Adventures On I-40 and Beyond

After accepting a job at Elektra Records in the late ‘70s and relocating my life to Los Angeles, it was still necessary for me to travel back to Muscle Shoals, Alabama for various reasons. The trail connecting the two locales is Interstate 40, a normally long, three-day commute at legal highway speeds. I traveled this route several times in the first few months of my new California adventure.

On one such trip, on a calm October afternoon, I was cruising along at about 65 MPH in my 1965 VW van, about ten miles west of Oklahoma City, heading east on I-40. I was enjoying the radio and watching the countryside when my reverie was interrupted by a loud banging from the rear engine. I shifted out of gear as my forward progress was rapidly coming to a halt; the engine had stopped dead. I switched off the ignition key and coasted off the road without power. Fortunately, there was a smooth grassy shoulder where I could safely maneuver the disabled van off the pavement.

I clambered into the back of the van to see what might aid in attracting help from the preoccupied strangers who were zooming by on their way to something important to them, and paying no attention to me. I found a large piece of cardboard left over from some packing job, along with a black marker pen. I lettered "Please Help" as neatly as I could on the cardboard. I exited the van with a roll of masking tape, also from the packing task. (So much for always putting things back in their place.) I taped my distress sign on the back of the van up near the rear window where it was clearly visible to anyone who might glance over my way.

Several anxious minutes passed, and so did all the traffic, with no-one paying any attention to me and my stranded van. Remember, this was pre-cellphone days, so about the only hope I had — unless someone stopped — was to wait for a highway patrolman to come by and notice me, which could take hours. Finally, a normal looking black sedan with a normal looking businessman behind the wheel pulled up behind my van. The driver introduced himself as an attorney, Jeffery Pritchard, and explained that he was on his way home to Oklahoma City. I wondered about why this well-dressed gentleman was sympathetic to long-hair in a broken van, but I didn’t question his motives. I explained that my engine had died with a loud banging noise and that I needed to get it into a VW dealer in Oklahoma City, provided there was one. Mr. Pritchard said there was, and he knew where it was located. He very kindly offered me a ride to the VW dealership where I could arrange for a tow-truck to bring the stricken van in for emergency surgery. I gratefully accepted his offer. Mr. Pritchard didn't say much about himself on the drive into town, he mostly asked about what I did and about the music business. I probably talked too much, trying to divert my attention from the situation at hand. When we got to the VW dealership, I offered to pay him, but he refused. He reached into his tailored jacket, produced a business card, handed it to me and wished me luck.

I went into the service department, which was about to close, and explained my situation with the van. The friendly manager contacted a towing service which agreed to pick me up at the dealership and drive out and retrieve the stricken vehicle. The tow truck trip went smoothly, and soon the van was safely in a service bay back at the dealers. A VW mechanic said from my description of the sound that he suspected the engine had a broken connecting rod; they would take a look tomorrow. Meanwhile, there was a motel within walking distance where I could spend the night.

Normally, this would end the story and the van would be repaired, and I would continue my trip the next day, but that would not be too interesting, and this is not a normal story. The van did get repaired the next day and I did continue my trip and arrived safely back in Muscle Shoals a couple of days later. Once there, I wanted to send a “thank you” note to attorney Pritchard in Oklahoma City. I copied the address on his business card onto an envelope and mailed the thank-you card. About ten days later, the envelope came back with two post office rubber stamp marks visible on the front: one said "No such address in Oklahoma City", the other said "No such person - return to sender." This was more than a bit spooky. Was this a page from the Twilight Zone playbook, or had I overlooked something? I still don’t know.

******************************

To visit the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, one leaves Interstate 40, proceeds north on Arizona 64 to US 180 then continues to the park. The visitor center is at an  elevation of 7000 ft. This suggests that no-one should drive up there when the weather is threatening snow and the temperature is falling toward freezing. But I had never seen the Grand Canyon. It was maybe a couple of hours 'til sunset and a quick diversion from Interstate 40 would be welcomed. 

The snow was just dusting on Arizona 64. By the time I reached the US 180 junction, it was getting a little white in the ditches but still not challenging if I drove slowly. What I didn't realize at the time was that the elevation increases as you approach the canyon... it's higher than the surrounding terrain. The snow was beginning to accumulate and the sky was getting black by the time I got to the Visitor's Center. It took a lot longer than I had expected; I had miscalculated. Strange there is no one here I thought — I have the whole place to myself. 

The winter fog had settled in the canyon all the way up to the rim. In the dimming light, I walked to the overlook and could only see dense grey fog. I could see maybe five feet down the rocky vertical rim under the safety railing on the observation deck. OK, so I will wait 'til morning and take a look. I walked over to the Park Headquarter building and found it closed — the sign said "Weather Closure." I realized I was now in a dicey situation. The snow accumulating on the road had made driving out impossible in a VW Van. It was now getting very dark and there was no one else in the parking lot.

The buildings were all locked and dark with one exception... the men's restroom had a light on. A quick but careful slosh through the snow confirmed the restroom was open for business. I always carried a sleeping bag in the van, so I sloshed back and grabbed it then sloshed back to the restroom. Since no-one had visited the restroom for several hours — maybe days — it was clean, dry and odorless. The sleeping bag on a concrete floor is not the most comfortable way to spend the night, but it beat the alternative, a refrigerated van.

Next morning, I was still the only person in the Visitor's Center. Not even the park ranger's truck was around. The fog was even worse than the day before. I rolled up the sleeping bag and made a quick run for the van. It started right up and the heater came up quickly. The drive down to I-40 was slow and careful, but I made it and the snow was gone at the lower elevation. 

One obvious benefit to the Internet is the ability to plan a trip knowing the road conditions, the accurate local weather, travel times, and available emergency services. This excursion was before the Internet and cell  phones, back when you took chances with unknowns and did stupid things. What I did was certainly stupid, and I still haven't seen the Grand Canyon.

*****************************

The term “tarantula migration” is often used to describe the phenomenon of large groups of tarantulas moving en masse in search of food, mates, or new habitats. Tarantulas are solitary spiders for most of the year, but during certain seasons, they engage in these migrations. This behavior is more commonly observed in some species of tarantulas, particularly in the southwestern United States. (digital-desert source)

When driving west to Los Angeles, I made it a habit to venture off the Interstate and cross the Mojave Desert on the back roads. The drive was always interesting and you can see unexpected things not available anywhere else. For the most part, the roads are not paved, but stay in good repair because there is almost no rain.

On one trip, somewhere out west of Needles on a dirt road, I saw dozens of moving black objects on the road up ahead. I slowed to a crawl — appropriate for the situation — and realized the moving black things were spiders. I was witnessing a tarantula migration. This was before I was into photography in any serious way, and of course I had no iPhone camera either, so I didn't get a photo. The scene is clear in my memory. I have used AI graphic generation to create the scene much as I remember it. Wierd!

******************************

Another time crossing the Mojave my van broke a belt out on a desert dirt road. In a VW air-cooled engine, the belt is essentially the most important piece of the mechanical contrivance that keeps you moving. Once the belt pops you are stuck until it's replaced. I didn't have a spare belt with me. I was in the the middle of the desert. There was not a sign of humanity on the horizon in any direction. I could stay with the van and hope some lost soul would drive by and assist me, or I could start walking down the dirt road, over the hill about a quarter-mile away, and hope the scenery would improve. I opted to walk.

As I topped the hill I stared in disbelief. There was one of those desert shacks with a gas pump and an old truck parked close by, like you see in scary B-grade movies. No chance they would have a belt for a 1965 VW van, but they might have a phone. I quickly made it to the door of the general store and gas establishment. The proprietor was a typical weathered, desert dweller, like you see in scary B-grade movies. He reached up on the wall behind the counter and removed a new VW belt. "This here's what you need." he drawled and handed the belt to me.

Had this really happened? I paid for the belt and walked the short distance back to the van. What had just happened was stretching my understanding of believable. I was trying to grasp some explanation of how the man knew I needed a belt and how he instantly handed me the right one for my vehicle. And how was it that this minimally-stocked store would have a 1965 VW van belt? And why would this shack exist out here in the middle of the desert in the first place?

While I installed the belt using my basic tool set, I settled on the idea that the proprietor must have seen me from the top of the hill — but I hadn’t seen anyone up there and how would he know the problem. I thought about it as I drove toward Los Angeles somewhat in a daze.

This episode made me realize that reality is fragile and that unexplained things do happen in places away from the normal and expected — places like the Mojave Desert — somewhere not far from but totally apart from Los Angeles where I was headed.