When I was 10, I worked at my mother's tiny shop and at her stall at the swap meet. I didn't make very much at all. It was definitely child labor. But, I did earn enough to buy a motorcycle. This would be about 1979. Man, I miss the 70's. And I was barely even there for it.

So, as a kid in the 70's, your prospects for owning a motorcycle were rather limited unless you were born right. But buying a stolen one wasn't difficult. Easier than stealing one yourself, anyways. The local bully and I were slowly becoming acquainted by the end of 1979. He was a good source for stolen goods, I would find. One day I managed to get in a fight with someone right in front of him. It was only a matter of time, really. There were a lot of fights back then. Not just because it was the 70's, but because I lived on the merge between three different types of neighborhoods. On one side you had a rather working class trailer park that today we would call 'multi cultural'. On the other side were farms and orchards with large estates which stretched on until the mountains from my point of view. They were rather mono-cultural. Our home was at the edge of a relatively newly built middle class area. We were only just barely middle class, though. My father had passed away from a sudden heart attack before I was 6. Had he still been around, I guess we could have been middle class.

You know what? My father deserves more than just a sentence in a nowhere blog. Let me at least make him an aside. My father was born in Claremore, Oklahoma in 1928. I dunno much about his father, but I do know his mother was a Cherokee. He worked the oil fields with his father until nearly 1943, when he joined the Army to try to get away from the poverty, learn a new vocation maybe, and help his country. He lied about his age, my aunt would tell me. She said he was a very broad guy, and tall for his age, not unlike myself. He became a wrench in the Army Air Corps by the time he turned 16, and was attached to a bombardment group after some training. My father then went on to help create such hits as Iwojima, Truk Island, Okinawa, and the bombing of Osaka. This is maybe as good a place as any to mention that my mother was orphaned during the bombing of Osaka.

So this bully watched me as I dusted myself off. He tilted his head like he was thinking of something he wanted to say. I rubbed my head where it hurt and looked at him with one eye as much as I dared.

'Someone needs to teach you how to fight.' He said with mild disappointment.
'Uh...did I not just win this one?' I looked around. The other kid had gone.
'Only because you were bigger. You won't always be bigger.' I wasn't a whole lot smaller than he was.
'I dunno. I'm rather fond of my pizza.'
The bully smiled. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. He was maybe 15? 16?
'No, thanks. I'm trying to quit'. I struggled to get the words out as I straightened my back a bit.
'Ya like motorcycles?'
'What?' I wasn't prepared for this segue. But it wasn't any worse than my plopping my mother at the end of the last segue.
'C'mon. Lemme show you something.'

Not far from my house were a few other homes in the middle of construction as well as a good deal of brush and trees cleared for that construction. The bully went behind one of the brush piles and shortly reappeared, dragging a dirt bike with him.

'Ain't she a beaut?' He waved his hand over it.
It wasn't. It had been ridden hard and put up wet, and then dragged backwards through the brush he hid it in, and then, presumably, someone had beaten it with an ugly stick. Sometime during the night, something made a nest in it.
'Yamaha?' I thought I saw some yellow on the tank.
'You DO like motorcycles!'
 I loved them. What boy didn't?
He straddled it and looked at me over his shoulder.
'Get on. We're gonna go to the reservoir... And don't hold on to me like a fag. Grab the seat.'
The exhaust was under the seat. I had to swap my hands from one to the other to avoid them burning too much. There were no foot pegs for me. At any moment, I expected to be thrown free. I had never been on a motorcycle before and I now suspected the bully had very little experience on them as well.

The reservoir is where we all gathered to ride our bikes or motorcycles. It was hundreds of yards of dirt.  It was dry until summer when the mountains ran off into them. It was the middle of the week, and there were very few kids about. I watched as the bully clumsily went about putting the bike through it's paces. Eventually he rode up to me and nodded his approval. I looked impressed because I was amazed he was still on the bike.
'Now you try'. I froze.
'Do you know how to ride?' He asked.
I wasn't watching him that closely. I knew the grip was throttle. I knew the right lever was the brake, and that was the extent.
'Don't worry about the front brake. It doesn't work.' That cut my knowledge in half.

An hour later, and not nearly as many tumbles as I expected to have, and I was at least as good on the thing as the bully was. I was so fucking happy, grinning ear to ear. It was a great feeling of freedom. I felt like I was flying. I didn't want to ever give it back.

That's when she died on me. A short sputter and that was it.
'She's out of gas'. The Bully said as he walked towards me.
'You got any money for gas?' He put a hand on me to steady me. The bike was so tall I could only reach the ground with one leg.
'Yeah. I got some money...'
'Good. Take her back to your place. Keep it in the bushes there, but not too close to the homes they are working on right now or they'll find it.' He looked around like he was about to tell me a secret.
'She yours, man. Don't never tell no one about this OK?'
I didn't know what to say. I just kept staring at him. I was waiting for him to take it back.
He smiled. Like, a genuine smile. It was the first time I ever saw kindness on his face.
'You owe me two hunnert bucks, though. Remember, I know where you live.' He walked away.
I watched him until he disappeared in the distance. He never did come back for it. He had actually left it with me. It took me two hours to push the bike to it's hiding place. My left hand was killing me because I was using the clutch the whole time. I didn't learn until later you could put it in neutral.

The advantage of living in the Pacific North West is there are a million miles of forest to stay in when you are homeless. If you happen to work part time in forestry or logging, you are familiar with the more remote locations. The good news is a remote location means no one is likely to bother you, and you they. The bad news is they tend to be short on resources, even to someone skilled at living remotely.

It's late summer or early fall of 2010 or so. Take yer pick. As far as I remember. And after an argument with my old business partner, I was effectively living out of a truck. Homeless, and soon to be stateless. Well, by American standards. I would never live in Texas again after I left. And I still miss it to this day.

It was nearly 90*F when I finally managed to fix the tire of my truck and head northwest, towards my eventual target of Oregon. I decided I'd take the Moab-Provo-Boise route. Not the fastest, but the straightest and potentially the least amount of fuel. I had much more time than money anyways. At the very least it takes me through some Native American reservations. If I got in to trouble, I was hoping they would help a fellow Native. Or, at the very least, not disturb me too much. I planned to stop for the night in the top of the Navajo Rez at the bottom of Colorado.

For me to get to Moab, Utah, I've got to go through New Mexico and Colorado.

The windows were all down, but it wasn't much relief. The only thing they let in was dust and hot air once I got going. As the miles came, so did the thirst and the hunger. But after a good while I still hadn't found a shop. I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked in to my rear view mirror to check on the dog. That's when I saw a large SUV with flashing lights. I briefly wondered how long they had been there before I noticed them. I glanced at my speedometer. I was well under the limit. It must be something else. That's when I began to worry. The only thing for miles was me and this police car. I pulled over and shut off the engine. I was too tired to be anxious. Whatever came to be would come to be.

"Howdy. Can I ask where you're going and where you been?" The officer stated plainly as his eyes started to wander over the vehicle. I was taken a bit by surprise at the abrupt line of questioning. Standing next to my truck in the blinding New Mexico sunlight was a Border Patrol Agent. His dark green agency issued jump suit was unmistakable. The good news is he was unlikely to kill me and steal my shit. The bad news is I now would have to prove I'm an American citizen. I had no idea where my passport was in all this mess in my truck. So, I guess I would have to at least act like an American.

"Do you speak English?" I had hesitated too long to answer.

"Yes. Yeah I speak English. I just been in this truck since Austin. I'm a bit shell shocked having to actually speak to someone after so long. I'm headed to Oregon."

"Oregon?! What's there for you?" I noticed the agent had a hint of a Mexican accent and mused to myself for a fraction of a second at the irony in it and my circumstance.

"What's there for me is none of your fucken business. I didn't drive all the way here to waste my time chatting up some border agent in the middle of God damn nowhere. Why not move along and go harass some other law abiding citizen so I can go about my own damn business, Tio Tomaso." Is what I wanted to say.

"Forestry work" Is what I did say.

The agent looked me over again, then looked in the back seat at Carlow.

"Nice dog. That a Greyhound?".

"Thanks, yeah. She's the only thing I own in the world besides this truck right now." I immediately regretted saying that.

"You homeless?" He was suddenly interested in what I had to say.

"I guess I am now."

He looked long at me and the dog. I knew what he was thinking. He's curious about my story. He now wanted to search my truck. But he didn't want to have to mess with the dog. Cops hate vagrants and drifters.
I normally wouldn't be nervous, but I had a revolver in the console and really didn't want to mess with explaining to a Fed that my Texas gun permit was recognized by New Mexico. I doubt he would care about it's legality in Oregon. Or, rather, it's lack of legality there.

"But I am not stateless. Y'all wanna see my ID?". Border Patrol agents almost never ask for ID if it's obvious to them you're an American.

"You got insurance on this thing?" I hadn't expected that. They usually don't care. And it would seem cruel for even a border officer to want to remove someone homeless from the only thing they own - the only shelter they had, and in the middle of nowhere. I had my wallet in my hand when he pulled me over. I opened it up, pulled out my Texas ID and a small insurance document, careful not to flash my gun permit. The ID was still good. The insurance document was a fake. My business partner was notorious for not having insurance. It was his last gift to me, a faked insurance document. I handed them to the officer.

He looked at the ID and then to me, and then looked back at the ID for a bit...

"It's a long ride to Oregon, Tex. I wish ya luck", he said as he handed my docs back to me.

"Obliged, Sir".  Now fuck off.

Silicon Valley Redux

Picture the mid 1990's... the internet was starting on it's way to creating and destroying lives and relationships, Alanis Morisette was about to come on the scene to tell us we oughta know, the Red Socks didn't win the world series again(Laf ), Arnold was back, and some blurry dinuh-sawrs were on the big screen. I used to work for Avanti. Everyone was hiring hacks. These guys designed microchips... and hired hacks. I was a unix admin in charge of all the puterz in one of the buildings on campus. This building also had a large server room packed full of racks and stuff and stuff with a monster AC system. Anyways, every server room has a big red button on the wall. In case of fire, smoke, flood, locusts, Alanis Morisette, whatever - you hit that button. One day it got hit. My pager goes off with the code 911, and 'Ballistic missile threat inbound to Hawaii'. And now I have to go into what is currently a 100*F+ room because the AC also shut off, and restart every workstation and rack system and nurse it back to health by hand. These aren't laptops, they are full rack systems taller than yourself, and they don't simply turn on - you have to check file systems and mount points and networking etc. as they boot, assuming you've got the network servers and routers on line first. So you run down the line tripping them all, hundreds of buttons, phone in hand describing the situation and begging admins from other buildings to converge on your location, riot in progress, and spread the word to join in on the fun, and there's also gonna be a raffle for prizes afterwards. Pager goes off(and on and on and on) and you have to eventually tell some engineer working in Sunnyvale that his server in Santa Clara may, or may not, be operational within the day. OK, mostly not. Also, that's like a 15 minute commute, you slacker. The poor guy loses the last 5 hours of his life, and then you'll use the awkward silence that follows that revelation to inform him that he can maybe understand yer just a little busy at the moment for a heart to heart since you don't have three arms. It took 12 hours to get that room functioning enough where I could let some of the other admins that assisted me go home. The dude who hit the button was someone's kid. Apparently it was 'bring your least favorite kid to work' day. He and his kid were about as welcomed as Steve Bartman after that.

Then there's the day the AC itself decided to go on strike. I am minding my own business, arguing with an engineer that wanted to print his integrated circuits on a bigger printer. 'This IS our bigger printer. Note the bigness of all that stands before you in printer form. Maybe make yer IC's smaller? Isn't that the whole damn idea?! Mas poquito, amigo! Julio Iglacias'
Then the 911 page comes again. I am staring at it in disbelief and gasping, and the engineer is still arguing with me - 'I'm Korean, no Mexican!', as I walk away in silence towards the stairs. I had front row tickets to an Alanis Morisette concert I won in my last raffle from the previous 911 call, and now that dream was about to be crushed. I shoulda known.
When I get to the server room, it looks fine; which is a huge relief since a 911 usually means the end of days. I sigh and try to think of something clever and racist about Koreans as I head back to the stairwell. Then another page comes, 'BLD G'. That's far away. I really didn't want to run all the way across campus, but I knew if I simply walked briskly someone in the 'end of week meeting' would bring that crap up. 'You were reportedly walking briskly, and not at all spiritedly'. I can't argue effectively at 8AM. So I ran. I ran so far away. I was the first admin to arrive other than the one that was chained to building G. I sorta felt stupid then. But I also noticed right away the exterior doors to the server room were open and smoke was coming out the top of the building. (That's why they pay me the big bucks, coz I knew right away that smoke was a bad thing.) The massive security doors only ever open to move equipment in or out that can not fit through the halls or the main interior door, and are a huge pain to unlock. When I peered through the opening, the blast of heat hit me. I squinted and saw a tiny asian dude with thick glasses, also squinting, with a rolled up dress shirt, somewhere in the mess of cabling furiously hammering on a keyboard. I secretly hoped he was Korean, cause I didn't wanna waste the insult I worked so hard for on my own Korean - it's all about timing ya know. He caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye and shouted 'Help!'. For the second time in my life I could actually hear someone talking in a server room because the massive AC fans were off. I already knew what had to happen - every single server in that room had to be taken off line and shutdown immediately, and I had to determine if the dude was Korean. All server rooms not only had a big red button, but they also had a big thermometer. This one read 125*F! And it was near the door! I was shirtless and surrounded by ALL our admins, several engineers and programmers, and a few maintenance engineers by the time the last server was off. Some of them shirtless, too. It was supah gay. It was also 145*F before maintenance got the AC to finally start up with the sound and shudder of a freakin' jet plane, and a shimmer of heat rising above the building.

So the management asks all of us as we were sitting on the curb in 45*F weather what the hell just happened(and we'll all have to stay and restart and QC check everything in that server room soon as the AC got the room temp below 80*). All we knew is the AC failed, and we then took turns shrugging our massively muscled and chiseled shoulders, covered in sweat, steaming in the cold crisp winter air, until one of the maintenance engineers approached us meekly. He informs us when the temperature outside drops below 40*, the AC compressor units switch off, reverses the fans, and start to funnel air from the outside. Saves us some scrilla, yeah? Except, in the case of building G, the fans didn't reverse. They were installed incorrectly. They simply stopped altogether, jammed up, and fried the hell out of the motors. Told you smoke was bad. He had to disconnect the motors, install new ones, defeat the control panel, and restart it all. This maintenance dude had his shirt off as well. But wasn't he outside that whole time in 45* weather... what?

For weeks and even months afterwards we were replacing system after system as they inevitably failed from being heat damaged. Engineers were working feverishly to relocate their data or back it up. We admins ran a dead pool, until upper management made us take the white board down. It was spooking the engineers. We prolly shouldn't have named their servers after them. Good news is I had the opportunity to rename a couple of servers because some engineers thought the same name again would be bad luck. One asked me for a suggestion. I said, 'Rick James?'.
I can still smell that server room ozone and smoke and manly, manly programmer aroma, 20 years later.

The Road To Homelessness Paved With Good Intentions

Washington State, USA. This occurred during a few months of 2011, shortly before my third foray in to Ireland(Spoiler, I am still here in Ireland as I write this).  My second foray was mostly sleeping on peoples' sofas and trying to get a job, which ended up finding myself in the UK - but that's another story.

I hadn't intended to write much detail about my time in Washington. Though I met some great people, and did enjoy myself quite a lot, I will always reflect upon this time with a bit of morosity. Until now, I have only shared with a few close friends the fact that I spent nearly three months living in a vehicle, effectively homeless.

There she is in all her glory. A 1988 Ford Bronco 4X4. I managed to work one decent job as a timber cruiser in the Pacific Northwest, buy that 4X4 with some of my paycheck from a month's work, and then basically had to move in to it. To explain, I'll have to step back a bit. And step into this:

"I dunno bout this." I was frowning at the poor heap of a truck before me. I had returned from my second trip to Ireland to find that my old business partner - you recall me telling you I was an engineer in a previous life? - anyways, he had basically never made a payment on the truck I let him borrow while I was away. Instead of returning and picking up my old truck, I was informed it had been repossessed. This also meant my credit was ruined. "I know someone who owes me a truck" the ole partner tells me. Needless to say, my mood wasn't great. He then proceeded to lead me to a neighborhood I normally would avoid...

Before me was a 1992 Ford F150 extended cab pick-up , black and with more than it's share of rust. 136,000+ miles on the clock. "and poorly maintained from what I can see."

"Ahh, don't be that way. Listen, I'm awful sorry bout your truck, but there's nuthin can be done now. Let me at least give you some wheels now and we'll see about upgrading later?"

I had no choice. It was a set of wheels. I didn't want to stand around arguing in the oppressive muggy Texas afternoon. In any case, nearly the moment I got the truck home to my bud's pad, we had a huge argument, much of it stemming from him owing me far more truck than he delivered, and I ended up leaving that night for the Pacific Northwest where I knew some forestry folks I could work with.

I had less than $600 to my name having just landed after a stint in Ireland, 2,200 miles to travel, much of it across the Rockies, to a job I was promised near Seattle, and no place to stay once I arrived. I piled everything I owned in to the truck, which was mostly clothes, one revolver, and one Greyhound, and went gently in to that good night.

Five hours later, on a lonely Texas road just north of Fort Stockton, TX, I had a puncture. It was 3 in the morning. I pulled over, got out, and took a look under the truck. I still remember the dusty smell of desert as I crawled under the bed of the pick up. "Please don't let there be any fire ants or scorpions..." To my surprise, there was a spare, and no ants. I managed to remove it with some effort in the balmy night air only to find it, too, was flat. I spoke a few choice words for my ex business partner and resigned to do something about it in the morning. It was a lonely stretch of Texas country road I was on, and it was early Saturday morning. I assumed I would have to walk back in to town if there were no traffic. I wanted to be rested some since daylight was only a few hours away. I let the hound out briefly, did my own business behind a drainage ditch, and then crawled back in to the cab for a nap. Not a single car passed me the entire time I was trying for sleep. In the distance, I could hear a lone coyote in the wind.

The hottest temperatures I had witnessed the last 9 months of my life in Ireland were maybe in the low 20's Celsius. When I awoke, it must have been close to 30*C. The good news is it had gone mostly dry. The bad news is I slept until late morning. The sun was nearly directly over head, baking us in the cab of the truck. I let the hound out and reached for the drink left over from last night's fast food in the console of the truck(I think it was a Sonic Burger). It was not 1/4 full - maybe 3-4 ounces of water was in it. It was then that I realized I had no other water in the truck. All I had was half a hamburger and those few ounces of water. I took a quick look at the map. Almost 10 miles from the nearest town. If I hurried, I could make it before most shops closed. I gave Carlow, my hound, all the water, and half the hamburger. I 'drank' a couple packets of ketchup I found in the console. Carlow would need the water more than me. I checked my mobile, and old flip phone - no signal.  I put on a baseball cap, locked the truck, and began walking as briskly as I dared in the Texas sun with Carlow at my side. The road stretched for miles from horizon to shimmering horizon.

I counted my money. $578 and some change. Please let this tire be cheap. I have several more states to go before reaching the Pacific NorthWest.

It had been a while now. The sun was still directly over my head, refusing to move. Carlow was panting furiously. Not a shade tree in sight on this part of the road. Not a damn thing in sight. I had no idea how far along I had come. I only had a cheap old phone with no GPS. I dragged it out of my pocket. Just passed 3PM. No reception. I quickened my pace and wiped the sweat from my brow. I was starting to feel dizzy. I need to get to town and find some water. I had not been so parched in such a long time. I started to cough.

Carlow gave out a bark. I assumed she saw another jackrabbit in the distance, and paid her no heed. When she gave out another bark, I could hear the sound of  vehicle approaching behind us. I placed my hands above my brim as I turned.

"Ya'll alright?!", a dusty old man shouted from the cab of an even dustier pick-up truck as he gazed down upon me and the dog.

I was squinting, trying to focus on the man in the blinding sunlight. "That y'alls truck a ways back yonder?" he asked.

"Yessir. Uh, good to know it's still there." I started to cough a bit.

"Ain't no one stealing that thang, mang." he gave a wry smile.

"Yeah, uh, luck ain't my strong point." I could hardly speak. "Ah, y'all got any water?"

"Sure, here..." I walked across a lane of boiling tarmac as I approached the truck. "There ya are", he says as he held out a can from the cab.

"Well, you are a life saver." I smiled down upon the can of Budweiser in my hand. Not my usual favorite, but certainly my favorite beer that day. Every time I open a can of beer to this day, I remember that can of Bud.

"If you'll give me one of your bad spares, I can let ya have my good one here." He smiled.

I coughed up a bit of beer. "Pardon me?"

"We got the same truck, son." He held out his thumb and index finger like a gun, pointing directly at the dashboard in front of him without taking his gaze from me.

I hadn't even noticed. He had nearly the exact same truck as I did. Maybe even the same year.

"Uh, wow. I'd be obliged. How much do I owe ya?"

"Pfft! Ain't nuthin'. I didn't come here to take nuthin'."

Less than two country music songs later and we had returned to my wreck - same as I left it. As the man went to remove the spare from his own pick-up, he decided to tell me his life story. Turns out the old man married a Tejano woman who stays at home while he runs a small ranch. They'd both been in this part of Texas all their lives. No children around any more, no real education, just a house, a barn, some cattle, goats, and some cactus and the occasional deer for dinner. Sometimes he goes to town. Sometimes he went to church. It was a wondrously simple life. Not once did he complain about how much the times had changed, or how much people had changed. Because, in this part of Texas, nothing has really changed much for generations.

I tried again to offer payment when he handed me his spare. He sternly refused, as I suspected he would. That's OK. While he toiled and talked, I had stuffed a $20 bill in to his fuel flap. It was the least I could do.

He stood by, offering his point of view on life and coyotes as I installed the spare tire on to my own vehicle.

"There's a coyote was here." He stated calmly as he points at a set of tracks in the dirt near me with the tip of a worn leather boot. "I got a dog, too. Keeps the 'yotes away mostly."

I rose after letting the Ford down from the jack and shook the old man's weathered hand. We both wished each other luck. I made it a point to tell him I envied his life and what a good man he was. He tipped his hat, said he was already late for something, kindly saving me from any awkwardness in parting, and drove off in a cloud of dust. Late for something? Out here?

I wonder how many travelers he'd helped. As I started my pick-up, I began to wonder if the last 24 hours of my life were a dream.

The following takes place in 2012 in Washington State while I worked the area as a Timber Cruiser:

I was resting at the Pilot truck stop at exit 99 on I-5 just south of Olympia, Washington when I got a call round about 4pm. It's one of the cruisers I was working with last week. He tells me his truck has a flat in the south part of the forest near Fort Lewis, which is about twenty miles from me, and his jack isn't working. It was in such a muddy and rough area his standard jack could not lift the truck up enough for him to get the tire off. I got his coordinates, plugged them in to my GPS unit, and headed out to rescue him with another jack.

I arrived about an hour later after having to drive through the forest and the rain out to a remote area that was flooded and getting more flooded every moment. We then had to walk about another two miles through the forest into the area he was parked because I did not have a 4X4 to reach him. The wind was picking up the entire time. The entire area was blown down trees, limbs, and mud. Try as we might, the two jacks just could not give enough articulation to get his wheel off. It was dark by now, and the weather was simply miserable. Eventually we became exhausted and frustrated. Ron said he'd go camp in his truck, and we decided to wait and see if there would be a break by morning and give it another go. With the aid of my GPS unit, I walked in the pitch dark back to my truck and readied it to camp in for the night. Just when I reached my pick-up, the other cruiser appears from the wind and the rain and the dark down the trail and tells me he needs "beer, pizza, and a hotel room". He would pay if I got him out of there. Neither of us were in the mood for a night in our trucks, so we decided to leave in my truck and see if we could make it out of the forest and find a hotel in Lacey.

This decision came nearly three hours after I arrived; by then the roads were flooded and I was previously planning to wait until the water ran off the next day and drive out. But the thought of a dry hotel room cold beer, and hot pizza was more than enough incentive. It was very dark, and my headlights are nearly worthless...but I wanted beer. It was worth a try. We boarded the truck and I fired up the old Ford F-150 and headed out. Only one problem, there was no room to turn her around, so I would have to follow a small trail another three miles until we were out of the forest and on to a proper road or back up nearly the same amount with no back-up lights. It would be the longest 3 miles of my life either way.

The down pours had collected at the bottom of every hill and formed huge ponds I had to ford with my Ford. When we became stuck my fellow forester had to get out and stand in the bed of the truck so the wheel could gain some traction as we rocked it back and forth. What were once logging roads were now mud runs that gathered branches and water. I had to fly up every hill, often ending up nearly sideways, to maintain enough speed to top them without becoming stranded, sliding back down to what was inevitably a lake at the bottom that threatened to kill the engine due to it's depth. All the while it poured rain, the windshield was thick with fog, and the mud and branches were flying in through the side windows we had to leave open to keep the misting down. We were endlessly moving branches from the trail to make room to pass, at other times we were hacking and sawing tree trunks waist high to clear the road with our axes and chainsaws. 

Then it finally happened. A branch became stuck so badly in the undercarriage it anchored us. It had to be cut free in several pieces, but not before it ruptured the rear brake line. With the rain and the dark, I wouldn't realize this until we started off again and I found myself on a downhill section of the trail. It nearly got us killed. At first, I assumed it was the mud keeping the Ford from slowing. Fortunately, before we tumbled down the side of a cliff into the Nisqually river, I managed to get some response from the parking brake. Unfortunately, the parking brake on a Ford truck is operated by your foot and locks on when activated. It must be released by reaching nearly under the dash and pulling on a lever with much difficulty on this old wreck. So now I am driving rapidly over ridiculously rough trails to keep from becoming stuck, in completely stupid weather, with my nose against the steering wheel so I can operate the parking brake with my left arm and left foot. That steering wheel beat the daylights out of me until we reached the main road out of Fort Lewis. I hate that steering wheel. But I love that truck for getting us there.

It took nearly two hours to end that three miles of trail hell, from boarding the Ford until we made it out to the pavement. We both looked like a dog had dragged us through a pasture full of horse dung when we arrived at our destination. I had no idea I could collect so much water and mud on my body in one evening.

That night we stayed at the Super 8 near Lacey, I was absolutely stunned the Ford made it thru that torture test. We had a lot of beer and a lot of pizza. Even Carlow, my Greyhound that rode shotgun as I cruised timber, had some crust and a few pieces of sausage. At eight AM the next morning we were at the CRAP! auto parts buying a REAL jack. By 10:30 we had hiked the mile or two to the truck, swapped out the tire, and drove her out back to the flat top and then up to where I had parked my truck. The 3 mile trail was far less intimidating in the daylight without rain and in a 4X4.

I was treated to a very healthy lunch as well.