Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (3 Viewers)

[Sea Knight]

Lee, you have a true set of Brass Ones, to be taken into the remote of this country with a harem in charge...
Sarge

It's not like I had a choice. They ganged up on me.

As I recall, you get a discount if you wear Cateye glasses to the Cateye Cafe. I went to college in Bozeman and am hoping to return there after law school. These chapters just make me miss it all that much more.

That was still the case when I was there, but who carries cat eye glasses?

After spending only 2 days in Bozeman, I can understand why you'd want to return.

Lee, If you come this direction during the summer for the Alaska trip, I hope you're able to drive the Beartooth Highway. It's between Red Lodge, MT and Yellowstone National Park. Might as well stop in Cooke City, MT and run up Lulu or Daisy Pass while you're there. Unbelievable views and wilderness.

No specific route in mind for the Texas-Alaska run, although I do hope to revisit most of the places I passed through in 2005, including the Montana wilderness. I won't be in a hurry this time. Making a note of your suggestions.

For those travelers who might pass through Missoula, MT and want some fresh Moose Drool, you should know you can get free beer at the brewery here right off the interstate. Not much, but you get 4 little glasses free per day of whatever they have on tap.

They didn't limit me to 4 little glasses. I think I had 4 pints. Must depend on who's behind the bar.

Let's see, I'm drinking better beer, reading better literature, listening to better music, driving my FJ40 to more interesting places and appreciating my parents even more..............
I think this thread has changed my life. Thanks for expanding our minds Lee.

Joking aside, any one of those changes would make this thread worthwhile. The 2005 road trip was a life altering experience for me, in more ways than I could begin to explain.

Actually there's lots in the area. Many down the peninsula and south bay. If you were 80 miles ENE i could show you hundreds!

Huh, the last time I was there I went for a 40 minute walk and saw three 40s and a Pig, right in the busiest part of the city.

I've explored the financial district and North Beach on foot and run on the Embarcadero every day for over a week and haven't spotted a Land Cruiser. We're heading for Sonoma on Thursday or Friday. The last time I was at Russian River Brewing in Santa Rosa there were several 40's and a nice 60 parked in the same block. I'll have to go back and see if they're still there.

 

[lordbater]

I've explored the financial district and North Beach on foot and run on the Embarcadero every day for over a week and haven't spotted a Land Cruiser. We're heading for Sonoma on Thursday or Friday. The last time I was at Russian River Brewing in Santa Rosa there were several 40's and a nice 60 parked in the same block. I'll have to go back and see if they're still there.

Maybe you should have brought your own??

a

 

[My71FJ40]

....Cruiser content: Maybe it's the LOCATION, but I've been in San Francisco for a week and haven't seen a single Land Cruiser, old or new, not even an Icon. Range Rovers are everywhere, but not a Cruiser to be found. I must be in the wrong part of California.

I'm not very PC....Your in San Francisco .....there are more manly places in CA and they tend to have Land Cruisers...

 

[Copenhagen1]

.........The 2005 road trip was a life altering experience for me, in more ways than I could begin to explain.......

Is that why the title of this thread is "Saving the Old Rust Bucket"? .

 

[natecher]

Sea knight,

Being new to the cruiser seen, bought my first cruiser a little over a month ago. This is an amazing story ( looking forward to the hard copy) And a confirmation that people involved in cruisers should not be overlooked. I appreciate your efforts!

 

[RodrigzCrzr]

Lee, I want to thank you for this wonderful story you so eloquently wrote for us. What an adventure you have put me through.. As past owner of a 72,76, FJ40 and current owner of 88 fj62. I sure regret ever selling those 40's. with my current cruiser i have to fight to at least use it for a day since my 19 year old son as commandeered my cruiser. Thank you so much for this wonderful story. My prayers go out to you and your family. Army is in a better place and watchng over you . looking forward to mor eof your adventure.

 

[msr203]

I never thought being left hanging in a 40 with 3 women would be painful!!!!

Sent from my apple IIe using msdos

 

[patride71]

It's not like I had a choice. They ganged up on me.



That was still the case when I was there, but who carries cat eye glasses?

After spending only 2 days in Bozeman, I can understand why you'd want to return.




No specific route in mind for the Texas-Alaska run, although I do hope to revisit most of the places I passed through in 2005, including the Montana wilderness. I won't be in a hurry this time. Making a note of your suggestions.



They didn't limit me to 4 little glasses. I think I had 4 pints. Must depend on who's behind the bar.



Joking aside, any one of those changes would make this thread worthwhile. The 2005 road trip was a life altering experience for me, in more ways than I could begin to explain.





I've explored the financial district and North Beach on foot and run on the Embarcadero every day for over a week and haven't spotted a Land Cruiser. We're heading for Sonoma on Thursday or Friday. The last time I was at Russian River Brewing in Santa Rosa there were several 40's and a nice 60 parked in the same block. I'll have to go back and see if they're still there.

As you know, I saw two the same day I saw you there last week.
A 60 and an 80.

 

[Sea Knight]

...looking forward to more of your adventure.

There's more coming up. Taking a breather to handle some personal business. Hopefully back to writing soon.

I never thought being left hanging in a 40 with 3 women would be painful!!!

As you know, I saw two the same day I saw you there last week. A 60 and an 80.

That was you?

I finally spotted a fine looking dune beige 40 in Santa Rosa on Saturday, on the way to Russian River Brewing. A guy at the wheel and three good looking female passengers. Reminded me of The Turtle's Bozeman escapade. Unfortunately it was too far away to chase down.

 

[myquestoyota]

There's more coming up. Taking a breather to handle some personal business. Hopefully back to writing soon.



Just so long as you don't leave us hanging too much longer. I have resisted commenting here because every time I open Mud I look first for the rustbucket thread and when I see NEW I hope it's another chapter only to find a post by one of us that has just found you or is looking for a rustbucket fix.
Carry on!

 

[geocrasher]

One of the things about telling a good story is leaving out the boring parts and telling only the exciting parts- to a point. The characters have to be acting at "maximum capacity" all the time. That's why you never hear about superman going to the bathroom- nobody cares. This story is chock full of excitement, maximum capacity action and intrigue. And its told masterfully. I've laughed, cried, and longed for adventure- all within five minutes of each other! Thanks so much for this, you have no idea... I'm just in awe. Thanks again. Subscribed to thread.

 

[mailking]

Hello all, and "the Commander" in particular. I am about to battle some more rust here in the Tropics of Suriname, South America. So I thought to check out this thread, thinking it was about rust. Boy was I wrong. You guys have me reading for 3 days on and off

I am at the part near Raton where you are about to get a fix for the clutch problem.

Really good to see the guys out there interacting in real as well as just on the digital road. Makes me want to get out into the US and meet you all.... Which will happen eventually anyway.

Lee, if you keep on telling, I am listening, even if that means reading of a dodgy wifi signal at McDonalds on our little iPod.

Adventurous greetings,
Coen = Mailking

 

[twoyotas]

and thus, the two greatest land cruiser adventure threads cross paths. . .

 

[Krusty]

x2

Krusty

 

[Texican]

and thus, the two greatest land cruiser adventure threads cross paths. . .

link to the "other " thread please.......

 

[Living in the Past]

link to the "other " thread please.......

LandCruising Adventure

 

[cruiserjunkie]

LandCruising Adventure

Can't wait to read this while waiting on the commander

 

[Sea Knight]

Bozeman--The Final Chapter

Easin' down the highway in a new Cadillac
I had a fine fox in front, I had two more in the back
They sportin' short dresses, wearin' spike-heel shoes
They smokin' Lucky Strikes and wearin' nylons too
'Cause we bad, we nationwide
Yeah, we bad, we nationwide
--ZZ Top​

I know...I'm in a 30 year old truck, not a new Cadillac and the girls aren't wearing spike heels and short dresses, and they aren't smokin' Lucky's, but you can't argue with the image. We bad...well, pretty bad, and Jen is correct. The only thing waiting for me in Missoula is an empty room at Motel 6. How can I refuse a scenic mountain drive, in a 40, with a fine fox in the front seat and two more in back? Maybe you could, but I can't. We gas up at the corner Shell station and Jen directs me through Bozeman, making several turns ending at Montana State Highway 86. She says Highway 86, known locally as Bridger Canyon Road, will take us all the way through the mountains to Wilsall; there may be some bonus side trips along the way.


Barely outside the city limits, an oldies station blasting away on the stereo, I begin having the odd feeling that I've been here before. Not here on this Montana highway, but behind the wheel, on the open road with three good looking girls on board. The Turtle shifts into time machine mode, and I remember earlier days, before I put away childish things, before rediscovering old Land Cruisers. Once upon a time I was a Porsche fanatic, beginning with a little 912 four banger, then a succession of 911's, and finally a turbo charged beast, a 930. When they ran, they were my daily drivers, and on weekends I raced--road races, gymkhanas, tracks, you name it. It was an expensive and often dangerous hobby but either I didn't know any better, or didn't care. Call it arrested development. My favorite roadster, the last one I owned, was a chocolate brown 930 Targa, a bottomless money pit, completely impractical but fun. At the time my daughter was in high school, and "Dad's brown Porsche" was her favorite ride, especially with the top off. I'd pick her up after school and invariably she'd be hanging out at the curb with several girlfriends, each hoping to hitch a fast ride in the chocolate rocket. It was understood that we'd take meandering routes through the hill country outside Austin, blasting over steep rises and pushing hard through banked curves while the girls laughed and squealed like they were on a carnival roller coaster. Those times don't seem far behind and hearing Anne and her friend laughing in the back seat, singing along to old tunes, it all comes back. I have been here before. Jen is my daughter's age and the girls in the back, not much younger. Some things never change, and this is one of them.

I said "How Young Is Too Young? How Fast Is Too Fast?
Well How High Is Too High? How High Is Too High?"
She said "How Long Is This Ride?" Well How Long Can You Last?
You're Gonna Find Out Mister..."
--Little Feat​

Highway 86 is flat leaving Bozeman, first winding easterly, then turning north and rising through the Gallatin National Forest toward Bridger Bowl. Jen tells me the Bridger Bowl ski area receives over 400 inches of snow each year; she says it's the best extreme ski area in the United States, that I should come back and try it. I know nothing about extreme skiing, and I don't have a death wish, but I act interested and tell her I'll certainly think about it. The forest on either side of the road is thick and obstructs our views for several miles, but after crossing through Flathead Pass and gaining elevation we can see snow covered peaks of the Bridger Range to our left and in the distance to the northeast, the Crazy Mountains, with Crazy Peak towering above us at more than 11,000 feet. We pass an intersection with Old Flathead Road; it's unpaved and looks interesting. The Turtle urges me to stop and investigate so I pull over and ask if anyone knows where the road leads. Anne from the back seat says it goes directly into Wilsall, but isn't always passable. It's sunny and dry, no ice or snow on the road so I talk it over with the girls and in the spirit of adventure we decide to take it, the road less traveled. We turn right, and the road isn't bad by 40 standards, bumpy and rutted but easily driveable in two wheel drive. We poke along in second gear, enjoying the Bridger Range wilderness. No houses, no vehicles, no people, no noise. Just me and The Turtle, and three foxes. Gallatin forest and the surrounding mountains are home to a diverse wildlife population, from black and grizzly bear to deer and elk and bighorn sheep. By taking this detour we hope to see at least some of them in the wild, and we aren't disappointed. Deer are commonplace along the roadside, and we spot a small elk herd grazing in a mountain meadow in the distance. We all see a black bear foraging in the bushes, and Anne claims there's a bighorn sheep standing on a distant crag. Bighorn sightings are rare and she's excited at her find. We watch, and watch, and it never moves. I make the mistake of speculating out loud that the bighorn actually is a gnarly tree, but Anne takes exception and insists it's a sheep. Fortunately, being a parent, I know exactly how to handle this delicate situation. My seven year old son once spotted a 20 foot man eating African crocodile in the creek across the street from our house, in a residential neighborhood, in central Texas. It was a partially submerged log, but he wouldn't be satisfied until I agreed it was a monster croc, just like he'd seen on the National Geographic Channel. So, I congratulate Anne on her sharp eye, concede that she was right all along; it is a bighorn after all, and we move along. Kids.


An hour after turning onto Old Flathead Road we reach Wilsall, population 237. The town is a blend of mostly old and some new buildings, with an old Western look to it. There's an actual downtown area but we have no trouble locating the pub, which happens to be on the main drag, Elliot Street, AKA US Highway 89. The pub is quaint, just as Jen promised, occupying an old turn of the century bank. Not surprisingly, it's called the Bank Bar. Directly across the street is a big red brick building, Wilsall Mercantile Company, and next to it the old post office, now a liquor store. There's a fair amount of activity around the Mercantile Company, several serious looking pickups parked outside the Bank Bar, and even some traffic. Definitely a happening place. We park in front, pile out and stretch our legs, and the girls declare they're thirsty.

It's barely past noon and Bank Bar isn't crowded. We pick a table in the back and I check out the taps. There's the usual selection of Bud-Miller-Coors swill, and a few interesting Montana brews. Two bucks a pint. Jen and I order Bent Nail IPA. Anne and her friend decide on Bozeman Amber. We sit, they talk, I mostly listen. I learn that Anne's friend is Jessica, but she prefers Jess. They're roommates, both Montana State students, Anne a sophomore and Jess a junior. Both wait tables at Montana Aleworks part time, one hasn't declared a major, the other thinks she'd like to attend law school. Neither have traveled outside the state. They discuss celebrities, boyfriends, shopping, clothes. They're nice kids, but too young to be interesting and it doesn't take long before I stop listening. Jen is a different story. She's been around. She's candid, and talks matter-of-factly about herself with a self-deprecating humor. She's witty and sarcastic, well read and widely traveled. I take her candor as an invitation to ask about her personal life, and learn that she's in an uncomfortable place. In addition to school she works two jobs, which virtually eliminates any possibility of a social life. She's almost a decade older than most of her fellow students and she's partial to older men, but put off when professors and pub patrons make suggestive overtures. She says it's a common occurrence. Pushing thirty, she's feeling the urge to settle down and start a family, but where and with whom? Bozeman is a relatively small town and she thinks a bigger city would provide more opportunities, but doesn't want to leave the area she loves. What to do? I have nothing constructive to offer so I change the subject to something I know, food. After two beers, I'm starving. Jen says we don't have to leave the building, because the Bank Bar has fantastic sandwiches. She says they're so huge that she and I should consider splitting one. Anne and Jess sign on, and we order a meatloaf and a turkey for the four of us. The sandwiches are massive, more than enough, and we wash them down with a final round. With time running out, Jen offers a toast, says a few words, wishes me safe travels and a successful trip. For the first time since we met she seems serious, almost somber, her toast an unexpectedly personal gesture coming from a person I barely know. We touch glasses, down our pints, and no one speaks. Finally I tell my posse that we need to leave. We emerge from the pub into the hazy warmth of late afternoon and mount up. I still have to pack and check out, and I want to be rollin' toward Missoula before dark.​

We take the fast route back, US 89 North out of Wilsall, then a hard left on Montana 86 back to Bozeman. It's 45 miles to the motel, about an hour drive time. Traveling west and then south on Montana 86, descending from Flathead Pass and through Bridger Bowl, the sun begins to dip behind the mountains casting the entire landscape in a golden glow so perfect that it doesn't look real. There's no traffic, and no chatter from any of us. Just the familiar clickedy-clack of the mighty 2F, and The Turtle's fat MT's humming on asphalt.​

It's 5 PM sharp when we pull into the Blue Sky parking lot, and the spot nearest my room happens to be vacant. I take it and once again we all pile out. I remind Jen that I'm six hours past checkout time, and I'm holding her to her promise to run interference with the management. I don't want to be nailed for a late fee, or pay for another night. She assures me that she'll turn in my key. She has me covered. I let myself into the room and survey the situation. My heap of laundry is still on the spare bed, and there's assorted gear strewn all over the room. As I'm contemplating whether to do a speed pack, cramming everything into my bag and hauling ass, or taking a few minutes and being methodical, Anne, Jess, and Jen come in, without knocking. Apparently I'm one of the family now, and they've decided that knocking isn't necessary. Jen leans against the dresser and crosses her arms, looking pensive, saying nothing. Without hesitation Anne begins folding my clothes--t-shirts, boxer shorts, socks, trou. She hands them to Jess, who carefully places each piece in my duffel bag. It's a two girl assembly line, and it happens so quickly that I don't have time to say anything in protest. Within minutes I'm packed. Anne grins and says "We decided you could use some help. I worked at Eddie Bauer last Summer. I can fold a t-shirt without a single wrinkle in 45 seconds." Anne and Jess say they have to be at work by seven. They thank me for the joy ride, for breakfast and lunch, give me sort of a clumsy group hug, wish me luck, and walk out the door. I watch as they get into a rusted out old Bronco and drive away. Jen stays behind. I tote my bag and boots out to The Turtle, make another trip with miscellaneous loose junk that goes in the Tuffy--sunglasses, phone, flashlight, maps, GPS, trail mix, and I'm ready to move out. Jen is still leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, staring at the floor, not talking. I ask if she's working at the motel this evening, or at the pub. She says neither. She can take a pub shift if she wants, but she isn't in the mood to work. She grabs my room key from the night stand, briskly walks out, returns in minutes and says I'm good to go, no late charges. Then she asks for a ride home. If I don't mind.​

Me: "A ride home? How did you get here? Don't you have a car?"​

Jen: "Anne picked me up this morning. My car is at home."

Me: "I guess I can...give you a ride."

Jen: "It's not far. Couple of miles, near the university."

Jen directs me, out of the parking lot, left on Main, past Montana Ale Works, left on 9th, down a couple of blocks and there's her place. It's a little garage apartment, about what you'd expect in a college neighborhood. She says it's a two bedroom, but she doesn't have a roommate. Been there done that, she says. She's too old for a roomie, and likes her privacy. She has two parking spaces and tells me to pull into the one next to her Subaru. It's an older Outback, clean looking, ski racks on top, and assorted stickers--Montana State Bobcats, Glacier National Park, and "You Can Take The Girl Out Of Montana, But You Can't Take Montana Out Of The Girl" The Turtle is idling and I keep expecting Jen to say goodby and climb out, but she doesn't move. She sits, staring out the window, starts to say something, hesitates, then tries again; she asks me to cut the ignition. She wants to talk.​

Jen: "I didn't think Anne and Jess would go with us, to Wilsall."

Me: "I didn't mind. They seem nice enough. And they packed my clothes."

Jen: "It's not that. They're my friends. But I was hoping we'd have time to talk."


I'm thinking, we did talk, didn't we? Talk about what?


Me: "Talk about what?"

Jen: "I'm not working tonight, or tomorrow. Why don't you stay another night?"

Me: "I already checked out. Remember?"

Jen: "You can stay here. With me."

Me: "D'oh. Whut?"

Jen: "I could show you around Bozeman. There's a lot more to see."

Me: "I don't think that's a good idea."

Jen: "When do you have to be in Seattle?"

Me: "I'm shipping the 40 on Tuesday. May 3rd. I fly to Kona the next day."

Jen: "It's only Friday. That's five days. What's your plan?"

Me: "Missoula tonight, Spokane tomorrow night, Seattle on Sunday."

Jen: "So you have two extra days in there?"

Me: "I like to allow for contingencies, because, uh, you know, there's always contingencies."


This is not good. Not good at all. It's dusk, and I've already missed being on the highway before dark. Jen is saying something, but whatever she's saying, isn't registering. I'm trying not to stare but crap, it's hard not to notice. She has smoky brown eyes and bronzed skin and tousled bedroom hair, and she smells like vanilla. $hit, I think. Get a grip. This woman could be my daughter. That may not bother Michael Douglas, but it bothers me. Time to act like a grownup.


Jen: "It's less than 400 miles to Spokane. Stay here tonight, or even two nights, and you'd still be in Seattle in time."

Me: "Look, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but this is just a very bad idea."


Silence. Even in the dimming light I can see her blushing through her tan. Then...


Jen: "Oh my God, I didn't mean...I wasn't suggesting anything. Not what you think."

Me: "Ohhhh."

Jen: "I rarely meet men who aren't hitting on me. You're different. I just wanted to talk."


Now I'm the one who feels like a complete dumbass.


Jen: "Please come in. I'll make coffee."

Me: "Um...All right, but only for a few minutes."

I follow her up the stairs and into her apartment. It's roomy, furnished with a random assortment of second hand furniture that looks like it belongs together. Her place is cute but not girly, clean but not neat, organized chaos. There's a mountain bike leaning against her sofa, ski poles in the corner, several ski trophies atop a full bookcase, assorted articles of clothing draped over chair backs. Warm, and homey. She pulls out a bag of coffee beans, tells me they're from Snowy Mountain Coffee in Harlowton. The coffee is called Montana on My Mind, a dark roasted Costa Rican bean. Fair trade organic. She asks if I prefer it strong and I laugh. I do. I like it in 90 weight, high octane only, so she brews it that way and serves it to me in a big stoneware mug, thick, and black as pitch. Too bad my friend Betty from the Silver Spur isn't here to see me drinking this manly coffee.


Jen: "I'm so embarrassed. About the misunderstanding. I just enjoy talking to someone...without an agenda."

Me: "Forget it. We're good."

Jen: "Do you still fly?"

Me: "No, not for years. Couldn't pass a flight physical. Shrapnel in my eye."

Jen: "Good. I mean good that you don't fly."

Me: "Why do you say that?"

Jen: "You remind me of my Dad. Or how I think he'd be."

Me: "Where is your Dad?"

Jen: "He died when I was four. I don't remember him, except what my Mom told me."

Me: "I'm so sorry. My niece was four when my sister died. I understand...a little bit."

Jen: "My Mom never got over it, never remarried. I grew up without...a father figure."

Me: "No uncles?"

Jen: "No, no one. Dad was an Army pilot. He flew Dustoff helicopters, in Viet Nam. I'll show you his picture."

She goes into her bedroom and comes back with a framed photo of a sandy haired young Army Warrant Officer, smiling from ear-to-ear, holding a tiny baby. Jen says "That's me, in his arms. My Mom took that picture."

Me: "What happened, if you don't mind talking about it?"

Jen: "I don't even know. He served two tours in Viet Nam. Came home and died in a private plane crash. He was 33."

His name was Chad, and he was my age. It's one of those moments when I can't think of anything to say. She studies the photo for a long moment, dabs the corner of her eye, lays the frame on the sofa. I look at her trophies and tell her that I'm sure her Dad would have been proud of her. Is proud of her. She says she hopes so. I ask what she wanted to talk about and she says nothing in particular, just talk. We finish the coffee, and she builds another pot. Jen wants to know everything about her Dad's era, my era. What was it like growing up in the Baby Boomer Generation? What about the 60's? Why did I join the service? Do I regret it? How did I feel when my daughter was born? Questions she would have asked her Dad. She tries to absorb every little detail but there isn't nearly enough time. It's after midnight, and four hours to Missoula. I'm feeling fatigued and it makes sense to sleep a few hours, bypass Missoula and leave early for Spokane, but I think it's best to mush on, and I tell her so. Jen doesn't argue. She just looks sad, and excuses herself.

I awaken in darkness, hear movement, smell coffee brewing. I'm on a sofa that's too short, my feet hanging over the end, a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. A voice, from the kitchen.

Jen: "I took off your shoes. Hope that was OK."

Me: "What happened?"

Jen: "You went to sleep on my couch. I was making you comfortable."

Me: "What time is it?"

Jen: "6 AM, Saturday. You'd better get moving if you want to be in Spokane tonight. I'm making coffee."

Me: "Thanks. Coffee would be great. Where's the head?"

Jen: "The what?"

Me: "The bathroom."

I slop cold water on my face and feel surprisingly refreshed. Return to the sofa, pull on my shoes, take a gulp of coffee, try to think of something fitting to say in parting.


Me: "Well..."

Jen: "Well yourself."

Me: "I really need to hit the road."

Jen: "I know."

Me: "You know what Shakespeare said."

Jen: "No, what did he say?"

Me: "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Jen: "Bull$hit. Get out of here before I cry."

She walks me to the door and out onto the landing, wraps her arms around me, and says "Thanks for giving me a little piece of my Dad. And write that book. I'll be looking for it."

 

[cruiserjunkie]

Thank you always worth the wait

 

[77mustard40]

OMA - gets my vote for the best chapter yet. Hope to catch up with you friday at the normal spot.