West-FAIL-a

Zack and his fiancé Rachel came to have dinner with us and Cadie at her place in the U District in Seattle Friday night. Zach is an old friend from Centralia who worked with Jessica at Arby’s and after seeing me day in and day out looking for free food became a good friend of mine lending a hand on projects around my Centralia house and spending a few weekends at the mountains and the beach in Oregon. It was great to catch up with everyone, Zach is studying engineering at Seattle University and has been selected for flight school through the ROTC program at school. A long way from assistant manager at Arby’s to say the least. After dinner Cadie, Jessica and I wandered the Ave looking for a place to get a drink and hang out. The Ave is the main drag outside the University of Washington, full of bars and late night eateries, pretty standard college fair. I was proudly displaying my University of Oregon t-shirt, mostly because it was clean and on the top of my bag, but it felt right to wear it anyway and I’m always down to give any ill-tempered Husky-believer a dose of “Football?, keep talkin’, you can watch us at the Rose Bowl again next year.” But with school out for the summer I wasn’t looked at twice.

We left Seattle fairly early Saturday morning with the daunting task of driving across Washington all the way to Spokane in one day. We’ve been trying to stay off the major interstates so Hwy 2 seemed the best alternative. The van isn’t the fastest vehicle on the road and I’m tired of all the dirty looks on the interstate system, plus, as the cab driver in my dad’s favorite Thanksgiving movie, Planes, Trains and Automobiles says, “There’s nothing on the interstate but interstate.” The ‘off-the-beaten-path’ roads add a real sense of America, without a McDonald’s every 20 miles and lots of fruit stands I don’t think you can beat America’s back roads. We wound through small town after small town, Leavenworth, the tourist trap trying to be the Swiss Alps in central Washington, Wenatchee, Coulee City (near the Grand Coulee Dam which I didn’t even know was in Washington till then) and countless others. Around Coulee City we had to stop for gas. After getting gas, guess what… the van was dead. No power… again. Jessica did her usual gal in distress routine while I readied for a jump-start. We were back on the road to Spokane and we couldn’t stop till we got there because the battery wasn’t charging again.

As luck would have it we made it to Jessica’s cousin’s house without a hitch. As soon as we stopped I tried to start the van again but the battery was so dead that it wouldn’t even turn the engine at all. Well, now its Saturday evening, there won’t be a mechanic open till Monday so it looks like Josh is going to be hosting us for two days. His weekends are Sunday/Monday so he was going to be seeing a lot of us. He understood the issue and made us feel at home. It was also nice to be stuck some place we could wash our clothes and shower, something I knew we would soon miss once we left our home states.

Sunday was mostly spent hanging out and researching VW mechanics. We walked Juno to park nearby that had somewhat of a water park and played around there for a while. Seeing as Josh was keeping us for an extra night we felt like we should make dinner so we walked to the nearby Safeway to pick something up. We had to walk by a Wal-Mart on our way back and in doing so we passed their garden center. I turned to Jessica and said, “You think we should get Josh a tomato plant for his back yard.” Thinking we were on our organic farming mission for the summer Jessica replied, “If you want.” Not the most resounding confirmation but I thought why not, anyone can grow tomatoes. Upon checkout it hit me that I was buying a tomato plant at Wal-Mart, probably shipped from Arkansas, I didn’t know if it would make the half-mile walk back home, let alone make it in the Spokane summer heat but it was the thought that counts.

Monday morning I was ready to go, I called the last mechanic, Mike, from Port Angeles to pick his brain and after finding what I thought would be the perfect shop in Spokane I got Josh to give me a jump, hopefully the last one for a while. The shop’s hours posted on the internet were 9-6 M-F. I got there at 8:30 to make sure I was the first one in line. The shop didn’t look like the dealer I was used to taking the family Honda to growing up, nor did it look like AAA would approve of it either. It kind of looked like a cross between a junkyard and a mechanic’s shop but it met my criteria, lots of dead Vanagons in the lot. I waited till 9 and no one came to open up. I called the number written in sharpie on the door and the voice mail said they open at 9:30ish most days. Most days? 9:30ish? I didn’t have many options at this point, the van wouldn’t start so I was more or less stuck.

Around 9:30ish, Chris showed up for work, a rather large, muscular, 30something on a crotch rocket with a pistol on his belt. He looked like a former marine and when I asked him how it was going he replied, “It a Monday already.” Friendly, I could see, but he was the proprietor and hopefully had the answers to my problems and could send us on the rest of our summer journey. I went through the laundry list of things that had recently been replaced, added and checked and double-checked. Chris was now the fourth mechanic in less than a month to have his hands in this engine.

Chris, “Well, can you leave it?”
Me, “Not really, we’re hoping to drive to Glacier today.”
Chris, “I can’t drop everything to get you in.”
Me, “I understand.”
Chris, “From everything you’ve told me you need to replace the wire from your alternator to your starter. Do you have the tools to pull it out?
Me, hesitantly, “Probably…”
Chris, “If you can pull it out I can make you a new one and you can get going today, otherwise I probably can’t get to it till tomorrow.”
Me, “Can you show me real quick exactly which one I pull?”

I figured it was a single wire going from the alternator to the starter, a couple turns of the wrench and it’d be out. Not quite. While the van is 26 years old and has a tiny engine and none of the fancy things like air conditioning or cruise control or anything else to fill up the engine compartment it has a lot more things going on than my mountain bike which is about all of my mechanical experience to this point. I roll up my freshly washed sleeves, get my cracker-jack tool box out and begin by pulling the nut off the alternator, removing the wire and I start pushing it through the engine like I have some semblance of an idea of what I’m doing. I get on my back, shimmy under the van and with less than an inch of clearance between my nose (no Italian jokes here) and the transmission I work to pull the wire down to where the starter is located, right on top of the transmission. As soon as the wire clears the engine it joins a group of other wires that are tied to the frame. I stare at them for a few minutes, wonder what I’m supposed to do, try my best to follow them hoping there’s one that goes right to the starter but I can’t figure it out. I stare at it for a few more minutes because I really don’t want to bother Chris and his sidearm for something so simple as pulling a wire but I shimmy back out, tail between my legs, and tell him I can’t figure it out. He takes a look, tells me to pull the connectors off the frame and we follow the wires to a black box in the engine compartment which then leads to the starter.

Chris leaves me, probably mumbling at what an idiot I am, and I get the thing disconnected and rip it out from under the van. I’m now black up to my elbows, the back of my head is bruised from lying on the concrete and the tip of my nose is black as well. Like a kid carrying his first fish caught on his own, I proudly walk back up the drive and into the shop to show Chris my monumental accomplishment. “Excellent!” He tells me, probably happy I didn’t ask him to crawl under there to get it. He takes a look at it and says, “Now, do we make a new one or pull one from one of these vans?” pointing to the five or six dead vans in his lot. “I don’t care, it’s up to you.” I respond. “Well, lets take the one from that van. You know how to do it now and this time it’ll be easier because you know how to do it and there’s no engine in it.” ‘Great,’ I think, more time under a van. Chris throws me a piece of cardboard so I don’t have to lie in the gravel and I get to work. Easier, maybe a little, but still no fun, I get the ‘new’ one out and show it to Chris for his approval.

“Excellent!” He tells me again. “Now you should know how it goes back in after pulling two of them out.” “I suppose…” looking puzzled. I shrug and head back down to my van. Connect to the alternator, fish it over and under and around hoses and other wires, push it through to the underside of the van. Run back up to the donor van to grab the cardboard to lie on because the temperature outside is pushing 80 degrees before noon and the concrete is beginning to reach very uncomfortable levels and I shimmy back under the van. I look at all the wires, again perplexed, thinking back to which ones go to the black box and which ones to the starter, fish them over the transmission, connect to the starter, crawl back out, connect to the black box. I cross my fingers and go ask Chris for jump-start. “Excellent!” once again. He asks his helper to pull his Jeep up to bring the van back to life. We connect the vehicles and, fingers still crossed, I turn the key. The van roars back to life. I let out a sigh of relief. We check the vital signs and the van is charging! Finally! I feel like a hero, Jessica will be so happy we can continue our journey east.

“Let it run for a while to charge the battery, it’s really dead.” Chris advises. “I need to connect all those wires back to the frame don’t I?” I ask. “Eventually,” He says, “Let it charge for now.” As I start to pack my tools Jessica calls wondering where I am and when I’ll be back so we can leave. It’s almost noon at this point and I tell her I have to let it charge for a little bit, then connect the wires and I’ll be back in a half hour or so. All packed up I walk back up to the shop to poke around and look through some of the vans for things mine might be missing. The first thing I notice is the donor van. It’s about the same age as mine but it has seats with armrests. Armrests! You have no idea how miserable it is to drive for six plus hours without armrests until you drive for six plus hours without armrests. The upholstery even matches close enough that only a Vanagon purist would scoff at the mismatched seats. “Hey, Chris. Would you be interested in swapping front seats plus a little cash?” I ask. “We could probably do that.” He replies. “Let me make sure they fit on the rails in my van.”

I pull the passenger seats out and put the armrested seat in my van, sit in it, put the armrests down, lean back and feel as though I could fall asleep in it. I have to have these seats. “How much for the pair?” I ask. “I usually get $75 a seat.” He says without hesitation. “How ‘bout $50 a piece and you can have mine?” I counter. “Sure.”

I pull the drivers seats, grease the tracks, and slide it in. My new throne in all of it’s brown on tan glory. The van is still idling away, charging like it hasn’t for weeks, maybe even months. ‘If I had replaced that damn wire when this whole thing started I probably could have save hundreds of dollars and solved the problem long ago.’ I thought as I caressed my new armrests. At least I feel confident it’s finally fixed. About a half hour after starting the van with the new wires I shut it off and go to Chris to settle up. “I was just going to come down to collect so I can go get lunch.” He tells me. I ask him what the damage is for the wire and his time. “How about $20, you did most of the work.” I feel the back of my head throbbing, look at my black arms, black hands and bleeding thumb and feel like he’s the most honest mechanic I’ve dealt with thus far. I pull out my visa and he gets a worried look on his face, looks over his shoulder at the large hand written sign that reads, “No Credit, No Checks, CASH ONLY.” I return the worried look and tell him that if he can point me towards a grocery store I’ll pick up lunch and get cash back to pay him. He says I can follow him there.

After lunch I ask him if there’s anything else I should watch for on the van since we’re planning to put many thousands of miles on it and he says to watch the oil indicator light, “If you loose oil pressure in that engine it’s a death sentence. Your oil light comes on when you start the van doesn’t it?” Perplexed I say, “I’ve never seen it come on.” Worried, he says lets look at it. No light. We open the engine compartment again, he finds the wire, finds it spliced with electrical tape, tugs a little on it and separates it. “You have got to fix this. It will literally save your engine.” After explaining I need an oil sensor, a simple $5 part, and a new wire I ask if he has one. “I can order one. It’ll be here at 1.” Looks like I’ll be waiting around for a while longer, I pull my neatly packed tools back out and call Jessica and explain that I’ll be a little longer but I have a great surprise for her knowing she’ll appreciate the new seats almost as much as I already do. I can sense that her patients is growing thin. I assure her that the part will be here soon and it should go pretty fast once it gets here.

Chris shows me on one of the many engine blocks lying around his lot what I have to get at. “This is a fun one.” He tells me. “Your engine has to be totally cooled to get at it because you have to remove this cover plate and it attaches to two of your muffler mounts. You’ll burn your arms off if you go at it now.” Looks like I’ll be here even longer and the only thought running through my head is what my boss, Dick, told me before I left, “When your done with this trip you’ll know more about that van than a lot of mechanics.” Great, I’d rather be looking for grizzly bears in Glacier than a 13mm ratchet.

The part finally arrives around 1:30, I crawl under the van again, and wonder how in the hell I’m going to get these four bolts off. Two come off easy, the two attached to the muffler mounts are another story. I confer with Chris, “I told you this was a fun one. Try this.” He hands me a mini 13mm ratchet wrench. I crawl back down, more bumps on the back of my head, and slowly, one click at a time (one click is probably the equivalent of 1/32 of a turn) get the two remaining 1 inch bolts off. Now I don’t have a socket large enough to get the old oil sensor out so I beg a 24mm socket from Chris and pull the old sensor out. “Excellent!” he tells me again. Hands me the new one and I quickly get it in. Now I have to reattach the cover, one click at a time. I have Chris make me a new wire, splice it in, start the van and the oil indicator light flashes on. Relief. I pack my tools back up and give Chris $40 for his help and $100 for the seats. I say my thanks, and thinking I’m done I call Jessica. It’s 3 p.m. now, she’s obviously frustrated but I tell her I’m on my way. I get in the van, look in back and see those wire ties that hold the wire from the alternator to the starter off the transmission and attach it to the frame. Back under the van I wrestle the wires, wrangle them together and snap them back to the frame. The van starts right up, a farewell honk reminiscent of ‘Little Miss Sunshine’, I wave out the window and speed off to Josh’s to pack and hopefully leave for the rest of America.

The drive back is simple, two turns in four miles and I’m there. About four blocks from leaving Spokane I notice a police car behind me. We’re at a stop light, green light, go, red and blue lights coupled with a siren, stop… I’m being pulled over. I know I haven’t been speeding, I mean, really, its an old VW bus. Spokane’s finest comes up to the window, “You know you have no brake lights at all.” He informs me. Well, actually I do know that, sometimes they work, but usually they don’t. “You’re kidding, none at all?” I say innocently. “None.” He affirms. “Let me push on the pedal really hard.” He walks to the back of the van, “Nothing.” He says again. “Are the other lights working?” I ask as I turn on the hazards and walk to the back. “They’re working.” He says. “Boy, I’m just on my way back to my girlfriends cousins from the mechanic. I pull Chris’s business card out to show him. “You just got these fixed?” He asks. “Well, no. We were working on a different electrical problem.” I explain. “Maybe you just shorted something out and blew a fuse or something. How far are you going?” He inquires. “Just two or three more blocks, to Hawthorne.” I tell him. “Ok, that’s not far. When you get there park it and check your connections and fuses.” I assure him I will, he asks for my drivers license and runs my information and in a minute returns and tells me, “I know these vans can be a little temperamental.” You have no idea.