Sidesteps

Day 65. It’s now been more than a week since the “Check Engine” light last appeared—the longest mechanical smooth stretch I’ve experienced thus far. Being in one place for three days probably helped. But just because the engine’s running properly doesn’t mean everything else is. Both the toilet and shower now leak whenever I connect to city water (a nuisance remedied by not hooking up—though it’s also been suggested that I consider a pressure regulator, which is on my list for this week).

Just before the three-day breather—while traveling I-15 on days 58 and 59—I was treated to the sight of ten-foot-long, inch-wide strips of molding flapping wildly outside my front windows (driver’s side the first day, passenger side the next)—blown out of their respective channels by 30-mile-per-hour winds. That was an easy enough fix, despite the traffic whizzing by at 75-miles-per-hour. Now, instead of the original white rubber, I have matching grey Duct-tape stripes on both sides of the rig.

The wind has not been my friend. Before I set out in April, a colleague wished me some degree of misfortune—nothing life threatening, but enough to inspire creative adaptation. That wish was granted in just 26 hours. While navigating 40-50 mile-per-hour gusts on a remote two-lane road in southern Oregon, I suddenly heard loud smacking sounds. Upon stopping, I discovered that the arms of my awning had been torn from their sockets; the 12-foot canvas shade (which was making the noise) had come unfurled and was ripped beyond repair. Necessity being the mother of invention, I calmly pulled into a nearby drive, turned the damaged side of the vehicle away from the wind, unpacked my tool box, and removed the entire assembly—a process that took about 40 minutes. Then off I drove, minus the awning—and also minus regret, since I never used the thing anyway.

Any sense that the trip would be smooth sailing took a hit—both figuratively and literally—in just the first hour, when (a) the closet rod broke, and (b) a rock cracked my front windshield. While I’ve subsequently repaired the closet rod three times, I’ve done nothing about the windshield; the crack has a star quality that I rather like.

Some repairs—like the closet—have been time consuming, but not expensive. There was no charge for the flat tire on day 37 in Santa Fe (covered by insurance), or for the battery jumps on day three in Alturas, California (AAA) and day 23 in Sedona (another camper). A friend and I fixed the rear back-up camera when it stopped working on day 24—by simply unplugging and re-plugging the proper fuse (finding the fuse was the real test). And when a set of four drawers buckled on day 32, I was able to repair the support structure myself; the challenge was constructing a makeshift jack to brace the assembly so it could be re-drilled. After measuring several different items that were narrow enough to fit in the rather small space, I piled, from top to bottom: (1) the removable rack of my toolbox (set vertically), (2) a small game called “Table Topics” (which has a hard plexiglass case), and (3) a medium-sized steel flashlight, which, when crammed into place, restored the structure to its proper height. That episode only cost me an hour of sleep—small price to pay for the resulting satisfaction.

Other adjustments have come at a steeper cost—of both time and money. I now have two new batteries—one for the engine ($200 at a Chevy dealer in Mesa, Arizona on day 24), another for the cabin (a bargain at $100 because I installed it myself in the parking lot at Batteries Plus in Albuquerque on day 39). Additional repairs in Mesa (the windshield wiper fluid system, which wasn’t working from the start, and several burned out engine wires, which is what initially activated the Check Engine light and also caused the temperature gauge to malfunction) cost me another $580. Refrigerator repairs in Indian Wells, California on day 16 only set me back $114, but the stolen hubcap I replaced in Salt Lake City on day 51 was $150.

The best deal came on day 53 at a Napa Auto Center in Loa, Utah (try finding that on a map), after the Check Engine light appeared for the third time—and the RV stalled three miles from town. Fortunately, (a) the RV restarted, (b) I had reservations at a nearby campground, (c) the Auto Center actually had GM diagnostic equipment, and (d) they could squeeze me in two days later. Turns out I needed a new oxygen sensor—for which I was delighted to part with $387.

Ants have been another annoyance—but only, as I discovered in New Mexico, when Susanne is on board. Hopefully, the 18 traps now occupying every potential point of entry will have taken care of that before she rejoins me in San Francisco on July 2.

It’s a wonder I’ve been able to see anything, given all the pit stops! I could go on. But I won’t, for sake of my own sanity. Suffice it to say, after more than two months on the road, I’m still trying to work out the bugs!

I’m also wondering about any potential lessons. I suppose one could infer that, whether traversing America in a 10-year-old RV or trying to find God, the path isn’t entirely straightforward. Sometimes we get sidetracked. We may not know why—and we may never understand. That’s the nature of the journey.

“Let go of what has passed,” advises the Indian master, Tilopa. “Let go of what may come. Let go of what is happening now. Don’t try to figure anything out. Don’t try to make anything happen. Relax, right now, and rest.”

In addition to the rest, perhaps there’s a prayer. I like this—the final entry in Rilke’s Book of Hours:

“I thank you, deep power
that works me ever more lightly
in ways I can’t make out.”

(Monterey, CA)

PS. There’s a new leader on the cinnamon bun board! The favorites to date:

1. Jeannine’s Bakery and Restaurant (Santa Barbara, CA)

2. Alabama Hills Bakery and Café (Lone Pine, CA)

3. (Tie) Duffy Rolls (Denver, CO) and Old West Cinnamon Rolls (Pismo Beach, CA)