In the mid-eighties, in keeping with our youthful motto (which I suspect Steve never renounced): “Too much is not enough”, Steve acquired a Chevrolet Suburban. This was the largest vehicle on fewer than six wheels I had ever seen. Soon after he got it, we took a trip over the Sierra, down 395 to Death Valley. It was the perfect car for such a trip. Wide enough for Judy to lie almost stretched out in the back seat, resting on-the-go was easy. And it was fast enough to eat up the miles on a long trip, making it all the less tedious anyway. (Gas mileage be damned).
Some memories that stand out from that trip:
Steve had some sort of business deal going on at the time that needed frequent attention. Pre-cell phone era, this required stopping at pay phones. On the east side of the Sierra these are not so common, so it meant stopping at every pay phone we saw. It became one running joke of the trip. We’re having lunch, “Where’s Steve?” “Looking for a phone.”
The only thing that exceeded the Suburban’s thirst for fuel was Steve’s need for Coke. The cola, I mean. We may have stopped for a coke machine more frequently than we did for a pay phone.
Judy noticed that on the east side cars and trucks of the Suburban ilk were common and that by and large their owners preferred enormous knobbly tires. Our car had puny, genuinely suburban, car-type tires. Running joke two, as she needled Steve, provoking a variation on male neuroses: tire envy.
Bodie, California. Steve would stop for any historical marker by the side of the road, regardless of how insignificant it might be. But Bodie was extraordinary. Miles off the main highway and straight out of the mythic imagination, Bodie was a wooden ghost town, weathered rusty brown, perched on the slope of a high desert mountain where men sweated and cursed to haul out billions in gold. The day we were there a bleak wind blew; swinging an old gate on creaking hinges. In its day, Bodie was the TV town Deadwood incarnate. Thousands of miners, gamblers and whores kept 65 saloons in lucrative operation. Gunfights were so frequent, it’s said that “Who got killed last night?” was a common part of breakfast conversation. According to a plaque at the site, a little girl, being taken there by her family, wrote in her diary “Good-bye God, I’m going to Bodie”. Steve loved that line. Bodie was right up Steve’s alley. He loved the place and even more, loved the idea of the place. Imagine his thoughts as he strode up main street that day in his white cowboy hat. The high point of the trip for him.
He was less impressed with the algal-scum-covered cattle-trough hot springs we visited. Didn’t want to get in for some reason.
After some misadventures with vapor lock crossing the mountains into Death Valley (remember carburetors, you old guys) the Suburban proved its worth one more time on that trip when we discovered that the only place to “camp” in Death Valley was an RV “Park”, which consisted of a five- or six-acre gravel lot. Bench seats as big as twin beds came in handy that night.
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