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By close of the work day, Jeff got the engine to act up during a test drive. Whereas he started out thinking it was a fuel problem, he now felt the problem is electrical. He thinks my new spark plug wires are defective and wants to install a premium grade set. My wallet sensor causes me to suck air, but I give him the OK. He thinks he should have everything done by 11.00 a.m. on Friday.
Apart from yet another parking lot poke about, I am too tired to do much of anything and the pack of us turn in early. Come morning there isn't much to do except lie in bed and wait. Jeff calls at eleven with disappointing news. He's changed the wires but the problem still isn't fixed. He's very apologetic.
Bellingham is hosting a soccer meet and I have to be out of the hotel at noon. Jeff's shop-mate, John, picks us up in my truck which he tests drives, again, on the way back to the shop. He explains that he and Jeff have a "difference of opinion" as to the possible cause.
John pulls the truck into the work-bay and goes off to consult with Jeff, as Fips gives me a sad and pleading look. I wish I knew how to apologize. I walk the doggies around the block, but they are not into it and Rosco still hasn't pooped. Jeff and John decide to run further tests, at no further charge to me. As the day wears on, they decide to pressure clean the fuel injectors. Nothing works, and by the now the doggies have given up, finally overcome with terminal boredom.
Now too, there is nothing left to do but to turn tail and rush for home as best we can.... if we can. I make my calculations and realize we will have to drive straight through all night. That will avoid the Seattle and Portland rush hours and put us at the California border at 8.a.m. or so giving us four to five hours of more driving before the temperatures hit 104 degrees. And that is what we do, after kill-time chow in a supermarket parking lot before Seattle and a two hour pre-marathon snooze in a rest-stop after.
At least Washington's rest stops have lots of tall pine trees which muffle the highway sounds and provide a camp-site ambiance. I make room for myself amid the bags and rags in the back. But as I close my eyes, I hear the scratching, rustling noises of Fips and Rosco trying to claw and crawl through the window into camper shell with me. Sigh. I should have known.
I heave the doggies inside and as they immediately make themselves comfy, I find some contorted left over space for myself. Somehow, I manage two hours of actual sleep. I would just as soon sleep until dawn, but I know that cannot be. At midnight, I get up, carry the dogs back to the front cab and set off. "God help us," I think, even though it would be an understatement to say that I was "less the sanguine" on that score.
Rosco too is stressed out, only in his case this is manifested in what is by now an obvious case of constipation. At least he doesn't seem to be in pain and finds blessed oblivion in The Snooze.
My calculations prove to be pretty much on the mark, given some extra pausing at gas-ups to let the engine cool off a bit more. A little after sunrise we begin the climb and long descent over the Siskiyou Pass. By nine we are outside Redding. Since about four in the morning I have been going through gas as if it were water, and come dawn I have the added pleasure of seeing how much black smoke I am blowing out my tailpipe. The nauseating smell of gasoline is everywhere, even with the windows open. The muffler as well as the engine is choking on fuel and begins making a constant baffling noise. By ten, the temperature outside has reached 94 degrees and the "wrongness" has become a seamless anxiety.
My main concern, of course, is the fuzzies. I don't care if I get stopped for blowing gas or if the engine stops from choking on gas, but any stop means more languishing in the heat for two doggies who are both in pre-heat stroke status. Rosco, who manages heat better than Fips, has crawled into the camper shell and gone into ultra low-maintenance mode. Fips, on the other hand, is constantly changing position looking for the better breeze. He lets me air spray him with water because he has long since figured out that it is this that cools. But after a while, even this annoys him and he crawls up and stretches out on the Doggie Lounger. From time to time I reach back and feel his chest to make sure he is still breathing.
By 12.30 or so, we are at the I-5 turn off, with 40 hill miles to go. Sixty miles has cost us near half a tank of gas and so I fill up again. The last thing I need is to putter out of gas in the middle of really nowhere where even the phones don't roam. Fortunately there is the remains of an offshore breeze. Keeping an eye on the dogs, I let the engine cool before resuming our last sputtering stretch.
It is now close to 100 degrees. My eyes are burning and my throat is parched. What must it be like for the dogs, both of whom are very quiet and flat-lining as much as they can. I am concerned for Rosco whom I can't see but I don't want to risk a stop and hope that if he really gets bad he will sit up, pant or call attention to himself. Fips I can spray and monitor for life by reaching back.
The engine is blowing smoke almost constantly with a very small window for maintaining a more or less even idle. But mile by miserable mile we are getting closer to the end. And then, at the last rise, bend and descent before town, Fips suddenly sits up, mouth open and eyes alert head peering over the head rest and looking down the road.
Damn that doggie Auto Sensor is good! I am blown away. In spite of this exhausting 16 hour near death experience, over a thousand climbs and turns, Fips's sensor told him exactly when we were pulling into town. They say that dogs look upon us as gods. I donno. Today it is I who look upon Fips and his beautiful fuzzy wuzzy face with adoring admiration.
Yes, Fips, we made it. We're "homenow"
A few moments later Rosco's face pops up in the rear cab window. The dogs are expectant and being expectant, happy. Three more turns and I cut the engine. I rush to open the doors and the doggies scamper inside.
.
Apart from yet another parking lot poke about, I am too tired to do much of anything and the pack of us turn in early. Come morning there isn't much to do except lie in bed and wait. Jeff calls at eleven with disappointing news. He's changed the wires but the problem still isn't fixed. He's very apologetic.
Bellingham is hosting a soccer meet and I have to be out of the hotel at noon. Jeff's shop-mate, John, picks us up in my truck which he tests drives, again, on the way back to the shop. He explains that he and Jeff have a "difference of opinion" as to the possible cause.
John pulls the truck into the work-bay and goes off to consult with Jeff, as Fips gives me a sad and pleading look. I wish I knew how to apologize. I walk the doggies around the block, but they are not into it and Rosco still hasn't pooped. Jeff and John decide to run further tests, at no further charge to me. As the day wears on, they decide to pressure clean the fuel injectors. Nothing works, and by the now the doggies have given up, finally overcome with terminal boredom.
Now too, there is nothing left to do but to turn tail and rush for home as best we can.... if we can. I make my calculations and realize we will have to drive straight through all night. That will avoid the Seattle and Portland rush hours and put us at the California border at 8.a.m. or so giving us four to five hours of more driving before the temperatures hit 104 degrees. And that is what we do, after kill-time chow in a supermarket parking lot before Seattle and a two hour pre-marathon snooze in a rest-stop after.
At least Washington's rest stops have lots of tall pine trees which muffle the highway sounds and provide a camp-site ambiance. I make room for myself amid the bags and rags in the back. But as I close my eyes, I hear the scratching, rustling noises of Fips and Rosco trying to claw and crawl through the window into camper shell with me. Sigh. I should have known.
I heave the doggies inside and as they immediately make themselves comfy, I find some contorted left over space for myself. Somehow, I manage two hours of actual sleep. I would just as soon sleep until dawn, but I know that cannot be. At midnight, I get up, carry the dogs back to the front cab and set off. "God help us," I think, even though it would be an understatement to say that I was "less the sanguine" on that score.
Fips understands that something is wrong. The "wrongness" in engine speed bumping has gone on long enough that he has given up on co-piloting. But that doesn't mean Fips thinks all is well. All is not the same ergo it is not well. Ass the night and the road wear on, he alternates between needful thigh-hugging and time-killing, conscious-killing sleep.
Rosco too is stressed out, only in his case this is manifested in what is by now an obvious case of constipation. At least he doesn't seem to be in pain and finds blessed oblivion in The Snooze.
0O0
My calculations prove to be pretty much on the mark, given some extra pausing at gas-ups to let the engine cool off a bit more. A little after sunrise we begin the climb and long descent over the Siskiyou Pass. By nine we are outside Redding. Since about four in the morning I have been going through gas as if it were water, and come dawn I have the added pleasure of seeing how much black smoke I am blowing out my tailpipe. The nauseating smell of gasoline is everywhere, even with the windows open. The muffler as well as the engine is choking on fuel and begins making a constant baffling noise. By ten, the temperature outside has reached 94 degrees and the "wrongness" has become a seamless anxiety.
My main concern, of course, is the fuzzies. I don't care if I get stopped for blowing gas or if the engine stops from choking on gas, but any stop means more languishing in the heat for two doggies who are both in pre-heat stroke status. Rosco, who manages heat better than Fips, has crawled into the camper shell and gone into ultra low-maintenance mode. Fips, on the other hand, is constantly changing position looking for the better breeze. He lets me air spray him with water because he has long since figured out that it is this that cools. But after a while, even this annoys him and he crawls up and stretches out on the Doggie Lounger. From time to time I reach back and feel his chest to make sure he is still breathing.
By 12.30 or so, we are at the I-5 turn off, with 40 hill miles to go. Sixty miles has cost us near half a tank of gas and so I fill up again. The last thing I need is to putter out of gas in the middle of really nowhere where even the phones don't roam. Fortunately there is the remains of an offshore breeze. Keeping an eye on the dogs, I let the engine cool before resuming our last sputtering stretch.
It is now close to 100 degrees. My eyes are burning and my throat is parched. What must it be like for the dogs, both of whom are very quiet and flat-lining as much as they can. I am concerned for Rosco whom I can't see but I don't want to risk a stop and hope that if he really gets bad he will sit up, pant or call attention to himself. Fips I can spray and monitor for life by reaching back.
The engine is blowing smoke almost constantly with a very small window for maintaining a more or less even idle. But mile by miserable mile we are getting closer to the end. And then, at the last rise, bend and descent before town, Fips suddenly sits up, mouth open and eyes alert head peering over the head rest and looking down the road.
Damn that doggie Auto Sensor is good! I am blown away. In spite of this exhausting 16 hour near death experience, over a thousand climbs and turns, Fips's sensor told him exactly when we were pulling into town. They say that dogs look upon us as gods. I donno. Today it is I who look upon Fips and his beautiful fuzzy wuzzy face with adoring admiration.
Yes, Fips, we made it. We're "homenow"
A few moments later Rosco's face pops up in the rear cab window. The dogs are expectant and being expectant, happy. Three more turns and I cut the engine. I rush to open the doors and the doggies scamper inside.
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