On the Way to the Gathering

The mission was to make the Twelfth Annual NorthCoast Men's Gathering on the Mattole River in Southern Humboldt County, a gathering of marvelous men and boys that I had never missed and was not about to, despite the 7-8 hours of drive time before me. 

Radio blaring to fend off highway hypnosis, my mind began to see the circle I would join and the faces I had come to know and love. Palpable, that surge of sweet anticipation and....yes, longing, to be with my tribe and the added bonus of surprise at the new faces and spirits that might have risked widening the circle.

At 3:30 PM, at the peak of the day's heat, I had completed my fast track up Hwy 5, air conditioner on MAX and had turned west onto 20, the town of Williams on my left and the curtain of bald and sensuous hills, the gateway to Clear Lake country, fast approaching.

Fifteen minutes into the hills, that ominous signal first appeared. No temperature gage to warn by increments but a red "idiot" light on my dash panel went on. Unaccustomed to seeing it on any of the other long California treks I had taken in the last 18 months I was not even sure how long it had been on before I noticed. I only remembered someone saying it is called an "idiot light," because if you don't pull over, you are surely an idiot!

Looking for an ounce of shade I was lucky enough to soon find a solitary oak at a lonely turn out. I pulled over, got out and raised the hood, something I rarely do anymore as I don't even change my own oil. Too toxic.

Certainly the engine was warm, I had just done over three hours pedal to the metal, but there was no fluid gushing out anywhere, no dripping oil, no geyser of steam as in days of yore with cars I could still work on myself. Mysteriously, the overflow tank was filled to the gills. HMMM!

I was thinking that I had finally pushed this vehicle to its capacity and I just needed to slow down and cool down. The vehicle and I were certainly one in that arena but that man/machine mirroring had not occurred to me just yet. This, I thought, was just a momentary set back.

After watching the grass grow ever more golden and feeling the gush of air of a few passing trucks I decided it was time to get on, got behind the wheel, took off and a mile or two later the light went on again. I promptly pulled over, no shade this time. 

The engine was hot and I guessed I had not waited long enough by the roadside to let it recover, still antsy to make the opening circle, the magic ritual that begins the sacred annual weekend on the Mattole. 

From the opposite direction a big ole black Jeep Wagoneer pulls over grill to grill with its newer model offspring and I am heartened someone cared enough to pull over in this "no man's land." As fortune would have it, its my old friend Fred Pasner, a tall dark gangly Jewish man who has come to look more like an old cow poke than the massage practitioner and landlord he is by trade. What a welcome sight, a mobile oasis with a basket of Asian grown strawberries and a nice bottle of spring water, Fred said he could tell who I was by "the hair" not by the car he didn't know. He was on his way to see his mother and brother in Grass Valley.

We stood around our cars with his two old dogs panting in the rear of his Wagoneer, We ate his strawberries and drank his water, shooting the excrement and having a real nice reunion under the circumstances. As it turns out, he too was about to leave Humboldt County after decades and was getting permits to build a cabin/house in Shasta. For years I had talked about the men's gathering with Fred, a soft sell as I thought he would come around to being there eventually given his predisposition toward inward as well as outward journeys. You never know, you make invitations for years and you never know.

After a half hour or so we thought it would be good to fire up the engines and see what would happen. I did and no light went on. Good sign. Fred and I made our au revoirs and happy returns and parted ways. I headed southwest on 20, turned a radical bend right where Hwy 16 joins 20 and less than a mile later the stop sign on my dash re-newed its glaring vigor.

I found a good tree and turnout again, this time recognizing I could not go on without dealing with the problem on its own terms, not mine. I decided it would be good to flag someone down with a cell phone as I personally had not yet succumbed to such convenience. My pantomime performance was instantly rewarded by a minivan also headed west that pulled over in front of me. Richard, a Latino man, said he knew right away what I needed when he walked back to my vehicle to put his cell phone at my disposal. Problem was, no signal out here. Open, friendly, concerned and helpful, Richard agreed he should call triple A and let them know my predicament when he reached cell phone civilization. I gave him the number off my card, watched him pull away and spent the next hour reflecting on his words, "well, I will call but don't count on that alone, if you get more help, take it." I was over 20 miles from Williams and over twenty miles from the town of Clear Lake on Hwy 53 off 20, sitting pretty much on the Colusa and Lake County line. A few cars were zipping by but most of the noise was made by flying insects. It was not cooling down enough yet for us warm-blooded types to cavort in the same fashion.

About the time I was wondering what luck Richard was having with his cell phone, a long-haired Native American looking guy pulls in front of me in an older Ford SUV. He gets out and ambles up and says, "Why didn't you just break down on the Moon?" We both cracked up and I liked him instantly. Eli, a long distance truck driver by trade and a former special missions soldier in the army was going to pick up his three sons from his ex in Clear Lake and invited me to come with him. I was torn between leaving my vehicle out there in the middle of nowhere and going for a telephone. I didn't ponder long. I said okay and we were off. We immediately engaged in conversation with me doing most of the listening and asking questions. Eli was an interesting guy. He had traveled widely during his tour, developing a global perspective along the way, not without some strong opinions, mostly about how authority was handled. 

When we made it through the hills and valleys to Clear Lake, the town, he dropped me off at a little Mexican restaurant and told me he would take me back to my car on his return to Williams but he couldn't say how long he would be. I had to trust he would stick to his word, wanted to believe he was genuine and so I did. He took off for his ex's and I called tripe A on the pay phone outside the hole in the wall restaurant.

As it happened, Richard had made the call and triple A had put out an order for a tow. When they found out I was not there with the car though they promptly cancelled it. We figured out together that I should call as soon as I knew I was headed back for the car and then the order would go out again. On the way to Clear Lake, Eli and I had stopped to talk to a tow truck driver with an old Cadillac on his flat bed tow truck and towing the Caddy's house trailer behind. The driver was not encouraging as he talked about this Friday night being one of the busiest of the year.

After an order of nachos I went back out to the parking lot, somewhat nervously anticipating Eli's return. Sure enough, he showed up, with his eleven, nine and seven year old son's in the back seat and the shotgun position ready for me. I called to reissue the tow order and we were on our way back to "the Moon." Eli had shared with me earlier that the Oasis Cafe, the only establishment we had passed on the way, did not yet have a phone and communicated by radio! And this, in modern day hi-tech California!

Two of the boys were instantly talkative and engaging and we had some fun with Eli mostly silent and somewhat entertained by the repartee between myself and his boys. The time went faster on the way back and we passed the same elk herd in the same place as earlier, a re-introduced species that was thriving along Cache Creek, no human settlements encroaching on their habitat, for a change.

I told the boys the story of the "Good Samaritan," and said that is what their father was. When we stopped, Eli gave me a bottle of water and wished me luck. I felt nurtured and taken care of by this father and ex-soldier.

I sat in my car for an hour reading more than one short story in my latest issue of "The Sun." Just as I began to wonder about the second order for a tow, the truck appeared and was deftly maneuvered with rear forks facing my front bumper. A fast moving and confident middle age white guy leaped from his seat and walked up to reconnoiter the situation immediately asking for my vehicle manual so he could see what kind of tow directions to follow for this model car. Jim determined he would undo my rear drive shaft to free the rear wheels for the tow and after a struggle with some rust and a stubborn bolt got us ready to roll. As I made my second trip to the town of Clear Lake, Jim informed me that all the mechanics in town go fishing on the weekends and few are reliable or triple A approved anyway. That was certainly encouraging.

I found out he had left the Bay Area in '83 because he wanted to raise his kids in a smaller community and that he had never looked back. It seems he had done right by himself and his kids.

When we came into town it was just about dark. Jim backed me into a barb wired locked yard at the one triple A approved automotive service and told me I could get my things and he would take me down to a motel. As we were lowering the front wheels of my jeep all this fluid began to pour down the pavement. I was astonished as this appeared to be the first leak I had seen. We put the hood up and saw nothing, then looked from below and saw the bottom radiator hose completely blown out on the bottom side, a ragged rubber tear. Jim shared my amazement and we were both encouraged that this was something I could fix and get back on the road. He gave me the combination to the yard saying he trusted me even though he was not supposed to do that kind of thing. I could come back in the morning and replace the hose and be on my way. Wow, I could make it to the Gathering for lunch on Saturday!

My glee was short lived. When I dropped the hood it was dark and I had not pulled my right hand far enough back to keep from catching my middle finger under the full weight of a heavy piece of metal in free fall. Luckily, I pulled it out in time to avoid bone crushing but the pain of impact was so great my scream could have been heard to downtown.......if I had screamed. Men have to stay cool under these conditions and circumstances and my old conditioning worked perfectly, muttering curses under my breath.

I spent a fitful night with a throbbing finger in an overpriced motel room after attempting but failing to reach my wife Karin and let her know what was going on. She had plugged our phone into a dead jack that second morning in our new house and the phone was not working. Fortunately, my best male friend in Arnold, Bill, was home and listened to the saga and promised to get word to Karin about my whereabouts and situation. I thought about trying to get a hold of the caretaker at Mattole but did not have the number and was just too exhausted and in pain.

Nonetheless, early the next morning I set out with a large purple finger on a new quest to get that radiator hose off, get to the auto parts store, get the hose back on and get to the Gathering. And I was feeling pretty optimistic. The combination to the locked yard was correct, I had my tool box and was under the car with grease from the steering linkage running down my left shoulder and gritty radiator fluid dripping on my face knowing I COULD DO THIS!! Except..........the clamps on the hose were those kind that require a special tool. Ordinary pliers were useless in the face of this accursed design.

Right about then, a car pulls up to the yard gate with a boat in tow. I am thinking, "oh shit, I'm busted, I'm not supposed to have the combination and be in here. I get up and face the music explaining my situation to this guy who looks like a mechanic and has the name "Rich" embroidered to his blue collar shirt. I must have been a convincing if sorry looking sight as he immediately said, "that's fine," and proceeded to unlock the gate and pull his rig inside a stall to work on. Hmmmm, no mechanics on Saturday, eh?

Shortly thereafter, quiet but mild Rich comes out with the special tool to take off the accursed hose clamps and I want to jump up and kiss the guy. But, since I am not at the NorthCoast Gathering.......yet, I just thank him and thank any other supreme beings that might just be lingering nearby.

I decided to replace both hoses as the top one had a small but menacing crack. It came off easily. Getting the special tool into position to take off the lower hose was not easy and took many efforts and several different auto yoga positions. Finally I had those suckers off and could go hunting at Kragen and Napa and any other happy hunting grounds I might find. The first store sold me the wrong hose that looked like the right one until you tried to put it on. The second store got me the right hoses on my second trip. I had the ratchet for band clamps, put on the hoses and torqued down the clamps. Then it was time for some mentoring by Rich who had already allowed me to clean up at the mechanics sink and had found me some of that grease melting lanolin that glove wearing mechanics no longer use. There is a sequence to be followed in reintroducing new fluids to the cooling system of one's car and I did not want to blow it now, too much invested, place to go, people to see.

Rich left what he was doing and ran me through the steps and paces. Then, when we had the right coolant/water mix topping off the radiator, we looked and listened for the fan to go on and VOILA, everything still worked, the idiot had pulled over in time!!

I asked Rich if there was anything he wanted or could use in return for his kindness. He said no and then reconsidered. "My boss and I wouldn't be unhappy if you brought us four of those Red Eye or is it Red Bulllet or Red Bomb (I forget) energy drinks." I said, "you got it!"

I drove down to the motel, checked out, went to the store and bought water and more coolant, had the equivalent of an Egg McMuffin, got the energy drinks back to the shop and was on my way, feeling not a little proud of myself for the way I had handled things and confident that I could make the Saturday evening fire circle at the NCMG, still hours away. Not hot yet, the late morning rays seemed gentler this day and I drove a reasonable speed back to Hwy 20, turned left heading west again. Yahoo!

Seconds after completing the turn, guess what light went on? You got it. I pulled over and this time after lifting the hood (with my good hand and normal fingers) coolant was exploding out of the overflow tank. Nothing subtle about that. With half of my new coolant on the ground I had no choice but to let the car cool down and give my brain another chance to fire on all cylinders.

I decided I needed to get back to Clear Lake if I could for further consultation with Rich, the mild-mannered mechanic. I drove back slowly with nary a problem enroute, pulled into the shop yard and told Rich what happened. He said the words I had been putting off. "Well, it's hard to know, could be a head gasket, could be a stuck thermostat (an earlier theory discussed with Jim, the tow truck driver), could be some crud is stuck in the system blocking it." At this point Rich seemed anxious to keep working on the power boat and his boss was lurking somewhere, so I made a rash decision. I decided I would try to get back home to Arnold since I had not heated up on my way back to Clear Lake.

I was thinking, "this car is telling me something I have to listen to. It is not going north and I can't make it, my own will is driving but not my car and I have to surrender." For a moment, I had that feeling we get as men, that we wimp out when the going gets tough, we don't push harder when we need to push harder still. My conditioning was in overdrive.

But then, as I drove south once more, everything was going well. The jeep purred and ran as though nothing had ever happened. Granted, the day was a bit cooler and I was driving a bit slower, but not such that I could count fence posts. I turned on Capital Public Radio which has a dedicated jazz station, classical station and news/eclectic station. I was flitting between them, grieving about the loss of my perfect gathering attendance record, the scheduled visits with friends and my parents on their anniversary and a prepaid river trip on the Rogue in southern Oregon. All was lost but strangely I had this other sensation of finding something else, not as replacement but as realization.

All these fine and open hearted men had rallied to my cause without even knowing what my cause really was. They were being themselves in the "real world," the everyday workaday world or as some have put it, "the cold, hard world." But it was not a cold hard world in which men only compete with each other and take care of their own, (and don't) They take care of strangers too, with and without pay and some of them every day. I was so much heartened by this FACT OF LIFE that the loss of THE GATHERING became counterpointed by the gain of "the gathering", a different one in which fathers and sons come together, old friends meet again on the road and men do things competently in the world that make a difference in the quality of people's everyday lives. Men really are inherently good.

This reverie came to an end when confronted by another red light south of Sacramento. I pulled over, this time in a far more hostile environment, Hwy 99, a wind tunnel of vehicles, none of them stopping. My overflow tank was merely boiling instead of exploding this time but the writing was on the wall or fender or whatever. There was something really wrong with my car's cooling system, something that my driving did not bring on. ( I had picked the car up at 50K miles with no info from previous owners). I kicked my third chakra (will) back into action and created the intention of getting across the Calaveras County line with my car at no risk to the engine. Every few miles I would stop when the red light glared, let the engine cool, replace any fluids that needed replacing and continue, each time driving fewer miles between red lights until I could see off in the distance that lonely Chevron station just over the county line in a place that thinks it is a town called Wallace. I have never seen a town there and I haven't blinked when driving through. Arnold is at the other end of the county and I know my intention has been met. To drive further will damage the engine. I call triple A for my second tow in 24 hours. (I discover I have the five mile plan, not the 100 mile road service everyone else seems to have these days). I am going to have to pay out of pocket for a 50 miler at 4 bucks a mile.

It is hot again, but Steve shows up in about 45 minutes after I have called Karin to tell her I was coming in. He has a whole different towing set up that does not involve taking off the drive shaft. A former employee of the towing company shows up to criticize and razz Steve about the dangerous way he has done things. I soon understand why this former employee was let go. Steve keeps his cool and does not say anything back. He is a Gen Y guy, a father of two, four years old and less than a year. He is not that talkative but I draw him out about his passion for towing, even at $7/hour, the extra but long hour haul commissions making it possible to survive on that wage with a young family. Steve decides he is not going to run his "meter" for awhile on my tow miles so I don't get hit as bad I thought I would on charges and then he goes the extra mile (or literally miles) to take me to my new home to unload the car and me into Karin's arms. I give him a tip and wave goodbye as the last good man on this particular journey safely delivers my car to a garage in Arnold to await Monday's hi-tech diagnostics and the other good men who will get me back on the road again.