I slowly lowered the liftgate on the dangling strut, wondering, what the heck, what now? I picked up the piece of metal that had been airborne. The metal bolt appeared to be sheared clean through.
The driver who saw the piece of metal fly off pulled up and asked me if I was okay and could she call someone. I just stood there, looking at the metal bolt, unsure what to say, feeling my coffee and chocolate croissant turning into water in my bowels. Finally, I thanked her and said I would call my nearby friend for help, knowing even as I said it, I had no such intention. I had memories of calling people every time my car broke down: my parents, my boyfriends, my brother. No way was I going to give up my freedom to eff everything up in my own stubborn way, even if it meant I had to cancel my camping trip.
The lady left. I lifted the gate and looked at the strut. I couldn’t tell quite how it was attached. Another bolt? I poked at it with some pliers but could not get a grip. I got out my phone and looked at a video about replacing the struts on a Grand Caravan. Not helpful.
Next, I looked up car repair places near me. I thought I might be able to make it someplace close by, if I drove really slowly. Images of my stuff flying out the back of my car flitted through my mind. I would be littering the road with all the stuff packed at the very back of the car: my electric tea kettle, several boxes of nose strips, cellophaned wrapped N95 masks, and beat-up baggies of power cords, not to mention my favorite quilt. The terrifying prospect of losing that stuff (and littering, I'm from Oregon, remember) made me feel a bit like barfing, but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. The car repair place was only a few streets away. I let the GPS lady guide me. She took me straight to an apartment complex. Apparently this car repair dude was working out of his apartment. I tried his number. No answer.
I pulled up Maps again and found another place, a tire repair shop. Their website said they also handled “car repair,” and that fit my situation. I had a car in need of repair. I drove gingerly to the tire repair place. I parked and walked over to the office door. It was locked. A woman was standing on a grassy verge watching some guy moving tires around a shiny gray car.
We got to talking as women do when they are standing outside a car repair shop. I explained my predicament. She said she didn’t think they did car repair there, and anyway, there was only one guy working, and he was working on her car, which she’d brought back for a second time because they had sold her a set of four tires the day before (for $1,300) but failed to balance them, and what’s more, they were dirty. I made sounds of empathy. Clearly, she needed someone to witness her frustration.
Then she pulled out her phone and looked up the Dodge dealer over by the Scottsdale airport. It took her about five seconds to do what would have taken me fifteen minutes. I thanked her and wished her luck with her new tires, got back in my car, and set my GPS lady to lead the way. She did, although it was pure luck that inspired me to make a left turn when she said “make a slight left.” Slight. Ha.
In the dealership parking lot, I pulled around a bunch of cars, and maneuvered among some more cars, and finally saw the service area, which didn’t look too busy. I pulled up and a guy wearing a soft-brimmed hat came over. I showed him the broken bolt, and he backed away.
“Let me get a service advisor,” he said. What was he, I wondered, some sort of pre-advisor? I didn’t ask, I just said okay.
In a minute, a tall guy came over and took a look.
“I can’t replace these struts today,” I said. “I just need you to take this thing off so I can get back on the road.”
He grabbed the strut and gave it a turn. It popped off, like a hip joint coming out of a socket, and just like that, I was able to close the liftgate. I made marveling noises so he would feel properly appreciated, like, ooh, big strong dude, thank you for saving my weekend. I can’t play a damsel in distress anymore, given I’m over 60, but I am learning that I can play the old senile lady. Young dudes seem to appreciate being appreciated.
“Come back when you want to replace those struts,” he said.
Feeling like my Dodge had dodged a major big-dollar bullet (every time this car breaks it costs me a minimum of $1,000), I managed to back out of the line without hitting anything, which now looking back was a total miracle, considering my car was packed almost to the roof.
At last! One more thing to do, fill the gas tank, then I would be on my way to my camping adventure!
I found a gas station just a couple blocks away. I pulled up to the pump and shoved my debit card into the slot like I’ve done a hundred times before since I’ve been in Arizona. Declined. What! I tried debit, I tried credit, I tried my business debit card, all declined! That was a first for me.
I went inside and paid cash, wondering if my bank account had been hacked and drained and I was now destitute. Dang it! I made a mental note to call the bank once I got to my campsite, assuming I had cell service.
Then I proceeded to enjoy a lovely drive into the mountains. I forgot all about my troubles. The car performed without a hiccup, which for me means cruising along at 63mph being blown off the road by everything but the slowest towed trailer. I passed the turnoff to Montezuma Well, thinking it would be nice to stop, but it was 100°F and suspecting the magic would not be quite the same the second time around. I kept going, wondering when the terrain would turn to pine forest, and then I crested a ridge, and there they were, evergreens!
I braved traffic in Flagstaff and took the turnoff to Highway 40, also known as the old Route 66. I had directions to a camping area not far off the highway. To my surprise, I found the fire road with no problem. The red graveled road wound past some homes, an old quarry, and some logging sites, and then I spotted the first travel trailer, parked in a clearing 50 yards off the road. At last! Campers!
I drove a little further, seeing more vehicles parked in the trees. It wasn’t even noon, so there were empty campsites to choose from. I took the first one that seemed level. I backed my car under a pine tree, turned off the engine, got out of my car, and took a deep breath of 7,000 feet high forest air. Then I called the bank and did a little whining. The bank lady reassured me, everything was fine, no cause for alarm, probably it was that one gas station. My bank is 1,500 miles away, so it’s not like I can just pop in for a new debit card. Fingers crossed.
I arrived on Thursday morning. The clouds rolled in Thursday night and kept on rolling overhead in waves, all the way to Sunday morning, when they finally parted, revealing blue sky. Friday and Saturday, intermittent rain, rain, and more rain. Some thunder, some wind, lots of chilly air. I definitely got my fill of cooler climes. Meanwhile, my two little power stations were draining as I recharged my phone and used my laptop and waited for some sun so I could test out my solar panel. Yes, I am the proud owner of a heavy glass foldable solar panel! I know. So exciting.
I’m happy to report, the solar panel worked. It took all day today to charge my power stations, because big white puffy clouds kept obscuring the sun, but eventually both my power stations were restored to 100% power. I felt like singing.
The weekend has been peaceful, despite my power anxieties, and despite the off-road vehicles, dirt bikes, trucks, and cars going by on the road fifty feet from my car. Despite the freight trains going along some tracks over by the highway. Despite the gunshots coming from shooters doing target practice in the forest . . . yep, I kid you not, and it’s loud. I’m pretty sure they are firing guns for fun. It’s been going on intermittently all weekend. If they had wanted to do harm, they have had plenty of time to come along and shoot up all the minivans, RVs, and travel trailers parked under the trees. I hope they will stop when it’s full dark.
I had only one visitor, and that was today. Ranger Brian was stopping at each camp to warn us that even though it’s been raining more or less nonstop for three days, there is still high fire danger, and we should not be having campfires. I have no problem with that rule. I’m not at all sure I could make a fire with wet wood, even if I wanted to. My RV neighbors to the north fired up their campfire the moment they pulled in, so I’m sure Ranger Brian gave them a talking to.
Nights in the forest are very dark. Dark and cold. I don’t have enough light to work in here after the sun goes down. I will have to pull out my headlamp. Last night I went to bed at 8:30, because what else is there to do when it’s pitch black and you aren’t sure you have enough power for one more day? At 10:30, something woke me up. The inside of the car was gently glowing. I looked out the window at the sky and saw a partial moon dodging the clouds—the remnants of the super blue moon. I tried to take a photo through the window, but all I got was a big white dot surrounded by some little whitish dots, which I figured out later were raindrops on my window.
Tomorrow I must break camp and head back to Scottsdale to resume the second portion of the dogsitting job. Back to AC. Back to electrical power. Back to triple-digit heat.
There’s lots more I could write about, like the conundrum of a condition I’ll call camping constipation, like the problem of too much stuff in too little space, like the real possibility I may have to do more car camping in the not too distant future. But that can wait.
Oddly, the most marvelous find of this trip is a fully automated, noncommercial Flagstaff radio station that plays the best classic rock songs I’ve ever heard in one place. I’m accepting it as the gift it is.
