I can still remember the night before our journey began. Rain fell from the clouds as if to drown us, and lighting struck the earth as is to challenge us. Was this what we wanted? Would it all be worth it? As the streets of Mesa filled to the brim with water and we watched as the sky lit up in flames of lightning and the night echoed with crashing thunder, we couldn’t help but wonder if this was all an omen. The wind ripped trees from the ground, tearing them up by their roots and daring us to change our minds. In the distance, a power pole hung tensely from strained power lines, groaning under its own weight as it struggled to maintain its position where only mere seconds ago lightning had snapped it in two as if were a toothpick. Yet still it held, even as the wind threatened to tear it down into the streets, which were a river of swirling water. It felt as if nature herself was questioning us and our decision to return, spending 16 weeks in a tent on the hope of graduating and finally finishing what we had started all those years ago.
We would soon learn that the weather wasn’t our only concern. As we crossed the Mojave Desert in Mimi, my little old teal van, another disaster would strike; another test of wills; another obstacle.
I will never forget watching Brendan dance as steam and water shot out from under the hood of the van. His hands were flung wide, and his eyes were locked on the ground where he was dancing trying to avoid boiling coolant burns. Lesson one: never check your coolant in the middle of a hot desert. Never. We mean it. Even though it might seem like a good idea, it is not.
A minute or so later, after we had pulled away from the rest stop between Needles and Blythe having finally gotten the radiator closed, all the while hoping against all hope that we hadn’t lost all that much coolant, my poor little van made a sound much like ice being thrown into a blender. As if by magic, our little van lost all power and we were forced to stop, with no sign of a refreshing blended beverage in sight. Watching in despair as steam poured unrefreshingly from under the hood, we waited patiently for the engine to cool and added more fluid before trying again. Maybe that would fix it? We were no strangers to overheating after the not-so-untimely demise of Brendan’s previous jalopy, but icy grinding noises and belching steam belong in a fashionable coffee shop and definitely not my engine. Sadly, the extra water didn’t help; we were met with the same sound, and this time the car would not start at all. We waited for what felt like years for a tow truck to arrive, all the while baking anxiously in the Mojave high-noon sun, our tempers flaring as hot as my engine and the air around us. At least this time the car hadn’t caught on fire; another fascinating story about our luck with the Mojave Desert that I will share with you another time I am sure. It wasn’t until much later that evening that we rolled into Blythe on a tow truck. We had made it to California at least. Nevertheless, the malevolent spirit of the desert had struck again.
Later on at the mechanic’s shop, adding insult to injury, we discovered that although we had made it back to California, we hadn’t exactly done so in one piece. Along the way, a few of the tie-downs securing a good deal of our belongings to the top of the van had come loose. We’re still not completely sure when it happened, but it was probably the moment when Brendan, having pulled the five-gallon drum of water we’d been keeping with us “just in case” off of the top of the van to replenish the coolant in the radiator, perhaps hadn’t quite remembered to secure it back again. As a result, somewhere along the highway a freshly unfettered large green cooler full of a month’s rations, most of our kitchen utensils, and who knew what else made a heroic escape from our possession to live a life of freedom feeding the local wildlife. Yeah, that’s how we’ll remember that.
Little did we know, but our luck was only beginning to turn bad. Somehow, against all odds, we had arrived in Blythe on the first day of dove hunting season. Our first thought was, “Wait, what? That’s a real thing? Who the hell hunts doves? Seriously?!” We received this lovely news after what felt like several hours of waiting in a room that smelled like a heady combination of urine and worn-out leather for someone to tell us how long it would take to get us back on the road. We were informed that because of the dove hunting, our mechanic and apparently half the town were “naturally” out celebrating the opening of the season and would not be back for a couple of days. Really, again, who hunts doves? This whole town and apparently just about everyone they know do. Seriously. All of the hotels in the area were charging triple their normal rates; you know, because people travel from all around to Blythe to hunt doves. We could barely even find a decent restaurant at all because of doves. Lesson two: If you’re going to have a catastrophic vehicular failure in the Mojave Desert, do not do it at the beginning of September near Blythe. Because of doves.
We were stuck. With no van and no means of continuing our journey, we settled in for the night. The van would simply have to wait. In an effort to calm our nerves and make light of the situation, we ventured out to find food. Every restaurant on the main drag was packed, so after over an hour of walking around deciding at each place we stopped that we didn’t want to wait an entire hour to be seated, we eventually settled on a Mexican restaurant the locals had recommended. We were rewarded with watered-down salsa, sore feet, and inexpensive yet overpriced margaritas made from only the finest of store-bought mixes and plastic-bottle tequila. Perfect.
After three days of waiting and wandering around the dusty little town of Blythe, we were informed that the mechanic had finally returned from his hunt just in time to deliver the most devastating new of all: my poor Mimi had shaken herself apart, and the cost to fix her would be $5,000; a sum much greater than our remaining savings. We would have to leave her behind.
How does a van shake itself apart, you ask? We have no idea either. All we were told was something about a misfiring piston, some rusty bolts maybe, and that no amount of self-inflicted abuse could have caused it. Our van was basically just a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, and the overheating in the desert may have simply been its trigger. Either way, the van was dead, and in just three days we had blown through a third of our funds. Luck, it would seem, was not on our side and we didn’t have many options. Brendan made the first of many phone calls home to his parents in Visalia, CA for advice and possible help. With school starting in less than two weeks it was decided we should rent whatever vehicle we could find that would fit all of our stuff and head to Visalia where we could regroup.
All of the rental trucks in the area were booked, even the U-hauls, save for one: the biggest in the lot. (“Oh, everyone needed them for the opening of dove hunting season. Didn’t you know?” Oh yes, we knew.) It was almost ten times the amount of space we needed, but apparently dove hunters need U-hauls to haul around their massive piles of doves? Anyway. Having transferred our belongings into the only available vehicle we could find, praying nothing would break from sliding around in all that unneeded space, we exchanged a tearful yet exhausted goodbye to Mimi and headed out defeatedly on the long drive back to Brendan’s parents’ house.
Our trip was seemingly over before it had even begun. Months of planning were simply gone in one fell swoop. I was devastated, and Brendan… well, he didn’t know what to do either. Would we even be able to get our tuition money back? Now what? We couldn’t go home, and I still wanted my degree. We were about to throw in the towel when as luck would have it we were about to receive an unexpected gift in the form of a new vehicle. Brendan’s father, in an unexpected gesture of generosity, stepped in and bought us a used Ford Explorer without really consulting with us. It was such a kind thing for him to do though that we couldn’t really argue with it, and it fit all of our needs perfectly. Unfortunately, their mechanic need to perform some actually-not-dove-related routine maintenance before they were willing to turn it over to us, so it wouldn’t be ready in time for my first week of classes. Given how this trip started, that should have been a warning. Why wasn’t it ready? But, we didn’t spend much thought on it; we were so overjoyed at still having a shot at this. So, we loaded up another U-haul, a reasonably sized van this time, and headed out towards Ventura for my first week of classes.
Our first campsite was probably the best worst campground we had ever stayed at. It was walking distance to the beach and came with a bundle of free firewood, internet access and showers, which we were very glad to have, but the campsite itself was basically a tiny patch of lawn in a park with only just barely enough room on it for our tent, the fire ring we were provided with, and our vehicle. We weren’t exactly “roughing it” like we’d originally wanted, and were paying almost as much as we would for a hotel room for the privilege. As the night wore on and the sprinklers from the lawn tried to put out our campfire, we decided this wasn’t really our speed. We had made it to Ventura though, and were arguably camping. That’s progress, right?
Join us this Thursday as the car trouble saga continues, we get yet another U-haul, and we spend our first real night of camping in the mountains of Ojai, CA where we met the two most influential people of this entire adventure.
See you Thursday!