanese soldiers, or spot approaching Indian war parties, or safely hide from bands of man eating cannibals. Television shows and movies of the day, whether they were westerns or war flicks, tended to paint everything in terms of good versus bad. Germans and Japs were evil, Indians were all ignorant savages, and Tarzan was a fearless superhuman who could do no wrong. We never had a problem distinguishing the good guys from the bad guys because it was all laid out for us by Hollywood, in black and white. One of our regular games was a reenactment of General Custer and the Indians. Conventional wisdom at the time had us believing that a large tribe of bloodthirsty savages had attacked and massacred a company of innocent US cavalry men, led by the heroic George Armstrong Custer. Since childhood I'd never given much thought to Custer's tale, until today. And now, after all these years, I'm about to be educated on the real story.​

It's nearing mid day when I see the exit sign for Little Bighorn Battlefield. I steer The Turtle onto Exit 510, and we enter the site of the infamous battle many historians describe as the worst military disaster in American history. There's a long driveway leading to a parking area, a modern visitors center, and rising behind the building is Last Stand Hill, where Custer and his men met their end. The parking lot is empty, again causing me to wonder if the battlefield is open. I park, find the door unlocked, enter, and encounter a park ranger. He assures me they're open and explains that in April, with Winter storms still a possibility, tourists are rare. He says there's a short documentary film available on demand in the auditorium, ranger guided tours, a cell phone audio tour, and if I'm interested there's a map that will take me on a self guided walking tour. I decide to watch the film and walk the battlefield. Within fifteen minutes of watching the documentary I learn that virtually everything I've ever believed about the battle of Little Bighorn was wrong. So much for childhood innocence. I don't absorb all the details, but I come away knowing this much. On June 26th, 1876, in the valley of the Little Bighorn River, 210 soldiers and scouts from the U.S. 7th Cavalry met their deaths at the hands of Lakota and Cheyenne warriors led by Chief Sitting Bull, and Sioux braves under Chief Crazy Horse. It was not a lengthy battle. According to a first hand account later recorded by a Cheyenne chief, the fighting was over in a matter of minutes. Custer had ignored warnings from his scouts and badly underestimated the size of the Indian encampment, foolishly deciding to attack a small Indian scouting party on the previous morning. Simply put, he started the fight, and the Indians finished it. Custer was known to be an attention whore with a flair for self promotion. In the field, rather than a regulation Army uniform, his preferred outfit consisted of custom tailored buckskins and a floppy brimmed leather hat, making him appear to be anything but a cavalry officer. Following the battle Custer's body was found near the top of Last Stand Hill, the hillside covered with dead soldiers. All the soldiers were scalped and their bodies mutilated, except Custer. He was shot in the temple and left chest but his scalp and body were unmolested, some believe because he was dressed in buckskins and didn't appear to be a soldier. The Little Bighorn massacre, as it was called in the eastern media, occurred in 1876, exactly 100 years before The Turtle rolled off the Toyota assembly line. Interesting coincidence. I know, a meaningless coincidence, but interesting.​

What can you say about an ancient battlefield? Little Bighorn National Monument covers a large area, almost 800 acres, but Last Stand Hill is surprisingly small. I spend an hour tromping through the hills and ravines and end my tour on the hill. It's an eerie feeling, retracing the steps of those who fell over a century ago. Covering the hillside are markers, but they aren't grave markers. Each one marks the spot where a soldier died, and standing out among them is Custer's marker. I stand on the hill surveying the terrain. It's mostly flat and.from the hilltop, soldiers would have had a clear view of the surrounding countryside. There would have been no mistaking the odds they faced, and the inevitable outcome. I wonder if Custer had a final moment of clarity and thought to himself, "Man, I really ****ed up." I try to imagine how it must have felt to be surrounded, knowing you have only minutes to live. Then I remember the lyrics of a silly novelty song that was popular when I was a kid:​

"Please Mr. Custer, I don't wanna go
Listen, Mr. Custer, please don't make me go
There's a redskin a'waitin' out there, just fixin to take my hair
A coward I've been called cuz I don't wanna wind up dead or bald
Please Mr. Custer, I don't wanna go."​

The song says it all. Hiking has made me hungry. The Turtle and I need to tank up and try to make Bozeman before dark.​

Seventy miles northwest of the battlefield is Billings, Montana's largest city. Sounds like a good place to find fuel and grab a late lunch, so I crank The Turtle up to gas guzzling maximum speed and we're on the outskirts of Billings within an hour. We coast into a Flying J truck stop on fumes and fill up with real non-ethanol gas. Before leaving I ask the checker if there's a decent diner nearby. She says the best options are McDonalds and a Chinese buffet. No thanks. I don't do McDonalds and stuffing myself with Chinese doesn't sound appetizing, so I'm about to buy a bag of peanuts and pass on lunch when a friendly guy in line behind me asks what type food I like. He says he's a Billings native and overheard the conversation, and he'd be happy to offer suggestions. I tell him I'm pushed for time and something quick and simple like a good burger would be perfect, and he says "How do you feel about pubs?" Are you kidding me? I tell him I feel just fine about pubs. He recommends the brew pub at Montana Brewing. He says it's on 28th Street, less than a block off Interstate 90, and they have the best sandwiches and burgers in town. He says if I don't like beer, they also offer soft drinks and tea. Uh...sure.​

The pub is easy to find, on the ground floor of a big old building in downtown Billings. I'm there in seven minutes, seated at a table by the front windows and studying the beer list. The first beer I see is Custer's Last Stout. Yep, there it is, jumping right off the page at me, an Australian style oatmeal stout. This is a no brainer. I must have a pint of stout and toast General Custer, who's middle name coincidentally happens to be Armstrong, same as me. Yeah, I know, another meaningless coincidence, and there's no relation. Earlier this afternoon I learned that Custer never fathered any children before he bought the farm. It seems he caught a raging case of the clap before he was married, which left him sterile. Poor old George just didn't have any kind of luck at all. I order a ceremonial pint and when it arrives, it's a thing to behold. It's pitch black, a fine smokey flavored brew with a hint of semi-sweet chocolate on the finish. A sipping beer. I sip and savor, and study the menu. It's mid afternoon and the pub is almost empty. There's a group of waitresses standing by the bar looking bored, and when my gal comes around for my food order, she sits at the table. She's cute in a college coed way, chatty and friendly, seems to know her beer. She says her name is Erin. Cool, my daughter's name is Erin, and she reminds me of my daughter. She asks how I like the stout, and tells me the brewmaster makes it with English barley and domestically grown Fuggle hops. She giggles when she says Fuggle. I must look perplexed, because she explains that it's not possible to say Fuggle after downing three beers without accidentally saying something else. That's the end of her explanation. She's embarrassed herself, and apologizes for wandering into inappropriate territory. No problem I say. I tell her I'm a stout connoisseur, and I'd give Custer's Last Stout a solid B+. She says she hasn't seen me in the pub before, and asks if I'm a tourist. I give her the fifty cent version of The Turtle's story--I'm from Texas, driving an old Land Cruiser to Seattle, shipping it to Hawaii, yada, yada, yada. She begins asking questions about the tripand The Turtle, but I politely cut her off and remind her that I need to get moving. I ask for the healthy sounding gorgonzola grilled chicken sandwich on wheat.​

Erin: "You don't want that."
Me: "I don't? Why not? Is it bad?"
Erin: "No, it's very good. Just not a good choice with stout."
Me: "OK, then what do I want?"
Erin: "You want the fifty nine burger."
Me: "I give up. What's that?"
Erin: "It's on the menu as the 59101 Burger. That's our zip code."
Me: "What is it?"
Erin: "It's not really a burger. Shredded Angus beef pot roast with sauteed onions and smoked cheddar. On a Montana bun."
Me: "What's a Montana bun?"
Erin: "Trust me. You want a fifty nine with that stout."​

She's persistent, and she seems to speak with authority. What the heck..​

Me: "Fine. Bring it."
Erin: "You'll want sweet potato fries too. We make 'em with red chili garlic aioli. Keeps the vampires away.
Me: "What? Sure. Whatever you say."​

She brings my fries and another pint of stout. I tell her I didn't order another pint. She's says she's sorry, she thought I did. I suggest that possibly it was ordered by another customer. She says no, she pulled it for me. She tells me to enjoy the pint, her mistake, so it's on the house. Then my burger shows up and it's phenomenal. She was correct, it's perfect with oatmeal stout. I put away the sandwich quickly but can't finish the fries. She brings the bill and my tab is $10.95. No charge for the second pint, and no charge for the fries. I point out the missing fries and she says "Forget it, they were my idea. On the house." I could learn to like this place. I leave Erin a fat tip, rejoin The Turtle, and we're off.

Next stop, Bozeman.

To be continued....

​

 

[whitaker451]

A vivid mental picture as always. Can't wait for the next one!

 

[Weber Sarge]

With that in mind, I think a Guiness Black Lager would be appropriate for the next chapter...
A black oatmeal stout, need to venture West one of these days.
Sarge

 

[cruiserjunkie]

Back on track man I needed this road trip today thanks

 

[lordbater]

wow...

I had a Jalipeno beer I believe made in Conroe today. It had a little firey kick to it, not bad at all..

a

 

[srtdiesel]

Yet another home run hit by Commander Armstrong! I have been reading another good book but it pales in comparison to these stories. By the way, the book I have been reading, 'The Memory of Running' , is a read that I could barely put down to sleep. Lee you have a gift with words and should think of at least letting a publisher look at some of your work. I know that I've seen you mention here that among the interest there is someone that could set you up with a publisher. You should strongly consider this, not to get wealthy, but to entertain those of us with great interest in the stories that you write. My brother, who hate my Land Cruiser addiction, actually loves to read these posts. To get a dyed in the wool, Harley Davidson fan like him to appreciate what I could get him to understand for the past two decades is utterly impossible, yet you have gotten him to understand my addiction and need for everything TLC. He even mentioned that he'd like to take a trip, him on his bike and me in the FJ40, to see a buddy of mine that I served with in Afghanistan. The friend, a misplaced Texan himself, had a motorcycle accident a few months ago and is recovering rather well. Seems that College Station hasn't treated him well with the luck he has been having. The accident wasn't his fault, a high school cheerleader and friends pulled out in front of him after he had just left A&M. Anyway, thanks for the awesome stories and we will be here for the rest of the ride. "May the Lord watch over you and yours as he has for me and mine."

 

[juanchogaviria]

Thank you Commander Armstrong, I´m about to hit the trails this sunday morning, I sat on my computer at 6am with a big mug of Colombian coffee, hoping to find a new chapter of the rustbucket tale, and there it was...
My wife just woke up and she asks why am I looking at the computer so concentrated, my answer to her: Baby, I´m reading something so cool about 40´s, could you make me a nice homelet with toasts and syrup? she answers: Are you crazy! it´s sunday, it´s 6.40am, i´m going to bed again!!!
Ok babe, thanks....

 

[Copenhagen1]

Great chapter!

I saw this posted last night but I saved reading it until this morning with my Sunday morning coffee. Very enjoyable. Finding these new chapters added to the thread are like finding the next issue of my favorite magazine in the mailbox. One of life's simple pleasures. Thank you very much.

 

[SHUSH]

What a timely pick me up here in Mississippi as well. Spent the night up with a sick 1.5 year old. Now chugging coffee and considering a ride in the 40 to clear my head (no church as we have all been deemed "contagious")

Lee I hope things are semi "back to normal" I realize life never is really the same after your resent loss and I continue to pray for your family. Cheers (no pic for black coffee!!)

 

[myquestoyota]

Great to have you back "on the tale" so to speak. Another great chapter in the continuing saga of "The Turtle".