What the Road Tells Me

If you’re reading this, thanks!  

From July to November of 2016, I drove across the United States. This site documents my thoughts, feelings, lessons, photographs, and memories of the whole shebang. I drove through 38 states, crossed every mountain range in the country, and did it all in time to get home for Thanksgiving.

This blog is now backed up entirely by an analog book. You know, the slices of dead trees one can stare at for hours on end hallucinating vividly? Ask me to see it in person. It’s beautiful.

Here are some selections of my journey. Of course you could start at the beginning and read every page, but it might be a better use of your time to dance, sing, play football with your best friends, or anything, really. 

-

How I prepared for my trip, mentally and otherwise

Trying not to cry when I left all my friends

How to find camp spots wherever!

In which I nearly died with a nasty hangover, but not because of it

What do I do to pass the time on the lonely roads?

My first musical performance in more than three years

What the road told me, part I

What the road told me, part II

In which my engine is about to explode in the middle of nowhere

In which my engine was in my lap, and then in the car running perfectly

-

If you want to read about my interpretations of certain places, check my “schedule” page for links to the best entries from each city.

Until next time!

Robbie

…Than to clean clean clean, grease, and repeat!

I promised my mother that I would be home for Thanksgiving. I promised a friend that I would help him drink his beer. I promised a few customers that I would do my best to help them in any way possible.

And I’m making it happen now. But first I had to get there… Over the Bixby Creek Bridge we go, around 10pm before I was hit with The Tired and camped on an old farm…

Breakfast in Solvang. Æbleskivers. Always Æbleskivers. I think I’ve been here like seven times in my bus…

And on this day, 14,952 miles since I last pulled out of this garage, I found my childhood home and greeted my mom, the dog, and my dad, in that order.

Coast to coast. To coast. 

California to California.

We made it. 

Pacific ocean to Atlantic Ocean to Pacific Ocean.

Just like Bilbo of old, my journey is winding down. I’ve been there, and now I’m back and casually sipping my victory beer.

Unlike Joseph of old, my trip is becoming a bit more monochrome. And I’m starting to find a sense of familiarity in the roads I drive, even the ones less-travelled! For the last 800 miles of the trip, I haven’t needed a single map, GPS input point, or redirect for construction or heavy traffic. Even breakfast the other day was 200 miles of memory.

At this point, I thought it would all be smooth sailing down the coast.

But of course I had to stop at the Maritime Museum/Bathhouse building in San Francisco! I built a five-foot wide replica of the building a few years ago at my last job, and I had to see the artwork for myself after learning so much about the renovation.

Built in 1939 with WPA funds, the artists working on the building were disgusted with he publicly-funded building turning into a private casino. Sgt. Johnson, in charge of the wonderful oceanic abstract tile mural on the North wall, quit just before finishing his mosaic. To this day, it is left in its unaltered state, I think as a reminder to the public that the government should work for all of us, not just a select few.

The Hilare Hiler murals on the inside, as well as the “color theory” ceiling in the West room are perfect preserved. But I can’t speak publicly about the behind-the-scenes tour I was given of the upper floors and restoration efforts there. Let’s just say my research into building scale models was appreciated by the restoration artists who I am privileged to now call friends. 

Leaving the city? Oy vey. I’ve never been floored in my lowest gear and losing speed before. At that point, one has to start thinking about an escape route, in case the car can’t make it up the hill in rush-hour traffic. Luckily, we crested the worst part with a few horsepower to spare, and coasted down the backside in a white-knuckle descent of terror…

I mean, it’s the best state. The biggest, in terms of stuff that matters, beauty, the economy, and people who hate it. Good. California sucks, don’t move here. :-)

Here is my first real California sunset in five months. Damn, even the cow-pastured farm lands look better here. Even the bugs on the windshield reflect a golden splay of light that just doesn’t exist anywhere else.

And don’t think for a hot second that we don’t have the fall colors too. Right here in this spot is where I fudged the bucket and stripped my oil sump plate threads. (Well, I semi-stripped them in Montana 12,095 miles ago, but just got around to making them COMPLETELY unusable.) Not a bad day to go for a walk to find some parts!

Remember the second day of my trip, typos and all? I didn’t know there was more than one of these stations!

This is pretty much my brain, 90% of the time.

recommended listening: Blink-182 - California

I screamed that chorus one too many times on my descent into my favorite favorite state. As a matter of fact, I was surprised to manage an utterance of thirty dollars on pump two” outside of the Bishop truck stop. In my head, it sounded fine, but I’m glad the station attendant could comprehend “thryy daaww puh doo” from my crackling and hoarse voicebox.

The Japanese American National Museum and the American Jewish Committee together define a concentration camp as: 

A place where people are imprisoned not because of any crimes they have committed, but simply because of who they are.

And I implore each and every one of you to visit this place until you understand the struggle of those less-fortunate.

…

Later I drove through the June Lake Loop, a favorite of my youth for the snowboarding, eating, and boating. Apparently now they have a brewery, though I have not yet visited. Another reason to go back! The Tiger Bar served instead:

The drive through the Sierra Nevada Mountains is always tricky at this time of year, but thanks to the global climate rising in temperature steadily over the last one hundred and eighteen years, Tioga Pass through Yosemite National Park is open at a record late date. I took that opportunity to see my favorite parts of the park without losing too much travel time to wanderings.

Lunch was had in a river. In? Yes, in. Did I stutter? No. I hopped seventeen thousand rocks down to a secluded place where I could eat my freeze-dried vegetables in peace. Life here is good.

And at the end of the hike, I was reminded that I needed to hit a rock climbing gym. My forearms and triceps are waning.

Let’s stop pretending this country isn’t great already. Let’s admit our privilege and accomplishment, while constantly striving for better.

Recommend listening: Claude VonStroke - Make a Cake

You could say that Howie likes Funfetti cake. You would be right.

You could say that Howie has seven six more boxes of Funfetti cake. You would be right again.

You could say that we wanted to “make a cake” but not in the “make” sense of “cake” that we wanted to make. You would be right a third time.

And if you were to wager that I am a lousy cook and an even lousier sous-chef, well you better buy a lotto ticket. Look how much fun I’m having!

Luckily for me, we got out of the kitchen the next morning and hit the Racetrack and a few other spots of DEVA (that’s “Death Valley National Park” for us mortals) which complete captured both my scientific and religious brains.

Seriously, check out the “Racetrack Sailing Stones” on the Death Valley Playa. a four hour one-way drive from the park entrance, and almost entirely on a 4wd road, it is COMPLETELY worth the expense of gas and vehicular assault.

I think next time I’ll do it in the 125* summer heat in a car with A/C. And maybe some kind of journal to write my thoughts in. This time, I didn’t even bring my phone for the cell reception at Teakettle Junction… 

I made my way out later that night, to a beautiful sunset over the desert.

And we even climbed Father Crowly Point with an engine that, if you didn’t otherwise know it, did NOT sound like it was in pieces my lap two days before. Here is 8pm at 6,000 feet elevation.

Two hours before, we were cresting one of the lowest point in the world. 

-Tony

Well today I stopped, rolled down the window, whistled at the finest asses I’ve seen this year.

I took some dirt road to bypass Las Vegas traffic in the morning, and spent three hours bumping down a washboard at five miles per hour. I’m ok with this. But I remembered my promise to Howie about getting somewhere at some time with no cell service, so I hopped back onto the interstate. I can NOT complain about the views! 

And made it to north Death Valley around sunset. Didn’t get stuck in the sand, either. But I almost did, just like the signs said I would.

Monument Valley. You’ve seen pictures, postcards, and movies here. John Mayer even made a music video here, of one of my favorite songs!

Driving through here moved me. And I can’t wait to go back and drive it again with other people. Friends, family, ANYONE that wants to go. Say the word and I’ll pack the freeze-dried food and beer.

I even flagged down the fleeting custodial staff shuttle to take this picture for me! Enough of the car, here’s some flesh for ‘ya.

Since I was leaving the daylight and the scenery behind, I decided to keep on keeping on. I made it to Page, Arizona where I was greeted with hickory smoke and country music. I learned this trip that I really love live country music. Like really really.

Yes that’s how long it took me to write this post. Yes, that’s also how fast I made it though Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona.

recommended listening: Grateful Dead - Goin’ Down the Road Feelin’ Bad

I’ve had a fascination with the Four Corners spot of the Southwest USA for years. I don’t know why. It’s only logical that the White Man would put their state boundary intersection right in the middle of Navajo land. I digress…

I even bought my first souvenir from a local artist. Ask me about it some time.

Southern Utah was beautiful. I mean, wow. It really made me feel I like I was “on a planet” you know? How the rocks took eons to get to these locations really makes me humble. 

I have a few regrets from this trip, one is not trusting my spark plug repair enough to make a detour North to visit Anna, an 80+ year-young woman who still drives her ‘71 bus. Next time, Anna.

My day kept on just North of Monument Valley, where we climbed up the rocky hill to Mexican Hat, and promptly started sliding off the edge. I parked. “Not today, St. Peter.” So I hiked a half mile more. Wheeeewwwww elevation!

I have been so busy stressing about my hack repair job that I have not posted an update. Yes, I have made it back to Southern California safe and sound. I have a few jobs to finish up this week, but I’ll try to wrap up my story here, in pictures.

I finished the repair of the repair of the repair around noon. Got the bus running while the weather was nice in Durango.

I could not have done ANY of this without John, and his masterful understanding of machine work, tolerances, parts, and techniques. I learned so much. I hope to help out travelers this was too some day.

You can see by the shadows that it took me a few hours to get down the road a bit to John’s place. That’s because I tightened some bolt too much that caused the entire car to vibrate like a Hitachi Magic Wand at freeway speeds. Completely unacceptable and inappropriate. 

Oh well, we made good time to the desert where I was able to take one of my three pairs of pants off.

If you remember more than four months ago, I crossed the Continental Divide and nearly turned back to my friends and family. It is still one of the hardest parts of my journey so far, and I’ve done a lot more crazy things since. If you’d like to read again:

http://theroadtells.com/post/148344036764/across-the-great-divide

If you’d like to listen along with me again:

Recommended listening: “On the Dominant Divide” from “Grand Pianola Music” - John Adams

This time was personal. Add in a tick tick tick and you’ll get the idea. Buddy was not happy, which means I was not happy. But soldier on we had to, since it was approximately 25* at the summit of Wolf Creek Pass.

10,857 feet above sea level. 10,857 feet above the comfort of my rented apartment five months ago.

10,857 feet of pure terror as my engine told me it was done. Finished. Concluded. 

It may have been as done as a bar-b-qued boot, but it still ran. It still had heat. And for some reason, it still had the spunky willingness that it always had when I flick the key to start our adventures first thing in the sub-freezing morning. This bus has a soul, as I’m sure you know by now. And it wanted to get me where we needed to go. Tick tick tick and all.

Where we needed to go? I was happy to get a flat piece of asphalt to pull the engine on. But we were given so much more.

On the sixth of November, 2016 at 4:55pm, I pulled into Rich’s driveway, in Durango, Colorado. And here I commenced the more intense part of my trip yet. Buddy’s autopsy.

Since my phone was above capacity, and my hands were too dirty to operate a proper camera, I will rely on Rich’s pictures to do the talking.

In one evening, I went through the five stages of grief for an engine. Shown here, is the acceptance stage, where I pulled the camshaft out of my engine.

Tick tick tick no more.

Because here, in the bowels of this magnesium case of whirring metal, I found this. A pressure-treated and insanely work-hardened cam lifter. Completely shattered.

It has come out fully once. I also started to take it out in a parking lot, but stopped when I could see it wouldn’t help the tick tick problem. So, 1.5 times in 14,464 miles so far. That’s one time every 9,642 miles. On a survey conducted every year in my Volkswagen forum, the average milage of 2015 was 4,493 per bus. Some people have more than one bus, but I don’t. I’m averaging more miles per engine pull than most average every two years, just on this trip! Since January, I’ve gone 19,098 miles in my bus. Holy cow. Wow.  This poor thing needs a break! 

Well at least the heater works. Today was the first day I’ve woken up before the temperatures rose above freezing. Did a valve adjustment with two pairs of pants, two shirts, a sweater, and a jacket on. Can’t wear gloves for that procedure. :(

TICK TICK TICK.

Shit, Still there. And it’s louder.

“Too bad car, it’s beautiful here, and we’re taking the long way. If you don’t behave, we’ll climb Pike’s Peak and you’ll like it.”

Chickened out before Pike’s Peak. Oh well; I’ll be back. We DID manage to TICK TICK our way through Garden of the Gods. And THAT made me miss some rock climbing something fierce. 

Dawn Patrol might still be going on in San Diego with the warm-ish weather. But my Dawn Patrol here was pretty legendary. The park was going to get crowded today, but we took our pictures and TICK TICK TICK-ed our way on out of there.

Lucky for me, Colorado has pretty accepting drivers of the fact that I have 28 horsepower at sea level, and it drops off significantly at elevation. 

It is time for the Big Hills. 

Since seeing the Rocky Mountains for the first time nearly four years ago, I’ve had a reverence for them that are only matched by the Eastern Sierras. Seriously though, the first time I saw them, I thought they were clouds until I got closer and closer and realized the true enormity of their size. 

Tick tick tick tick.

Here we go. Said a prayer to Heinz Nordhoff, Ferdinand Porsche, and Nikolaus Otto. Up and over we go. At this point, it’s do or die. The cold will be relentless, and I have no idea if my car is about to explode.

Tick. Tick. 

Tick tick tick.

Tick tick.

Obviously you can tell what that is, right? It’s my engine at the Loves Truck Stop in Boise City, Oklahoma minutes before I yanked the engine out on a set of Coke-a-Cola milk crates. Of course I didn’t find anything, and now that I know what the problem is, I was foolish to think I could solve it there in a measly seven hours. 

I had three options. 

1) Ignore it, and possibly die in the mountains when the engine explodes.

2) Get ahold of John in New Mexico and drive 350 miles, hoping the engine doesn’t explode and kill me in the mountains.

3) Get ahold of Rich in Colorado, and drive 500 miles, hoping the engine doesn’t explode and kill me in the mountains.

Tick. Tick tick tick.

Option 1 was stupid. Option 2 didn’t get my message…

…Until option 3 became the only option left. Rich got my text message and offered his floor jack immediately. After all, the floor jack is the only tool I didn’t have with me necessary to rebuild an engine.

Of course, one does not do 500+ miles with a knocky naughty engine in one day. Drove through Texas. It was flatter than they say, and they say it is pretty flat.

Tick Tick Tick Tick.

Drove through New Mexico. It was more dreary than they say. And they did not say it was dreary.

And I got to Colorado by nightfall. Now the noise is getting worse, and it occurring in a more constant cadence.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.

For some then-unknown reason, the noise went away at high speeds. Lucky for me I was to be floored in second gear for  the next nine hours of driving…

Tick tick tick.