The Wanderers build

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 72



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: CARL AND EMMA MEET FOREST GUMP?

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




We join them now as they're driving The Whale at night, with six lights cutting an arc through the moonless dark. Carl sucked down the last dregs of a warm Vernors ginger ale, took a healthy bite out of a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco, stifled a belch with the back of his hand and reached for the multitude of controls and switches on the dash. "You think we got enough lights on, Emma?"
Emma looked up from reading her copy of True Romance Quarterly. "Well, it's a dark night. How many lights do you have on now.?"
"Hardly anything at all. I got two Hella 100 watt pencil beams, two 100 watt Don-A-Vee fog lights and two 135 watt PIAA mid-range driving lights. Maybe I ought to put a few more on. Tell me when you think there's enough light, will ya?"
Carl reached over to the dash and flipped a toggle switch. "OK. That's two more Explorer long range pencil beams."
Carl's stubby finger moved another switch to ON. A near-blinding burst of light shot through the inky-black night. "Wow! Those six KC driving lights sure added some power."
Emma rubbed her eyes. "Six? How many lights do we have all total? And why do we have so many different brands of lights?"
"Oh, we have 24 lights all total. And the reason I got all these different kinds is that I got deals on some of 'em and some of 'em I just like real well."
"But why so many?"
"Well, I got a set of lights for most any situation. If I'm goin' slow off road, I have eight lights that illuminate close up and wide. If I'm drivin' on a deserted highway at night, I flip on eight long range pencil beams and eight mid-range driving lights. And every once in a while, I just flip 'em all on and it's like daylight. Here, lemmee show you."
Carl reached over and clicked a whole bank of switches. The entire road and the sides of the road ahead lit up like a football stadium! Dozens of light-crazed bugs made a bee-line for the light show and immediately splattered their tiny brains out against the windshield of The Whale.
A thick layer of dead bug-juice quickly covered the windshield. Carl flicked on the wipers and the bug juice immediately turned into a tapioca-like substance. In a mild state of panic, Carl hit the windshield washers and cleared a visual path.
"Dang, Emma! There's no way you can appreciate these here lights out on a regular road with kamakazi bugs out there in herds. Let's pull off the next dirt road and wander around a bit. Then you'll really see how good these things work. It's been a long time since I did any night time off-roading, anyway, and I never had a chance to try those eight new lights up on top."

A few miles later, Carl saw a likely turn-off and took it. It was a nice little two-track dirt road with a fence on one side and a small stream on the other.
Carl got out and thoroughly cleaned the windshield with a squirt bottle, before the bug juice on the edge of the windshield dried like 3M weatherstripping cement.
Back in the cab, Carl flicked all the lights on and smiled broadly. "Hey, take a look now, Emma. All 24 lights are on and you can see for a mile straight ahead and a hundred yards off to each side of The Whale."

Sure enough, a veritable blaze of intense white light shot out from The Whale and turned the landscape into something that looked like a white sandy beach at high noon on the equator.

Carl drove cautiously at first, then picked up the pace. "Lookee here, Emma. I can go as fast as I want to because I can see even clearer at night with these lights than I can in normal daylight. Ya see, all of the bumps and rocks and sharp edges are clearly outlined."
The speedo read 35, then 40. It inched up to 45, then 50. Emma squirmed nervously on here seat. "Carl? Are you sure you want to go this fast on a back country dirt road at night? There's no telling what might pop on the road."
Carl laughed. "What are you expecting, somebody out here doing some landscaping at nine o'clock at night?"
Just as he said that, a small motorized lawn mower rolled out under the fence and flipped over upside-down and landed in the right hand track of the dirt road.
Carl never had a chance to even touch the brakes, as the mower landed ten feet in front of The Whale. There was a loud clanging sound, followed by a hiss then the unmistakable flap-flap-flap sound of a tire gone flat.

"Ohhh, jeeez! What kind of a crazy nut-case would lose control of a lawn mower this time of night?" Carl's question was answered when he looked over at the sign on the fence. It read: "ILLINOIS STATE HOME FOR THE BEWILDERED".
"Great. Just great! I get a flat tire right next to a nut farm!"
Carl got out started changing the wasted tire. The Hi-Lift jack got the front end up in the air after Carl loosened the lug nuts. He turned the hubcap over and used it like a bowl to hold the lug nuts as he removed them.
Carl pulled on the tire and it didn't want to come off. So he tugged a little harder.
"Emma? Get out here with a flashlight, will ya?"
"Why would you need another light, dear? You already have 24 of them on."
"Just bring the light, woman. I want to get this wheel off before the mosquitoes eat me alive."
Emma brought big six-cell cop flashlight out and aimed it at the wheel, while Carl squatted down and tugged and pulled like a madman.
Suddenly, without warning, the wheel slid off the studs and Carl fell backwards, holding the big 35 inch tire in a near death grip. His butt hit the edge of the hubcap and the lug nuts shot up into the air and landed in the nearby stream with a plink-plink sound.
A string of very caustic Navy curses filled the otherwise still night air.
"What's wrong, dear?"
"Uhh, nothing much. I just flipped all of my lug nuts into that stream over there."
A strange voice came from over the fence. "Yep. Heard 'em hit. And that stream is four, maybe five foot deep."
Emma spun around and shined her light on a man who was leaning on the fence.
"You didn't happen to see a lawn mower come by here, did you?"
Carl shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I did. That's why I'm changing a tire right now. Some nut case must have been mowing the grass at night."
The man gave a dopey looking smile. "Yup. That was me. They let me cut the grass at night. They say it's good therapy."
Carl looked at the sign and then at the man on the fence and put two and three together. "So you're an inmate here, buddy?"
"Well, yup. But they call us guests. Are you having a problem, mister?"
"A real problem! I just knocked all of the lug nuts from my right front wheel into the stream, so how in the pluperfect hell am I gonna put my spare on and get down the road? You need nuts to hold a wheel on, and even crazy people know that."
The man scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. "Hey mister, why don't you take one lug nut off of each wheel and use it on the right front. That way you still got four lug nuts holding each wheel on, and this give you four to hold the front wheel on. That should be enough to hold you until you get to a gas station."
Carl's jaw hung slack. "Why ... uhh ... yes, that would work. Say, buddy. I don't understand why you're in here. That's a pretty smart trick."
The man continued smiling. "Ohh, I might be crazy, but I ain't stupid.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 73



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: SNAKE EYES!

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




The Whale headed into the slanting rays of the setting sun. That could mean only one thing: they were headed west. Emma flipped the visor down to get the glare out of her eyes. "I guess I forgot to ask, but just out of curiosity, where are we heading?"
"Texas, Emma. We're headed for the Glow Star State."
"You mean the Lone Star state."
"That's what I said, woman. You got wax in your ears, or what?"
"So what are we going to do in Texas? Nothing weird or stupid, I hope."
"Emma, why do you always assume the worst? Isn't it possible that we're simply going to a nice camping and fishing area? Or maybe to just drive around Texas and try to find a road-side sign with no bullet holes in it? Heck, we might even be goin' to a rodeo."
Emma thought real hard for a few minutes. "No, I don't think we're going camping, fishing, or even to a rodeo. I've been married to you way too long to trust that innocent pitch. Now, why don't you just up and tell me what kind of bizarre thing, or place, we're going to. Then I'll have time to adjust to it before we get there. So, spit it out."
Carl sighed deeply, then mumbled in a low tone: "We're going to a rattlesnake roundup. It's no big deal."
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't quite make out what you were saying. Would you repeat it?"
"Uhhh, it's a kind of a reptile festival."
"Reptile! What kind of reptile?"
"Well, it's sort of like a snake, ya see."
"Snake?! What kind of snake?"
"Uhhh... well ... it's ... that's is ... ummmm ... just your basic ordinary rattlesnake."
"Rattlesnake!!! Are you out of what little mind you have left? And who in the world is having a festival for those awful snakes?
"It's not actually a festival. Ya see, it's more like a rattlesnake roundup."
Emma shuddered visibly and her eyes got real big. "Roundup? Carl, you better explain this to me right this very minute!"
Carl cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Okee-dokee, here's the deal. There's this little town in Texas called Dog Breath, and they hold an annual rattlesnake roundup. It's a real big deal and thousands of people show up to see who can get the biggest snake. The winner gets a giant trophy and ten thousand bucks in cash. I hear it's gonna be covered by ESPN this year, too. It sure sounds like a lot of fun."
Emma folded her arms. "Hmmph. It doesn't sound like much fun to me, but I suppose it is something different. Just don't ask me to get anywhere near those ugly snakes."

They drove in silence for a few minutes as the sun set all the way, then Emma popped up straight in her seat, eyes big again. "Carl, tell me you didn't enter that snake roundup? Please tell me you're not that stupid?"

***

About 850 miles later, Carl pulled into the town of Dog Breath, Texas, and followed the signs to the Rattlesnake Roundup. Once there, he easily found the sign-up area and got in line with dozens of other people who were all entering the Roundup contest.
Emma stayed in The Whale, fuming, while Carl paid the $100 entry fee. After signing up, he was given a long stick with a "Y" fork on the end and a burlap sack with a string on the top. He also got a map and a sheet of instructions.
Carl walked back to The Whale with a big grin on his face. "Emma? We are gonna win us $10,000 with any luck at all. Now don't get all upset, because this ain't as dangerous as it seems. Ya see, you get this long stick here and you pin the snake behind the head, then you grab it and stick it in the sack. What could be easier?"
"I'll tell you what could be easier. Damned near anything else in the world, that's what! We could be somewhere by a nice stream, camping or fishing. We could be in a beautiful campground in a National forest. We could be in the middle of Death Valley in August at high noon, and that would be easier to handle than being surrounded by snake fans and sacks full of snakes. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Sure. You bet. Now, do you want to hunt in the north section, or maybe the south. There's more snakes in the south, but the bigger ones are in the north. I figger we head to the north section they show on this here map, because the grand prize is awarded to the contestant with the biggest snake. So which way do you want to go?"
"I want to go to the closest mental institution around here and get you committed.
"Aw, quit bein' such a spoil sport, Emma. Let's go out and have some fun."
"What do you mean by "us", Carl?"
"Well, most everybody is goin' out in the field in some kind of truck. Since the only 4x4 we got here is The Whale, I guess that means you either go out with me, or wait here, where they're gonna be bringin' the snakes in."

***

The Whale lumbered over the flat high desert floor, sticking to the well-worn trails. When they got to an area with some heavy brush and large boulders, Carl stopped the Suburban, got out, and stretched. "This looks like a good place to start. And there's even some rabbit crap on the ground, which is a dead indication of rabbits. Now hand me my stick and that burlap sack, and you just take it easy while I find a trophy rattler. Last years' winner was about six feet long, so it'll take a bit more than that to win the big bucks."
Emma handed Carl the stuff and then rolled the window half-way up. "You go and have your fun; just don't expect me to move one inch from this spot!"

Carl started walking slowly around the heavy brush, poking gently with his forked stick. After a few minutes, he heard a tell-tale rattle and spotted a rattler all coiled up at the base of a manzanilla bush.
He caught it easily with a jab of the forked stick, and noted with satisfaction that it was a four-footer. So he grabbed it behind the neck, slipped it into the sack, and continued with the hunt.

After two solid hours of searching, Carl had caught and released another dozen snakes ... all of them on the small side.
Just as he was starting to get discouraged, he saw an enormous rattler laying in the shade behind a huge rock.
The thing was huge! Carl guessed that it was at least twice as big as the one already in the sack!!! He quickly pinned it with the forked stick, being surprised as to how slowly the big snake moved. It was as least six inches thick across the middle, and Carl figured it was a good eight feet long! A winner, for sure!
He tossed the four foot snake out of the sack to make room for the big boy, then carefully slipped the trophy rattler into the burlap bag, and tied the string on the top. He was amazed as to the strength of the snake as he handled it!
The sack was far too heavy to carry back to The Whale, so he left it in the shade and walked back to the Suburban, and drove it to the spot. When Carl put the writhing bag in The Whale, Emma bolted out like she was sitting on a running weed-whacker. "Hold it right there, buster! You're not actually going to put that huge snake inside The Whale!"
Carl grunted as he hefted the bag. "Got no choice, Emma. Can't really leave it out in the sun; the heat might kill the snake. Heck, don't worry, Emma. It's in the sack and I tied it good and tight with a real Navy knot."

Apparently, this logic didn't sit well with Emma, as she clambered up on the roof of The Whale, with a lawn chair in hand and a pistol in the other. "If you want me, I'll be on the roof. And if that snake wants me, I'm going to shoot it as many times as I have bullets in this gun. Now please do not bother me until you're ready to leave."

Carl spent another two hours, but couldn't find another snake even close to the size of that big boy he had tucked inside The Whale. By then, it was four o'clock and he had to be back at the judging center by six o'clock.
"OK, Emma. You can come down now. I'm gonna head back in."
"No way. I'm not moving off this roof until you get that snake out of the Suburban."
"But where am I going to put it for the drive back?"
"Put it on the roof, for all I care. Just make sure that slimy thing isn't in there with me!"
Carl opened up The Whale and reached for the sack, then did a double-take that nearly had him swallow his chew of Red Man tobacco. The sack was flat - and that could only mean one thing: the snake was no longer in the sack!

 

[superbuickguy]

Carl got out and yelled up to Emma. "Hey, stay up there. The snake got out of the bag somehow. I'll see if I can find it."
A soda bottle bonked Carl in the head, and Emma let out with a string of obscenities that startled Carl. Some of those words he had never heard while he was in the Navy!

Carl poked around in the Suburban for a good half hour, but was unable to figure out where the snake had gone. Cautiously, he lifted all the cushions, moved the bedding around, shined a light under the stove and the storage shelves, and even shook out all the clothing.

Then he heard the unmistakable rattling sound coming from the front of the Suburban. Carl peeked under the two Captain's chairs and saw nothing, then heard the rattling again, this time further forward.
That meant the snake could be only one place: under the dash! Carl carefully aimed his flashlight under the dash, and sure enough, wrapped around all the wiring and the ducting, was the snake!

Carl clambered up on top of The Whale, folding lawn chair in hand, and sat down next to Emma. "Looks like we got a little problem, honey pot."
"Oh? Now how could that be, Great White Snake Hunter? Weren't you supposed to get the biggest snake and win the grand prize?"
"Well, hells-fire, I got the biggest rattler around, for sure. Or maybe its got me. I'm not sure who has who trapped. One thing for sure, I ain't about to get behind the wheel and drive back in, knowing that big sucker could drop down at any second. And the worst part is that I only got two hours to get back in before the time limit."
"So how are you going to get the snake out, genius?"
"I did the best I could. I left the doors open and put one of your stuffed rabbit toys out on the ground. Maybe the snake will think its real and go after it. Meanwhile, we'll have to wait and hope it leaves The Whale before we run out of time."

***

The crickets chirped and the 3/4 moon shined brightly, as Carl and Emma sat on top of The Whale in their lawn chairs, snoring lightly. Then, very quietly, the huge snake slithered out of the Suburban and headed back toward its stomping grounds. As it passed the stuffed rabbit, it surely emitted what must have been the equivalent of a snake chuckle.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #74





HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: MODERN TECHNICAL TRICKERY



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN









Carl drove as relaxed as any human being could. The comfy captain's chair was pushed well back, and he had his right arm poised on the arm rest. His left arm was laying on the door rest with a can of Texas Light non-alcoholic beer stuffed in his hand. A Burger King Double Whopper was held expertly in his right hand.

His legs were stretched out in front of him and his shoes were off. The Whale was on cruise control at exactly 57 miles per hour, two miles over the speed limit. There was almost no traffic on the smooth two-lane road. The radio was dialed in to a great country music station; the sounds of Willy Nelson twanged through the interior.

Carl stifled a belch, then leaned over to the right: "Emma? Splash me a little bit of that hot sauce on this here burger, will ya? Burger King makes a pretty good burger, but there's no punch to it."

Emma reached for the bottle of Louisiana Cajun Toxic Panther Hot Sauce, which was sitting in one of the cup holders on the console. She sprinkled a few drops on the half-eaten burger.

"Howsa 'bout a bit more. That's hardly enough to bring tears to my eyes."

Emma splashed on a generous dollop of the fierce red sauce and winced when she saw a drop fall on the top of the console. The vinyl surface curdled like paint remover had been spilled on it.

Carl took a massive bite out of the burger and chewed away. Tears came to his eyes. "Vammmmf, dutt zath prattt ztufff ..."

Emma interrupted. "Carl, you know I can't understand you when you talk with your mouth full. That's a disgusting habit."

Carl gulped the wad of burger down and his throat swelled like a boa swallowing a bowling ball. "Right. I was saying that this here is some pretty good stuff. I wish we had bought the gallon jug instead of this teeny-weeny one quart bottle. The way I figure it, is if it don't make you break out in a sweat and make your eyes water, it's hardly worth it."

Emma shook her head and got a napkin to clean up the console top. A small section of the vinyl came off the surface and when a tiny bit of the hot sauce got on her fingernail polish, it bubbled up and cracked. No way was she ever going to try that hot sauce!

Carl swilled down the last of the Texas Light and crushed the can easily between his thumb and stubby forefinger. "Boy, it don't get any better 'n this. Cruisin' along in no hurry, with no schedules to keep, go anywhere we feel like. What could go wrong on a beautiful day like this?"



As if answering Carl's rhetorical question, The Whale sputtered, coughed, hesitated and stalled. A bank of red lights glared accusingly on the dash board.

"What the plu-perfect hell could that be?"

Carl eased the huge Suburban over to the shoulder, put the trans in neutral and hit the starter again. The big 454 engine fired right up and all the red lights went away.

"Hmmmph. Musta been a computer glitch. You know these new motors have got all kinds of fancy stuff under the hood."

He put The Whale back into gear and rolled smoothly off again. Ten minutes later, the Suburban hesitated once again - and stalled. Carl let out a string of vile navy curses and pulled off on a wide part of the road shoulder.

He got out, popped the hood, and started peeking around for possible sources of the problem. Emma joined him. "Maybe it's just something simple."

Carl gave her a disgusted look. "Woman, you don't know squat about motors and such. Why, just take a look at the complexity we're dealing with here! We got oxygen sensors, computer chips running the whole show, vacuum tubes running everywhere, double-pumper carb, smog equipment on everything but the glove compartment and God knows what else. I sure wish trucks were simpler like in the old days. Back then, all we had to deal with was a set of points, a coil, plug wires and plugs."

"Well, what are we going to do?"

"I'll just do some basic trouble shooting. First I'll yank the fuel line off and see if we got gas. You spin the motor over and I'll check for fuel flow."

Emma turned the key and the starter growled. Emma leaned out the driver's side window. "Do we have gas, dear?"

Carl walked over to the window, with streams of gas dripping off his Caterpillar baseball cap. "Yeah, I think so. Meanwhile, hand me that jug of drinking water and gimme a towel before I go up in flames."



A half hour later, Carl had done all the usual checks: spark, fuel, clogged filters, split vacuum lines, loose connections ... the works.

"It appears we got us some deep-rooted problems. Get that map off the dash and see how far we are from the nearest town."

Emma ran her finger over the map and smiled. "Good news. There's a decent sized town maybe 15 miles down the road. "

Carl wiped his hands clean on a red shop rag. "OK. Let's try to get there. If this thing keeps acting up, it might take a while."

Carl was right. It took nearly two hours to cover the 15 miles. The Whale would fire up, run for a minute or two, then stall once again. In between bouts of nasty cursing, Carl managed to limp into town.



Emma pointed out a small gas station on the right side of the road. The sign said POPS SERVICE STATION, MECHANIC ON DUTY.

Carl eased The Whale into the station as the engine stalled once again. A very old man in overalls ambled out. "Got trouble, sonny?"

"Yeah. You got any diagnostic equipment here? You know, scopes and such?"

The old man scratched his chin. "Nope. Don't need none. A motor is a motor. You just find out what's wrong and fix it. Don't need none of that fancy crap to get things right."

Carl smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, old timer, but I'm afraid I'll need a real station with some real equipment. This here's a modern powerplant with computer stuff on it. Do you know where there's a station with some scopes?"

The old mechanic frowned. "Well, there's another station about three blocks down the road on the same side. Good luck, sonny."



Carl fired The Whale up again and grimaced when it stalled five more times in the three blocks. Things were getting worse. He pulled into the modern station with a sigh of relief. Two uniformed people came out.

"Yes sir. Can we help you?"

"You betcha. Got me a stalling Suburban here and I'll need some serious diagnosis."

"Just pull it right inside the bay here, sir. We've got every piece of diagnostic equipment known to man and we can fix you right up."



Five minutes later, The Whale was in the bay with a half-dozen different leads fixed to various parts of the engine. One mechanic flicked dials while the other one took readings. They took a lot of notes and punched all kinds of buttons. The computer screen emitted all kinds of lines, squiggles and blips.



After a half hour, they rolled the first piece of equipment away and brought another one forward. It was an impressive device, about the size of a phone booth, with a full computer keyboard, a huge screen and all sorts of tubes, cables, wires and probes.

The two mechanics fitted things to a dozen different points and started and restarted the motor 20 times. They frowned, got in a huddle and talked, then went out and came back with a third mechanic. He took charge of the situation and ran his own series of tests. An hour later, the three mechanics left the bay and went out to their office and whipped out a stack of thick manuals.



After poring over the books for 20 minutes, they came back and did some more testing. Carl just stood back and watched the trio of experts at work. These guys were impressive!



After another hour, they weren't quite as impressive. Clearly, the three ace mechanics were stumped.

"Uhh, sir, quite frankly we don't know what the problem is. But we'll keep trying."

Carl looked up at the sign on the wall that said LABOR RATES - $65 PER HOUR, and did some mental calculations. Hellsfire, he had already spent close to two hundred bucks and was no closer to solving the problem.

 

[superbuickguy]

Right then, an ancient Dodge pickup pulled into the parking area with POPS SERVICE STATION crudely lettered on the side. Pop got out and limped over to the three mechanics. "You guys got a spare PH8A oil filter you could sell me? I got an oil change on the rack and I'm out."

One of the mechanics nodded. "Sure thing, Pops. I'll just put it on your account." He tossed a bright orange Fram filter to the old mechanic.

"Thanks. Say, you boys got a problem here?"

"Yeah. This one's got us stumped. We've run every check we can, and the engine keeps stalling."

Pops scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Mind if I give 'er a look?"

The three mechanics smiled at each other. "Sure. Give it a go, Pops. What do you need? The Allen or the Sun Scope?"

"Neither. Just hand me a small straight-slot screwdriver and a clean paper cup."

The three mechanics and Carl all looked at each other.

Pops unscrewed the hose clamp holding the gas filter on the fuel line, and let the gas drain into the paper cup. He then took the gas outside, found a clean, dry section of cement, squatted down and slowly poured the gas on the cement.

Carl squatted down next to the old mechanic. ""Say, just exactly what are you doing there, Pops?"

"Well, I'm doing on old-time test to check for water in the gas."

Carl looked puzzled. "Just how are you gonna find out if there's water in the gas by dumping it on the ground?"

"Not on the ground. If you look close, you'll see that I poured it on some cement."

"So?"

"So when you pour gas on cement, the gas will absorb into the cement. If there's any water in the gas, it'll stay on top of the cement. I learned that trick about 60 years ago. Get real close and take a look."

Carl scrunched down and peered closely. Yep, sure enough. The gas was gone and there were very small puddles of water laying on top of the cement.

"Well, I'll be double-damned!" said Carl.

Pops slowly got back up and wiped his hands on his pant legs. "Now, chances are there's some water in your float bowl. All it takes is a little bubble of water to temporarily clog a jet. Drain your float bowl and you should be OK. And while you're at it, stick a fresh fuel filter on. Well, I gotta go now."

Carl held up his forefinger. "Wait a minute, Pops. What do I owe you for the trouble-shooting?"

"Oh, two bucks ought to cover my time."

Carl gave Pops a twenty and thanked him profusely, then went inside with a smile on his face from ear to ear.



The smile vanished when he got a bill from the three mechanics for $249.95 for services rendered.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #75







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS



SUBHEAD: DANGEROUS MAPS AND TALL TALES



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN









We join them now as they're driving down a narrow, humped-in-the-middle dirt road, with The Whale pitching, bobbing and weaving heavily in the rain-ruts and rocks.

Carl hung on to the wheel with both hands and sawed away, trying to keep the wheels from dropping into the worst bumps and ruts. The Whale was still in 2WD, since the road was level, if nothing else.

Carl leaned over to the right. "Emma? If the map was right, we should be crossin' a paved road at mile nine-point-two. You wanna check that out?"

Emma pursed her lips and ran her finger over the map. "Hmmm. Well, the odometer says 13.4 miles, and we've been driving for an hour since we left the pavement and we haven't crossed any paved roads, so I guess we're not on the road we think we are."

Carl shrugged and spit a huge brown gob out of the driver's side window and splattered it against a tree trunk. "Well, then, Emma, would you mind pointing your finger on the road we are on?"

Emma thought for a minute. "Actually, I'm not real sure. You see, this is that topo map thing you gave me to use, and I've never read one of these before. I sort of, kind of, pretty much, don't know what all these different colors mean. A regular map just has black lines for normal roads and thick red lines for big highways. This one has different shades of browns, greens and yellows. It's very confusing."

"Not to worry. Ya see, those different colors show the different altitudes. When you look at the topo map, you can see if you're at sea level, or above 4000 feet. Now isn't that cool?"

Emma wrinkled her nose. "Well, I'm sure that's very nice, but that doesn't tell us where we're at, does it?"

Carl stopped The Whale and stepped on the parking brake. "What we got to do is get us located. So, in order to find where we are, the first thing we need to do is find north. Let's see ... hmmm ... the sun sets in the east so that would make north this way ..."

Emma's eyes opened wide. "What did you say? Why, everyone knows that the sun sets in the west! Don't you remember all those Gene Autry movies we used to watch when we were dating? The sun always set in the west then, and I have no reason to assume things have changed."

"Hells-fire, woman! I said west. You got wax build-up in your ears, or what? Now, the sun is over there, so that would make it west, and ..."

"Carl, I hate to interrupt you, but it's only 10:15 in the morning, so the sun is in the east now.

"Jeez! Make up your mind, woman! First you say west, now you change your mind to east. No wonder Sampson cut Cleopatra's hair off back in the bible days. She got him all confused."

Emma just shook her head from side to side. "Carl, just do me one favor. If Billy Graham retires, don't apply to take over his job. OK?"

"What does all that have to do with figurin' out where north is? I think all those TV soap operas have damaged your brain cells. We got to get down to basics and find out where north is."

Emma folded her arms and grinned widely. "Why don't you just get the compass out and look at it? It's sitting right there in the glove compartment right next to your pouches of chewing tobacco."

Carl looked more than a bit sheepish. "Uhh, well, yeah ... that was my next step. But sometimes I like to fall back on my Navy training and see if I can figure out things the old-fashioned way."



Carl got the compass out and set it on the hood of The Whale. He pointed a stubby fore-finger and proclaimed, "Aha! There it is: north!"

Emma sighed. "OK, Marco Polo. Now that you know where north is, would you mind figuring out where we are?"

Carl beamed. "Hah! All you got to do is lay the compass on the map and line things up. Now pay attention."



He unfolded the topo map, laid it flat on the ground, then placed the compass on the map. It was necessary to twist the map around to line up the "North" arrow with the compass. Carl got down on all fours and pointed: "There you go! North!"

Emma frowned. "OK. Now you know where north is. Do you know where we are?"

Carl scrunched up his lips. "Well, not exactly. But if I just place the regular map on top of the topo map, then I'll have a better idea. I think."

Carl shuffled the maps around and lined everything up just so, then proclaimed: "I think I got it! We are directly south of a 5,000 feet mountain. Emma? Do you see a 5,000 foot mountain off where I'm pointing?"

"Nope. I see a bunch of trees, some rocks, and a dirt road full of rain ruts that disappears under the trees. If there was a 25,000 foot mountain a mile ahead, I couldn't see it for the trees, let alone a 5,000 foot mountain. So what are you gonna do now, O Great Explorer?"

"Well, I could climb a tree, then if there is a 5,000 foot mountain up ahead, I'll be able to see it."

"Wouldn't it be easier - and a whole lot safer - if we just drove onward until we saw some kind of sign? This dirt road is just way too wide to not be headed somewhere."

"Emma, at the risk of insulting you, which I would never do, you don't know your elbow from your butt about finding your way off-road."

Emma folded her arms and pursed her lips; there was a certain disturbed attitude about her. She fixed Carl with a cold stare: "You go right ahead and climb your tree, buster. Just don't come crying to me if you fall out of the tree and kill yourself."

Carl realized that he might have gone just a touch too far and tried to smooth things out: "C'mere and give me a big hug before I scale that tree, honey pot. After all, how many men my age can climb a big tree like that one?"

"How many are stupid enough, you mean."

Carl ignored that barb and headed for the back of The Whale. "Ya see, the key to climbin' a tree nice and easy, is to use a good pair of gloves. The ones I got here are some old motocross gloves. Well, wish me luck, Emma. I'm headed up that tree and gonna find me a mountain!"

Emma muttered something under her breath.

"What's that you said, dear? Something about a bass in a tree? Now how in the heck am I gonna find a bass in a tree?"

Emma just shook her head. "Never mind, Tarzan. Just get your climbing over with so we can get on down the road."



Carl walked over to the base of the tall tree, eye-balled it straight up, and then started climbing. He went up amazingly fast for a short, fat, old guy, and was soon out of sight.



Emma got a folding lawn chair from the back of The Whale, sat down at the base of the tree and opened up a smarmy paperback with Fabio on the cover in a pirate outfit, shirt open, holding a middle-aged woman in his arms.



By the time she had read a dozen pages, she dozed off. A shout rang through the woods and it woke a startled Emma. "Emmmmmaaa! I'm stuck!"

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Well, get un-stuck."

Carl let out a moan. "I can't. I slipped off and I'm hanging by my left pant leg cuff on the edge of a broken branch. If I move, I'll fall straight to the ground and kill myself severely! Emma, do something quick!"

She sighed, folded the chair up, put it in the back of the Suburban and started up The Whale. "Emmmmmmaaa! Where inna hell are you goin'?"

Emma leaned out the window. "I'm going to drive down the road and see if I can find a sign."

Carl groaned. "Ohh, jeez."

Emma peered up at the tree. "Now don't you go anywhere, dear. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Emma heard what sounded a great deal like a bunch of vile navy curses echoing through the trees.



***



About an hour later, Emma returned and walked over to the tree.

"Carl, are you still there?"

"No, I'm somewhere else, but I'm doing a hell of a ventriloquist job by throwing my voice about 90 feet up in a tree."

Emma shielded her eyes against the sun and peered up. "Well, I've got this Forest Ranger with me and he said he'll climb up and help get you down."

"Where did you find a Forest Ranger in the middle of nowhere?"

"Oh, there was a sign about a half mile down the road, and it had an arrows pointing to all kinds of places. Would you believe that only three miles down the road, there's a horseback riding stable. And just five miles away, there's a lake, and ..."

"Emma, can you please put a lid on the guided tour and let the Ranger do his job. I think my foot is turning blue from lack of blood and my head feels like it's going to explode. And I don't know how much longer this pant leg is going to hold out.

Fifteen minutes later, the Ranger had a shaken Carl safe, back on level ground. Carl thanked him profusely while he tried to rub some circulation back into his leg.

The Ranger was more than a bit curious. "I don't mean to get nosy, sir, but what the heck were you doing up in a tree in the first place?"

"Well, we wuz sort of lost and I was trying to get my bearings."

The Ranger scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. Have you ever considered carrying some topo maps with you!"

A moment later, Emma was confused to see Carl banging his head against the side of a large tree, very loudly.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 76







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: JURASSIC DORK


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN









We join them now as Carl and Emma are winding down an evening camping out in the spacious Suburban, by watching a movie being played on the VCR. As the last scene of Jurassic Park faded on the big 46 inch screen, Carl let out a low whistle. "Wow! That was an exciting movie! I nearly crapped when those two dinosaurs were chasing the kids around in the kitchen. But the best part was when that big T-Rex thing ate the lawyer while he was sitting on the can. Now, that was great!"

Emma nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, this was a wonderful, and I got it for half price. Now all we have to do is eat all that Jello I had to buy to use the half-price coupon."

Carl smiled. "No problem. I already ate it."

Emma looked confused. "But there were 27 packets of Jello, all different flavors."

"Well, I mixed 'em all together while you were out shopping the other day, and made me one big bowl of Jello."

"How did you ... I mean, there were a half-dozen different flavors!"

"So it came out brown. Big deal. Anyway, this movie really got me thinking. Man, it would be fun to go out and dig for some dinosaur bones."

Emma smiled broadly. "Well, why don't we? We're only a days drive from the Badlands of South Dakota, and that's supposed to be the best source of fossils in the United States. I was reading about it in one of those travel magazines. In fact, I saved the magazine. Look here."

Carl leaned forward, deeply interested, as Emma spread the magazine open, and turned the pages. She read some facts as she ran across them: "The best place to see fossils is in Badlands National Park. It costs five dollars for a seven day vehicle pass, and there's all kinds of free lectures on the history of the area. It says here that the park contains one of the world's richest beds of fossilized mammals, most of them deposited here some 35 to 40 million years ago. It was called the Oligocene Epoch, and all of South Dakota was a swamp land that was slowly being covered with mud flows. Gosh, it's huge! The Park is 380 square miles and take a look at this picture. It looks like the surface of the moon!"

Carl was excited. "You sold me, woman! So let's hurry up and get to sleep, so's we can start driving first thing in the morning."



At first light, Carl fired up the huge 454 motor in The Whale and let it warm up, while they put stuff away and battened things down. In ten minutes, they each had a cup of coffee sitting in the console, and Carl glanced over the multitude of gauges on the dash. "Well, oil and water temperatures are perfect, oil pressure is 40 pounds at idle, two gas tanks are full and the center tank is 3/4 full, so we can go maybe 800 miles before we have to refuel. I've got plenty of chewing tobacco and once we get on the Interstate, you can cook us up some breakfast. We got about 800 miles to go as the crow flies, and about 980 miles as the crow walks. I figure I can cover a thousand miles in 24 hours with no sweat, so let's hit it!"



Carl and Emma were near the intersection of three states: Oregon, Idaho and Nevada, which left them a rather clear route to get to the Badlands.

Carl caught 95 north in Oregon, slipped east on 55 in Idaho and hooked up with Interstate 80, and put it on cruise control at exactly six miles an hour over the speed limit, a speed he knew would not attract attention from any decent highway patrol cop.



Emma busied herself in the back of the big Whale, frying up bacon and eggs, while Carl kept his eye on traffic and fiddled with the radio, trying to get a clear station with Rush Limbaugh on it.



The miles rolled under the massive tires of the Suburban, as the mighty 454 engine loped down the road, barely working. Carl stopped around mid-afternoon, just after they crossed the Wyoming/Utah state line, gassed up, hit the rest room, bought a sack of greasy burgers and 30 weight French fries, and hit the road again.



They drove easily and comfortably through the early night, and were far enough ahead of schedule to stop a bit north of Cheyenne to take a few hours to nap. Emma thought it might be a good idea to see the Badlands in the daylight to appreciate them.



At dawn, they were on the road again, and by 8 AM, they were on Highway 90, heading east of Rapid City, South Dakota. Another 40 miles of driving brought them to Badlands National Park.

The photos in the magazine didn't do justice to the staggering beauty of the Badlands! The early morning sun cast a golden glow on the sharply-pointed rocky peaks.



Our wandering duo pulled up to the Badlands Loop Road on Route 240 and paid the $5 fee to the ranger. He gave them a few brochures and warned them about taking anything from the Park.

Carl was stunned. "Hey, all I want is one of those dinosaur bones or claws like in the Jurassic Park movie. You mean I can't do that?"

The ranger patiently explained things: "Sir, the problem of fossil rustlers is very real. There are gangs of commercial rustlers who poach ancient sites and sell the stuff to local tourist shops. And there are others who specialize on selling fossils to museums all over the world. There wouldn't be much left for folks to see if we let these fossil crooks run rampant."

Carl got red in the face. "But I don't want a sack of fossils, and I'm not a crook! All I want is maybe one teensy-weensy little dinosaur bone or claw."

The ranger sighed. "Sir, we realize that the average citizen is not the problem, and we know that every now and then, somebody takes something out of here. But all we can try to do is discourage the practice. We're a whole lot more worried about the commercial fossil rustlers than we are about the odd tourist who sticks a bone in his pocket."

Carl looked puzzled for a moment, then his face brightened. "Well, you guys don't search everyone who goes in and out of here, do you?"

"No sir, but there is a stiff fine and perhaps a few nights in jail for anyone unlucky enough to get caught."

"Hmmm. Well, okey-dokey, then. We're just gonna wander around and look at things. Where would you say the best spots would be to actually see some fossils?"

"Your best bet would be to park over there where the signs to the marked trails are, and head off on any one of them. But after you get out a mile or so, get off the trail and wander around the cliff bases, or in the arroyos. Look in the colored clay and rock sections, especially where you can find some exposed horizontal layers of material stacked up like slate. And if you find something interesting, take a picture of it to preserve the memory. That way, the next person who wanders along the same route can have the same thrill of finding a fossil."

"Right. You got it, ranger."

"Good luck, folks. Would you like one of these pamphlets that identify the different fossils you're likely to find?"

"No thanks. Emma here bought one of those illustrated fossil books at a roadside stand, so we're covered. Also, I saw Jurassic park. Twice."

The ranger smiled. "Well, that certainly qualifies you for fossil hunting. Just keep an eye out for those T-Rex's."

Carl looked at the ranger intently. "Are you goofy? Those things have been dead for hundreds of years."

"Just a little bit of ranger humor, sir."



***



Carl and Emma hiked for hours, wandering in and out of the narrow canyons, clambering up on top of rocks, and being rewarded with staggering vistas of a world that was young millions of years ago.



Emma located a few things that looked sort of like shrimp embedded in the clay, but Carl wasn't interested in that. "I wanna see some kinda dinosaur bones or claws. Who gives a rats butt about shrimp?"



As the sun started slanting down, the duo realized that they should head back to the Suburban. A few yards later, Carl let out a large whoop. "Emma! Get over here and take a look!"

She ran over and got down next to Carl, who was pointing at a small skull embedded in some yellow clay in a dried-up creek bed. Carl was excited: "Wow! Lookit that! See the size of those front teeth? Betcha anything that's the skull of one of those velocity-rapers."

 

[superbuickguy]

"You mean velociraptor."

"Right. That's what I said. Now get that book of yours out and let's see what this thing is."

Carl shuffled though the pages. "Haw! Here it is. It's a Tylopodus, a four-toed, rabbit-sized creature that's a remote relative of the camel. Now quick, get that little plastic shower cap out of your purse while I dig this thing out of the clay."

Emma was shocked. "Carl! You heard what the ranger said! You could get a big fine and maybe even go to jail!"

"Aw, calm down, Emma. They ain't gonna miss one little skull. It's not like I'm gonna try to sell this here, uhhh, Tylenol, but I could probably get a pretty penny for it."

By this time, Emma's face was bright red. "It's not a Tylenol, it's a Tylopodus, and it's illegal to remove it."

"Hey, who's gonna know? Now let's get back to The Whale before it gets dark, and let's hit the road. I'd like to spend the night in Sturgis and see if any of the Hells Angels are still hangin' around."



They walked back to parking lot and got in the big Suburban. Emma sat there with a grim look on her face and her arms folded. "Now will you calm down. Look, I'll just stuff the skull up under the visor, just in case the ranger decides to check me over."



They pulled up to the gate and the ranger walked over to The Whale. "You folks have a good time out there?"

Carl let out a big, big smile. "Sure was pretty out there, but all we saw was a couple of shrimp or something like that."

"OK then, you folks have a safe drive home. And watch out driving in the late afternoon soon with that dirty windshield you've got there."

"No problem. I'll just flip my visor down." And Carl flipped the visor down, letting out a groan the micro-second he realized what he'd just done.

The skull bounced off the dash, hit Carl on the forearm, rolled down his arm, then fell out of the open window and onto the ranger's highly polished right boot. "Ahem. What do we have here?"

Emma let out a wail: "It's a Tylodopus skull, and I told him not to take it! We're going to rot in jail, and it's all his fault!"

The ranger studied the skull carefully for a few minutes. "Well, it's not a Tylopodus, ma'm. What we've got here is the skull of very old jack rabbit."

Carl breathed a sigh of relief. "Heck, I knew that all along. I figured I'd fool my friends with it."

The ranger drew himself up to his full six feet, 3 inches of height, and fixed Carl with a stern look. "Listen up good, sir. It's illegal to take anything out of here, even a rabbit skull. You could get a ticket for this. I suggest, sir, that you walk back, put this rabbit skull where you found it, and get out of here before I lose my patience with you."



As Carl trudged back with the pathetic little skull in his hands, a Tylopodus stood in the shade of a ponderosa pine, chewing on a cone, and wondered what all the fuss was about.


*My note - this place is beyond cool*

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 77





HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: STRANGE TIMES IN PARADISE



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN









We join our wandering friends now, as they're taking a break from retirement, to actually have a vacation. Since money was a little bit tight, Carl suggested that they visit his Uncle Dexter, who lived in Paradise, California.

Paradise is located in northern California, about 80 miles due north of Sacramento. At least, that's what Emma found out by looking it up in her collection of Auto Club maps. She was still curious: "Tell me about this town of Paradise. I've never been there with you."

Carl spit a brown wad out of the window of The Whale, and replied, "It's a small town in the foothills, real close to Chico. Chico is a college town, and a lot of the people who live in Paradise teach at the college, or are retired. It ain't big ... maybe 20 or 25,000 people. There's a lot of pine trees, and nice hills. It's right around 3,000 feet altitude.

"You can go fishing, do some off-roading on really neat fire roads, maybe run around in a boat. There's a good sized lake real close called Oroville. Heck, even if there was nothing to do, the place is easy on the eyes. Basically, I don't want to do much of anything for a few weeks, and Uncle Dexter has a big place up there high on a hill with a great view."

Emma was curious. "Tell me about Uncle Dexter. I don't know anything about him."

"Oh, he's sort of eccentric, compared to the rest of the family."

Emma raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"Anyways, he's a college professor. He teaches folk dancing, shoe repair, art appreciation and black history."

Emma raised the other eyebrow. "Isn't that an odd collection of subjects to teach?"

"Naw. He used to teach some strange stuff before he settled into these four specialties. Not too long ago he used to instruct in Gregorian chants, blimp construction, harmonica theory, and turbo-diesel trouble-shooting.

"Since his wife died about 15 years ago in a dog sled accident, he's been pretty much a loner."

"A dog sled accident?"

"Yeah. She used to compete in the Iditarod in the Senior Class, and one year, she got eaten by a crazed polar bear. Uncle Dexter never re-married, and even sold all his bear-skin rugs."



***



Carl and Emma drove the last few hundred miles across the vast open high desert of Nevada, heading west on Interstate 80. Eventually, the brown of the desert turned into small hills spotted with green vegetation. This turned into real hills and lots of greenery, and soon they were driving though Grass Valley, Marysville, Uba City and Oroville.



Eventually, they entered the city limits of Paradise, wound their way through town, and found the narrow dirt road leading up to Uncle Dexter's house in the hills.



Uncle Dexter came out of the house on a unicycle, juggling three chain saws. Luckily, none of them were running. Carl and Uncle Dexter hugged warmly, as Emma just stared, her jaw hanging. Uncle Dexter looked exactly like a movie-typecast mad professor. He had a bald head with thick tufts of hair on the side, and his glass were extremely thick and he wore them half way down his nose.



"So, this must be the little lady I've never met, Carl? Come over here and give me a hug, dear, and try not to step on those chain saws."

Carl was curious. "Uncle Dexter, what gives with those chain saws and the unicycle? That's a bit strange, even for you."

"Oh that? Well, I'm going to be teaching a course in History and Appreciation of the Circus this fall, and I figured I'd better learn some of the basic skills. I've got the unicycle-juggling thing down pretty good, but haven't worked up the nerve to try it with the chain saws running yet."



Uncle Dexter showed them around the big A-frame log house. Emma was impressed by the huge glass windows that gave them a spectacular view of the valley spreading out below.

Carl was mightily impressed when Uncle Dexter showed him the mammoth ten car garage/barn built out behind the house. When the electric door was raised, Carl sucked in his breath. Sitting there were a half-dozen of the most beautiful Jeep CJ-5s he had ever seen. All of them were sparkling clean and gleaming in the glow of a bank of fluorescent lights.

"Wow, Uncle Dexter! I knew you liked Jeeps, but I had no idea you had a collection like this!"

"Well, when Rosie died - that's my ex-wife - I collected a hefty piece of insurance money. I didn't want to waste it on anything stupid, so after I spent half of it on a UFO research project, I built this shop and bought all the Jeeps from a collector."

Carl strolled around the CJs and drooled. "These are beautiful! I betcha they run as good as they look, right?"

Uncle Dexter looked a little bit sheepish. "Not exactly. As you know, I teach a class in turbo-diesel trouble-shooting at the university. Well, all of these CJs have different turbo-diesel engines under the hood. That red Jeep, for example, has an engine from a Peugeot station wagon. You see, I bring the students up here for the class, and they have to trouble-shoot all the Jeeps for turbo-diesel problems. The real problem is that I've dialed in so many hidden problems, that none of them run at all. In fact, the first student to get one of them running will get an "A" and a scholarship!"

Carl's jaw hung slackly. "So none of these run? Well, how do you get around?" Uncle Dexter pointed to a bizarre machine over in the corner. "I use that street-legal snowmobile over there."

"But what about when there's no snow?"

"Oh, I use it all the time. Since it has one of the old stock Jeep CJ engines under the cowling, I was able to get license plates for it at the local DMV."



Carl was visibly stunned and Emma just shook her head. So this was the eccentric Uncle Dexter!



***



Actually, Emma found her vacation time at Uncle Dexter's place delightful. She spent most of her time reading romance novels on the sun deck and taking leisurely hikes through the woods.



Meanwhile, Carl and Uncle Dexter decided to go fishing every day, since the weather was utterly perfect. Carl insisted that they drive The Whale to nearby Lake Oroville, since he was more than reluctant to pack double on the snowmobile.



On the first trip out to go fishing, Uncle Dexter, ever the trouble-shooting expert, pointed out that the exhaust on The Whale was smoking heavily. "Yeah, I know. I've got a couple of leaking valve guides and I've been putting off yanking the heads and doing the work. I just keep an eye on the oil level, and I'll get to fixing it when I get the time."

Uncle Dexter waved his forefinger in the air. "I better warn you about the police around here. They've been issuing real expensive tickets to cars that are smoking. You better be careful, young fellow."

Carl smiled. "Now don't you go worrying about that, Uncle Dexter. I got that all covered, just in case."



The day of fishing went great, and they both hit their limit in two hours, then caught and released another half-dozen fish each. Carl fired up The Whale and they headed for the cabin, drooling over the thought of some grilled trout for supper.

Just then, red lights flashed in Carl's rear view mirror, and he let out a groan. "You were right, Uncle Dexter. Looks like the smoky patrol is out in force."

A tall officer ambled up, ticket-book in hand. Carl rolled the window down. "Hi there, officer. Beautiful day. What can I do for you?"

"Did you know that your Suburban is smoking excessively out of the exhaust, sir?"

"Oh, that? Well, you see officer. I ran out of gas a few miles back, and I had to dump some motorcycle pre-mix gas in the tank. And as you know, two-stroke motorcycles require oil mixed in with the gas, so that would explain the smoke you see. Just as soon as I get to a station, and fill the tank, it should get back to normal."

"I see. Then I'll be on my way. Have a nice day, sir."

Uncle Dexter was impressed. "Hey, pretty slick, sonny. You talked your way right out of that one!"

"It was no big deal. After all, what's he gonna say when he see's a pair of trail bikes on the bumper racks? Yessir, old Carl just out-slicked one of California's finest!"

 

[superbuickguy]

That evening, they had a great meal, and settled down for a few drinks afterward. Possibly a few too many for Uncle Dexter, as he was ready to fire up the chain saws and try some juggling. Luckily, Emma was able to talk him out of it.



The days flew by, with Carl and Uncle Dexter spending the days exploring Lake Oroville and catching fish, while Emma wallowed in pure relaxation.



On the last day, as Carl and Uncle Dexter drove The Whale back toward his home, the cooler full of tasty fish, the rear view mirror was once again filled with red flashing lights.

A short officer stepped out and walked over to the window. Carl noticed that it was a different officer than the one who had stopped him a few weeks earlier. He rolled the window down. "Hi there, officer. Beautiful day, isn't it? What can I do for you?"

"Are you aware that your Suburban is smoking heavily, sir?"

"Oh, that? Well, ya see, I ran out of gas and had to put some motorcycle pre-mix gas in the tank, and ..."

The officer butted in. "And since there's oil in the gas, that would explain the smoking, right?"

"Uhhh, right."

"And you're going to go right from here to a gas station and fill your tank up, and the smoking will go right away, right?"

"Duhhh, yes. You bet."

"Did it ever occur to you, sir, that you told the exact same story to my brother about two weeks ago? My brother, the tall highway patrolman?"

"Ahhh, well ... there's a possibility that there might be some sort of confusion here, and ... uhhh ..."

"Perhaps, sir, I can clear up that confusion. May I see your license and registration, please? I think there just might be a ticket in your future."



***



As Carl and Emma drove away from Paradise a week later, Emma sighed and settled back in her seat. "Gosh, that was a great vacation. I feel like a new person. And it didn't cost us a dime! Isn't that wonderful. Carl? Carl? Why are you gripping that steering wheel so hard?"

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 78





HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: THE STANGE CASE OF THE MISSING SUBURBAN



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN









We join them now, as they've driving The Whale in the fading light of the day. Carl flipped down the visor to keep the sun from his eyes and a huge wad of papers fluttered down, nearly blocking out his vision of the highway in the process. The papers floated around the cab like one of those glass globes with artificial snow flakes inside. Emma sighed. "Carl, I told you not to store all those fishing licenses up there."



Carl pulled The Whale over to the side of the road and started gathering up all the fishing licenses, swearing profusely all the while. "Dang-blasted *%#@*&%*#$@$**$@ rubber band broke. I sure hope I don't lose any of those licenses."

"Well, how many of them do you have?"

"I got 46 of 'em. Two more and I got the whole United States covered."

"Aren't you forgetting Hawaii and Alaska?"

"Heck no! There's great fishin' in them places. Hope they make 'em states some day. Then I can shoot for an even 50 fishing licenses."

Emma looked at Carl with pure astonishment. "Uh, Carl. I hate to break this to you, but Hawaii and Alaska have been states for some time now."

"What? So Reagan finally up and did that, eh? Boy, I got to start paying a little more attention to the evening news instead of watching WWF wrestling and Bill Donahue."

"You mean Phil."

"Right. Him too."

Emma just sighed. "Never mind. How much further are you going to drive before we stop for the night?"

Carl scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Well, I'd sort of like to stay in a motel tonight. I want to do a little work on The Whale ... maybe change the oil and filter, and crawl underneath with a grease gun. It's starting to get a little squeaky here and there. I took a look at the map and there's a good sized town about an hour ahead. It's called Stumpville."

Emma audibly sucked in her breath. "Ooooooh, we better not stop there! I read in the Auto Club magazine where that was one of the towns with the highest auto theft rates in the whole country."

Carl laughed out loud. "Hah! You think anybody is going to be able to steal The Whale? Hells-fire, woman, I got just about every anti-theft device known to man. You just wait until we get to the motel tonight, and I'll show you some real security!"



A short time later, they pulled into the outskirts of town and Carl pulled over to a convenience store to buy a six-pack of beer and sufficient snacks for the evening. While he was in the store, Emma bought a copy of the local newspaper, The Stumpville Gazette, and reacted sharply when she read the headlines. "Carl! Look at this! It says right here on the front page that the car thefts have gotten worse during the last week. Why, just last night, there were four cars and three trucks stolen from local residents. This is awful! Let's stay at some other town tonight."

"Hey, not to worry. We're gonna stay here because I only got an hour of daylight left and I gotta get some work done on The Whale. And there ain't another decent-sized town for a hundred miles. So let's find a motel here real quick before it starts gettin' dark."



Five minutes later, Carl and Emma pulled in to the parking area of the Dew Drop Inn Motel and Trailer Park. After parting with $22.95, Carl pulled The Whale up in front of the door of room 7A and started to work on the Suburban.



First, he jacked both ends of The Whale up in the air and put jack stands under the frame rails, just to play it safe. Then he slid underneath The Whale, using a copy of the Stumpville Gazette to keep from getting dirty, and pulled the pin on the quick-release oil pan drain plug he'd installed. The darkish oil gurgled out into the funnel and from there into the five gallon plastic jug Carl used for collecting used oil.

While the oil was draining, Carl slithered around underneath with his mini grease gun, and gave all the zerk fittings a sptriz of fresh grease, taking care to wipe away the excess grease with a few pages from a Ford truck manual. He also greased all the drive shaft U-joints carefully, then spent a few minutes spraying some WD-40 on spots that looked a bit rusty, or possibly the source of a squeak or two.

Then, lastly, he checked critical nuts and bolts to make sure they were snug. He knew that a simple thing like a loose U-bolt over an axle could let leaf springs flop around and cause trouble, and didn't want any of that.

He then secured the drain plug, yanked the old oil filter, slapped in a new one and poured in 12 quarts of Valvoline 20-50 Racing Oil. That over-sized oil pan sure held a lot. Carl fired the engine up, check for oil pressure and leaks, then shut 'er down and let the oil settle before checking the dipstick level.



Emma wandered out from the room just as Carl was putting the tools away and wiping his hands on an old Ford t-shirt. She was clearly worried. "Carl, I really don't think we should stay here. This motel is right on the main drag and our Suburban is visible from the highway. And you read those headlines!"

Carl just chuckled. "Pay attention, woman, while I set up the ultimate security system. First off, I put two clubs on the steering wheel, then I wrap a chain around the clubs and lock it down tight.

"Next I put this here device that runs from the steering wheel and locks on to the brake pedal. Then I take the hidden chip from under the dash, so The Whale can't be started without it. After that, I take the coil wire off and stick it in my pocket. Now, does that make you happy?"

Emma still looked concerned. "Actually, no. I'm still worried."

"Well, hells-fire, woman, what do you want me to do, take the wheels off?"

Emma smiled sweetly and gave Carl a little hug. "Would you, dear?"



What else could he do? Since The Whale was still up in the air and on the jack stands, removing the wheels was quick and easy, and within minutes, the four tires were stacked neatly inside the motel room next to the TV set.



That night, Carl and Emma watched TV, ate a bucket of fried chicken, drank a six pack of beer (Carl), four bottles of Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda (Emma), 23 Slim Jims (Carl), three Whoppers (Carl) and a Twinky (Emma). They fell into a sound sleep while David Letterman was half-way through Stupid Pet Tricks on the slightly fuzzy motel TV set.



The next morning, Emma was up first, as usual, and peeked out of the window blinds to see what kind of day it was going to be, then did a quick double-take! The Whale was gone! Sitting there in the spot where The Whale was, were four bright orange jack-stands and a jack.

She got a grumpy Carl up and he walked to the window in his shorts, scratching and yawning as he looked out. When he saw that The Whale was gone, he went ballistic and broke into some major-league Navy cursing. Emma just sat on the bed until the tidal wave of verbal explosions subsided, then quietly asked, "What do we do now? Call the police?"

Carl thought for a minute, then got a crafty look in his eyes. "Yup. We do that, just in case the thief abandoned The Whale somewhere, or if the cops stumble on it by accident. But to get The Whale back, I'm gonna have to do a little bit of bar-hopping tonight."

Emma was confused about that statement, but didn't say anything when she saw the stony look on Carl's face.



***



At 11:35 that night, Carl wandered in to the Kit Kat Klub, the 5th bar he'd been in since dark, and sidled up to the bar. The bartender wandered over and shoved a bowl of peanuts in front of Carl. "What'll it be, buddy?"

"Give me a cold draft and maybe some information."

The bartender immediately looked suspicious. "You a cop or something? We don't want no trouble around here."

"Naw. I'm just sort of broke and got a nice set of mounted tires for sale, real cheap."

"Hmmm. What kind, and what are they for?

"They're 35 inch BF Goodrich Mud Terrain tires in real good shape, and they're on Chevy or GMC one-ton truck rims. Nice polished aluminum ones. I got four of 'em, and I'll let 'em go real cheap."

"How cheap?"

"Uhhh, maybe two hunnert bucks for the whole bunch."

"Hmmmm. Lemme make a phone call or two."



Carl sat there, sipping his beer, munching the stale peanuts and listening to a Patsy Cline song. About 20 minutes later, the bartender returned. "I got you a customer, but he says he can't go $200. He'll go a hundred bucks, maximum."

Carl put a pained look on his face. "Aw, c'mon. You know those things are worth a whole lot more $200. Look, I gotta have $125 to get my Dodge out of the garage, so I can get out of this town. Tell him it's $125, or no deal."

The bartender went away for a few minutes, then came back and said, "OK. You got a deal, but only if the tires are in primo condition. My friend will be here in about 15 minutes. Have another bowl of peanuts on the house."



A short while later, a short, stocky man entered the bar and sat down next to Carl. He wore a work shirt on that said "Stumpville Auto Salvage" above the pocket.

"You the guy with the tires?"

"Yeah. You got the $125?"

"Sorry. All I got is a hunnert bucks. Take it or leave it."

Carl acted upset. "Aw, c'mon, pal. I need $125."

"The short stocky man grunted. "Hey, this ain't a charity and I ain't got all night. You want the hundred or not?"

Carl sighed. "Guess I ain't got much choice. I really need the money."

"Good. Where are the tires?"

"I got 'em stashed down the road out in the woods."

 

[superbuickguy]

Carl got in his rental car and had the short stocky man follow him to a place on the highway with a cluster of trees just off the road. The man looked at the tires and quickly gave Carl a hundred dollar bill. "These are just what I need. By the way, where'd you get 'em?"

"I found 'em out behind that motel near the main highway. Some dummy must have left them there, so I rolled 'em off here in the woods and figured I'd make a few bucks real quick."

The short stocky man let out a smile. "So that's why that Suburban didn't have any wheels on it. Somebody stole his wheels before we got to the Suburban! Man, that's weird."

With that, the short stocky man loaded the tires quickly in the back of his truck, and drove off.

Carl waited a minute, then followed a good distance back, with his lights off.



***



The sheriff patted Carl on the shoulder and positively beamed. "I can't tell you how happy we are, sir, that you helped us break this car and truck ring. That was good thinking, following them to where they had your Suburban stored. I wish we had more citizens like you around."

Emma positively glowed with pride as the reporter from the Stumpville Gazette snapped photos of Carl for the paper. The reporter then whipped out a pad and pencil. "One question, sir. How did the car thief get injured? As you know, he's in the hospital right now."

Carl looked puzzled. "Well, I sort of tripped him when he tried to run away. He must have fallen at a funny angle or something."

"Sir, he claims you beat him up with a bumper jack."

The sheriff looked hard at Carl. " Is that true, Carl? Did you beat that man with a bumper jack?"

Carl stood up straight and his nostrils flared wide with indignation. "Of course not, sheriff! What do you take me for, some kind of animal?"



***



Later, as Carl and Emma drove out of Stumpville in The Whale, she slid over next to him and put a chubby little arm around his shoulder. "Well, I'm very proud of you and the way you handled this whole situation. There's only one thing I'm curious about, and that's where that crook claimed you beat him up with a bumper jack. But you told the sheriff you didn't beat him with a bumper jack. Carl? Did you beat him up with a bumper jack?"

Carl let out an evil grin. "Nope. Not even. However, I did whomp on him pretty good with a floor jack. One of those big shop types, about five feet long. It wasn't easy to swing, but it sure made an impact on that crook."

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 79







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: THE GREAT POKER RUN


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN







Emma folded up the Triple A road map carefully and placed it neatly back in the pocket on the inside of the door of The Whale. All the maps of 49 states were stacked carefully in order, with the western states in the right hand door packet, and the eastern states in the driver's side.



It was almost noon near the end of summer and Barstow, California, was just ten minutes down the road. Heat waves danced off the near-boiling pavement and distorted vision in the distance. The desert off to the side of the big Interstate highway was brown and dry. Even though it had been a wet spring in the area, a solid four months of intense heat had pounded the desert mercilessly.



Emma hit the LED readout panel on the dash and a red number came up, which indicated the outside temperature. The glaring over-sized readout said 123 degrees! Emma punched another button, and this one gave the temperature inside The Whale. Hmmm. This one read a comfortable 76 degrees. It was a good thing The Whale had two heavy-duty air conditioners.

Emma picked up the flyer on the dash and read it again. "Carl? Are you sure you want to go this event? After all, it's being held in Baker, which is one of the hottest spots in the US most of the time. And this is only Barstow, which is above sea level. Baker is below sea level, according to the map. It's gonna be a zillion degrees there."

Carl hit the button and the drivers' side window rolled down. A wall of heat immediately blasted in. Carl spit a big, brown glob of chew at a speed limit sign, and nailed it in the upper right hand corner. When the window slid up again, it took the twin air conditioners a few minutes to cool the interior down again.

Carl mopped his brow with the back of his hand. "Whew! It sure is hot out there. But I wouldn't worry none about things. After all, the event we're goin' to is just a poker run, and we can just keep the air conditioners on if it stays hot."

Emma looked puzzled. "What's a poker run? Some kind of gambling?"

"Naw. Basically what it you do is drive all over a prescribed route, and every time you get to a checkpoint, you get to draw a playing card from a box of cards. The best hand wins the prize. There's all kinds of prizes, but the one I want is that $2500 chunk of money!"

"Gosh, it sounds exciting! Do both of us get to play? I mean do we both get poker hands?"

Carl gave Emma a hard look. "Hey, woman! The entry fee is a stiff seventy-five bucks. You want to enter, well then, you'll have to use your own money. I ain't sponsorin' nobody."

Emma protested meekly. "Carl, you know my allowance is only five dollars a week. Why, I'd have to spend ... let me see ... hmmm ... 15 weeks worth of allowance! That'll put a big dent in my fun money."

Carl let out an evil grin. "Listen, if you want to play the game, you got to pay to play. That's just how it is."



Emma went back to the kitchen area of The Whale, extracted a cookie jar from a top shelf, fished in the jar for a while, and extricated a wad of five dollar bills wrapped up in a rubber band. Then she slowly counted out the money on the center console. "Sixty-five, seventy and seventy-five. There. Now I'm going to sign up."

Carl just shook his head. Women. Go figure 'em.



***



The drive into Baker on Interstate 15 drove the temperature even higher. When they arrived in Baker in the afternoon, it was obvious the day was a real cooker. Carl pulled off the ramp and drove through the narrow two-lane road that dissected the center of town. Up ahead, a local land mark loomed. "Lookit that, Emma! That's the worlds largest thermometer! It must be a hunnert feet tall!"

Emma shaded her eyes and peered up at the huge thermometer built alongside the road. And then she did a double-take when she saw the temperature: 129 degrees!



After gassing up, they found a small over-priced motel and checked in. The pathetic room air conditioner roared and strained mightily, but all it could do was take some of the edge off the blistering heat.

Carl figured it would cool off later, so they hit a local restaurant and pigged out. At 9:00 o'clock that night, the temperature in beautiful downtown Baker was 108 degrees.



***



The next morning, Carl and Emma located the gas station being used as a sign-up area. A local 4-wheel drive club was putting on the poker run, with profits going to charity. The turn-out was big, and several hundred people signed up. Route maps were handed out and drivers were started off one every 30 seconds.

Carl checked the map out. It looked like an interesting run, with sections of the Old Mojave Road thrown it, as well as a trip around Calico Ghost Town. The course then wandered down to the desert floor - well below sea level - and criss-crossed the winding back road 127 that headed toward the Nevada state line. The route covered about 200 miles, most of it off-road on graded or unimproved two-tracks. Some gnarly cross-grain was thrown in, so Carl spent a few minutes lashing everything down with bungee cords and tie-down straps. No sense having a coffee pot fly out of a cupboard and whack you in the back of the head in a rough section.



At 8:07, the Whale left the line and headed west on a beat up fire-road that ran parallel to Interstate 15. At Razor Road, the first stop at a Chevron station, Carl drew a card and was pleased to see that he had a king. Emma reached in the box and drew a two.



The second check was on a gravel-covered road on the top of a hill north of Calico Ghost Town. Carl drew another king and gave out a big grin. Emma drew a five, and frowned.



The third stop was at Tecopa, way back near the Nevada border. Carl drew a queen and Emma drew a six. When Carl started The Whale back up to head for checkpoint four, a loud whining noise came from, under the hood and stinky smoke started filling the cab of the Suburban.



Carl popped the hood to check the problem, and let out a loud groan. "Oh, jeez! The air conditioner compressor just went up in smoke and all the wires around it are melted!"

Emma peered over Carl's shoulder. "Can you fix it?"

Carl looked disgusted. "Nope. All I can do is snip the wires, tape 'em up out of the way and run without the air conditioner until we can get it to a shop."



Fifteen minutes later, they were under way again, but now the windows in The Whale were all down in a vain attempt to cool things down. By mid-day, the heat reached blistering ranges and Carl and Emma were forced to drape wet towels over their heads and shoulders to cool off.



At the fourth check, Carl let out a loud whoop when he drew a third king, while Emma looked more than a little glum as she drew a three. Carl looked at her cards. "Well, it ain't all that bad. If you get a four, you'll have a small straight. Lottsa luck."



At the final check at Mountain Pass, Carl nearly went nuts as he drew another queen. This gave him a full house. Emma fumbled around in the cardboard box for a long time, hoping for a four. But instead, she drew an ace.



They drove back to Baker, with Carl feeling real good about things. By 6:00 o'clock, everyone was in and the checking of the hands started. For a while it looked like Carl's full house would hold up for the $2500 prize, but a somebody else had a full house with aces over tens. Still, Carl managed to get the consolation second prize of $500.



Just about the time Carl was ready to walk away, money in hand, the announcer picked up the microphone. "Let's not forget about that super-duper low-ball prize, folks."

Emma was puzzled. "What's a low-ball, Carl?"

"Well, that's the exact opposite of a good poker hand. It's a variation of the game where the worst hand wins."



The announcer checked out a few hands. "So far, the best low-ball hand is a 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 2. Anybody got that beat?"

Emma spread her cards and studied them. There it was: 6 - 5 - 3 - 2 - ace! She raised her hand timidly. "Uhh, is this any good?"

The announcer checked it out. "Wow! The little lady has a seriously good low-ball hand. Any body out there beat a 6 - 5 - 3 - 2 - ace? No? Going once ... going twice ... we have a winner. C'mon on up, and get your $2500 cash prize. And congratulations!”



***



It wouldn't have been so hard for Carl to take that Emma had beat him in the poker run, but the worst part came later, when the mechanic in Baker charged Carl slightly over $500 to repair the air conditioner. To add insult to injury, Emma refused to contribute a dime of her winnings to the repair, and tucked the money back up in her cookie jar, then hid it behind the Ritz Cracker box where it was safe.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 80







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: THE WORLD'S FASTEST GOURMET


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN







We join The Wanderers as they're driving north, heading toward Canada, with no real time-table in mind. Carl figured they would go through Montana, check out some of the scenery, and then visit both sides of Glacier National Park. This park is unusual, in that it's in two countries. About 4/5ths of it is in the US, and the balance of it is right on the border of BC and Alberta, while the Canadian part of it is actually in Alberta. The Canadians call their portion Waterton Park.



Carl was curious about the park: "I gotta see this place. There's no way those Canadians can run a park like we do here in the good old USA."

Emma looked startled. "Carl! How can you say such terrible things about our northern neighbors? They're wonderful people and share many of the same things that we do." Carl grunted. "Hmmmpf. I don't know about that. Think about it for a second, woman. Their national sport is hockey, which consists of a bunch of guys dressed up like Eskimos, whacking each other on the head with sticks. Now what kind of a sport is that? Hells-fire, they can't even play football right. Three downs instead of four and a goofy-sized field. If they run that Glacier Park like they play football, you'll probably need a hunting license to go fishing, and a fishing license to build a camp fire."

Emma folded her arms and got a sour look on her face. "I'll have you know that my Uncle Marvin lives in Canada, and he's normal."

Carl laughed. "Normal? You call a guy who lives in a log cabin on top of a mountain normal? And not only that, he drives one of those stupid old Broncos that look like those stupid old Scouts. So go figure. And while you're figurin', go back there in the kitchen area and cook me up somethin' good, like beans and franks. Something hot, 'cause it's gettin' cold outside."



Indeed, it was getting colder outside, in spite of the fact that it was simply the middle of fall. They were heading north on Montana highway 209, near Seeley Lake. A half hour further up the road, the elevation would kick up to over 10,000 feet as they neared McDonald Peak. Higher altitude almost always meant cooler temperatures.



Emma fumbled around in the kitchen for a while, let out a big sigh, then got back in the passenger seat. "Bad news, dear. We're out of propane for the stove. I told you we should have filled that tank up back in Idaho Falls."

Carl rubbed his stomach, which let out an audible growl. "Well, then put something in the microwave oven. I gotta have me a good, hot meal."

"Sorry. The microwave has been broken for almost a month. You promised me you'd fix it. Remember?"

"Aw, geez. I'm starving."

"Well, I can fix you a sandwich, or open a bag of chips."

"Emma, maybe I ain't makin' myself clear. My body is yearning for a real meal. Somethin' steaming hot. Somethin' I can splash some ketchup on. Somethin' that'll make my forehead break out in sweat. Somethin' I can dip a chunk of bread into. Do you get the message, Emma?"



Emma just mumbled under her breath, and it sounded suspiciously like swearing, even though Carl knew that Emma never used bad language.

Then it hit him like a flash. "Hey, Emma! Get a bunch of that bacon out of the 'fridge, and while you're at it, get the aluminum foil out of the top cupboard."

Emma brought the bacon and the foil, and put it down on the center console. "What are you going to do, cook it with your cigar lighter?"

Carl smiled broadly. "Better than that, Emma. Ya see, I remember readin' a book about 10 or 12 years ago, called the Off-Roader's Handbook. I think Spence Murray and James Crow wrote it. Well, anyways, in the back of that book, they talked about a little trick of cookin' your food on the engine. So that's what we're gonna do. Now you take out about a half-dozen strips of bacon and wrap it in foil, just for an experiment. If this works OK, then we'll take it from there. Now lay the bacon out flat, so the heat will get to it nice and even. Then make sure you cover it with foil, and fold the edges over so you don't get any bacon grease leakin' on the engine."



Carl stopped The Whale, popped the hood, and carefully placed the bacon between the intake manifold and the bottom of the air cleaner. He used a section of coat hanger to hold the foil in place.

He closed the hood, fired the engine up and headed down the highway. In about ten minutes, the delicious aroma of cooking bacon wafted through the spacious cab of The Whale. Having never cooked bacon like this before, Carl wasn't sure how long to keep in on the manifold, so he stopped after a half-hour and took a peek. Wow! The bacon was darned near perfect!

He poured the excess bacon grease out of the foil, then proudly took his culinary delight inside to show it to Emma. "Hey, woman. Lookee here! This is some first-class bacon. Have a bite."

Emma cautiously picked up a piece of bacon and munched delicately at it. "Gosh. It's good. Carl, I am surprised!"

"Guess I'm just a genius. Well, as long as this works, I guess I'll just rustle up a complete meal. Emma, go get me a can of pork n' beans, a can of stew, some more bacon wrapped in foil, and some of that french bread."

Without saying a word, Emma bustled into kitchen area and got all the requested items. Carl found a rest area, pulled off the side of the road, and went about the business of loading up the engine with all the food to be cooked.



First, another batch of bacon wrapped in foil was placed on the intake manifold. The frozen french bread was safety-wired in place on top of the air cleaner, which - Carl figured - would warm it up nicely, being slightly less hot than under the air cleaner.

The cans were placed on the exhaust manifold; beans on the right and the beef stew on the left. Carl carefully safety-wired them into place so they wouldn't slip around and maybe fall off on the road from vibration.

With a huge smile of satisfaction on his face, Carl fired the big Suburban up and headed north once again. "Well, Emma. I figure a half-hour ought to do everything. We know that 30 minutes is just right for the bacon, and those big 32 ounce cans of beans and stew should heat up real good on the exhaust, 'cause it's hotter than the intake manifold."



A short time later, the smell of frying bacon once again filled the cab. Carl took a deep breath and his mouth started watering. "Boy-oh-boy, I can almost taste that meal already. Emma, why don't you fold the table down and get some plates out?"



A few minutes later, Carl could make out the unmistakable smell of pork n' beans, then right after that, the smell of stew cooking. "You smell that, Emma? That's the smell of beans and stew being prepared by a master chef."

Emma looked puzzled. "Carl, I have a question that might seem a bit silly. If the beans and the stew are in cans, then how can you smell them?"

Carl's jaw sagged, then his eyes got wide! "Whoa, we got some problems!"

He quickly pulled The Whale over to the shoulder and popped the massive hood, just as the can of beans exploded like a small land mine. About five seconds later, the seam in the stew can gave way, and this can let loose like a bad dream.

Emma got out of the Suburban with a damp dish rag in hand, and started to wipe the beans and stew off of Carl. "What happened, dear?"

"Guess maybe I should have punched a little vent hole in those cans." With that, Carl scooped some beans from the top of his head and tasted them. "Not half bad."

Emma just shook her head and went inside The Whale for a giant roll of paper towels and a bucket of water.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #81







HEADLINE: THE LAST WANDERERS



SUBHEAD: RETIRING FROM THE ROAD



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN







FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, known as The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.

For the last seven years, they've been on the road (and off the road), living in The Whale most of the time. But now, Carl seems to be tiring of the near-constant traveling. We join them now as they're driving down a narrow road north of Billings, Montana.



***



"Emma? You feel like takin' the wheel for a while? I'm gettin' flat-butt tired of driving."

"Sure, Carl. Tell you what, I'll drive until we get to the Canadian border, then I'll wake you up."

"Good idea! I think I can use a solid ten or 12 hours of sleep. Maybe that'll perk me up. If you get woozy, or goofy, jist whistle or somethin', and I'll come forward and relieve you."



With that, Carl got up out of the big captain's chair and ambled toward the flip-down bed in the back of the huge stretch Suburban. Emma let out a little shriek: "Carl! What in high-heaven are you doing? The Whale is still moving, and you just got up and left!"

Carl let out an evil little grin. "Well, then, maybe you better get your butt in that there driver's seat real fast before we roll off the road."

Emma scuttled quickly into the driver's seat, all flustered, and slipped the belt over her shoulders, shaking her head from side to side. "Men! I'll never understand them if I live to be a hundred, and when they pull stunts like that, I know for sure I'll never reach a hundred!"



Carl extracted a cold can of Tree Frog Light beer from the fridge, sucked it down in two well-trained gulps, and in less than three minutes, was fast asleep, snoring like a badly tuned chain-saw. Emma reached back with one arm and slid the partition closed, effectively shutting out the raspy snoring sounds.

She set the cruise control on exactly 48 miles per hour, just to play it safe, knowing that Carl never had the speed re-calibrated after mounting the big tires. There was no sense getting a ticket, she figured.



The Whale loped comfortably down the road, eating the miles up, with the big 454 engine turning over a lazy 1800 rpm. About an hour later, she glanced at the gas gauge and noticed that she was getting low on gas on tank number one. She flipped the switch to tank two, and it was also low. Less than a quarter tank. Slightly alarmed now, Emma flipped the switch to tank number three and got big-eyed when she saw it was on "E", almost!

Emma whipped out a Montana map, and checked it with one eye as she drove. Hmmm. The small town of Peckerwood was about 20 miles ahead. She turned the map to the index and saw that it had a population of about 20,000. Surely there would be a gas station open there, even at night.



Less than a half-hour later, Peckerwood rolled into view, and sure enough, a mile later, she saw a small gas station on the right side of the road with as easy-off exit.

Emma pulled The Whale next to the ancient pumps, got out and started filling up. As the pump ding-ding-dinged happily away, she went inside and bought some Beer Nuts and a bottle of Yoo Hoo Chocolate soda.



While she was inside, Carl got up, and heeding the call of nature, exited the back door and sleepily walked to the men's room at the side of the station. Because he was still sleepy, he simply sat down on the throne, relaxed, took care of business, and fell asleep.

Emma paid for the 65 gallons of gas, stuck her snacks and drink into the console holder, fired up the engine, and drove off down the road. She was happy that no snoring sounds were coming from the back. This usually meant that Carl was deeply asleep, laying on his side, with his sizable nose buried in the pillow.



However, in this case, Carl had his nose leaning against the wall of the toilet, right next to some scribbling that read, 'FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL DEBBIE AT 555-1212.



About an hour later, Carl was rudely awakened by some thumping on the door. "Hey, buddy! You havin' a barbecue in there? I got a customer here who needs to use the restroom."

Carl rubbed the sleep from his eyes, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and walked outside, blinking in the glare of the large gas station mercury-vapor lights. He looked around for the Suburban, but didn't see it anywhere. So he walked around the station, then looked up and down the street. No Suburban. And the small diner across the street only had two semis in the parking lot.

He walked into the office, where a white-haired man sat at the desk, reading a copy of Field and Stream, and looked up: "Well, I'm glad you made it out of the crapper. For a minute there, I thought you had fallen in."

"Nope. Just fell asleep at the controls, old timer. Say, you didn't see a big red Suburban around here, did you?"

The old timer scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Yup. About an hour ago. A nice lady filled up like she was fueling the Exxon Valdez, bought some munchies, and took off, headin' north. Is that your ride?"

Carl groaned. "Yeah. At least, it was. Maybe I should have told her I was takin' a pit stop. Well, if it's OK with you, can I just wait here until she figures out I'm gone?"

"Sure. Pull up a chair and have a magazine. I got Field and Stream, Off-Road and Hooters Illustrated. Take your pick."



Carl read all three magazines, drank six sodas, and looked at the clock. Over three hours had passed.



Meanwhile, Emma reached the Canadian border, and thought about waking Carl up, but figured she would let the poor guy sleep. She cross the border on highway 91 south of Lethbridge with no problems. The guard just waved her through. She drove north into Alberta, referring to her map every now and then, with the radio playing some nice, pleasant country music. It wasn't until the first light of dawn cracked over the horizon, that she stopped at a roadside diner for breakfast, and went back to wake Carl up.



***

Carl and the old-timer (his name was Fred) talked during the night, and the conversation was pleasant, since they both had an interest in hunting, fishing, off-roading and scantily clad statuesque women. Fred was the owner of the station, and he was getting ready to retire.

He had a nice little business. Pumped about 14,000 gallons a month, and did a lot of repair work on the side, mostly for the local 4x4 people in the area. Fred showed Carl around the shop, and he was impressed with the four big Snap-On tool boxes filled to the brim with clean tools, a modern Coats tire changer, a Millermatic 200 MIG welder, two lifts, large steel work benches, a ceiling mounted chain hoist, chop saws, a tubing bender, a small heli-arc machines in the corner, a full-sized sand blaster cabinet and a 30 ton vertical press.

"Whew! Nice set-up, Fred. And you're gonna walk away from all this?"

"Well, I been at it for over 40 years, and own some property. So I figure it's time to do some serious fishing and learn how not to put in 12 hour days."

Carl thought real hard for a minute or two. "Say, what are you askin' for this place?"

Fred scratched his chin again, and looked around his shop. "Well, I figure it's worth a hundred thou', but I'll take forty for the whole works, tools and all."

Carl let out a low whistle. "Forty thousand for all this? Including the Snap-ons?"

"You see, Carl, this here is a small town. There's enough work to keep one good mechanic and a helper busy, and that's about it. The gas income pays for the utilities and such, and I knock down about 30 grand a year on repairs and mechanical stuff. So it ain't no Fort Knox, but a fella can make a decent living. Why? Are you interested?"

This stopped Carl right in his tracks. "I'm not sure. Me and the missus have been on the road for the better part of the last seven years, and we got a house back in Ohio that's paid for and rented out. And I sorta been thinkin' about gettin' a place where I can plant my feet and maybe tinker on some projects. This looks like it just might be the ticket. I'll talk with Emma about it. If she ever gets back, that is."



It took Emma a full day to back-track and figure out where Carl might be, and she pulled into the station, tires screeching, eyes all big. "Carl! I've found you. You've been lost!"

"No I ain't, woman. You been lost. I know exactly where I been. Say, you look a little bit frazzled and tired. Why don't ya come on in here and Fred will pour you some hot coffee and fix ya up a pastrami sandwich."

Over coffee and an excellent, juicy pastrami sandwich, Emma met Fred, and Carl gave her the pitch.

She thought long and hard. "Do you really want to settle down, dear? Because if you do, I think I'm ready. And if it doesn't work out, well, we can always go back on the road again."

Carl beamed. "Fred, if Emma is willing to pump a little gas now and then, I think we might have us a deal here!"



***



One week later, Carl and Emma stood outside of the gas station, and looked with pride at the new sign which had just been painted over the old sign. It read "CARL & EMMA'S GAS STATION & FIX-IT SHOP."



Carl breathed a sigh of satisfaction: "You know, Emma. this could be the start of something big."