USA: When skies are grey

The first two days of Nomadic MidLife's official travels

Sunday

“If it would be possible, we’d sure love to have the moose come out to the truck for a photo when the game is over. It’s parked just outside the gates there.”

The ballpark manager looked at the sky and squinted her eyes. After a gorgeous blue-sky afternoon, heavy clouds were closing in fast. She shook her head. “Right now, my biggest priority is getting all these people out of here safely. The lightning is only five minutes away and headed straight for us.”

The mascot for the Missoula Paddleheads minor league baseball team, a cartoonish muscular moose in a pinstripe uniform, would not make an appearance next to Walter, our big yellow truck. I had snapped a selfie with him earlier, but that would be the only shot.

I returned to Andy and Walter and resumed my job as tour guide, although the demand for my services was light. A few people wandered over on their way to their cars. Just as we’d done at the Creamery Picnic two weeks prior, Andy showed people the outside and I showed the inside.  But the wind was picking up. A smattering of enormous raindrops splattered the parking lot at random.

“We need everybody to clear out, folks! We appreciate you coming to the ballpark today, but now please go home!”

Lightning flashed.

CRRR-AAACK!

BOOOOM!!

The storm was on top of us, right on schedule.

The wind gained strength, suddenly shaking our big rig like it was a toy. Sheets of pelting rain, carried along by the gale, dropped unceremoniously at random like liquid curtains. So many violent storms this summer—three in the past three weeks. We’ve never seen anything quite like it in our corner of Montana.

Andy and I scurried to close the windows and the roof hatches, then quickly secured everything that could roll, slide, shift, or fall before scrambling into the cab. A huge gust of wind slammed the driver’s side door onto Andy’s leg before he could close it properly.

“Ow!”

“Are you ok?”

We were both yelling—him in pain, me to be heard over the storm.

“Yes, I’ll be ok. Let’s get out of here.”

But then, as the storm raged around us, we stopped to look at each other. We both grinned.

“Where should we go?”

The fact that neither of us had an immediate, obvious answer to the question made us both giddy with joy, despite the buffeting wind and rain.

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We are nomads, living on the road now. After a month and a half of camping on the property of some gracious friends (friends who kept us well-supplied with cinnamon rolls), we had driven away just that very morning. First, we headed to Missoula to attend church with our eldest and her partner. It was an especially meaningful service for me, an excellent start to both the day and the journey ahead.

If you have a moment, I suggest you watch a video rendition of this song, which was sung in Sunday’s service. Here is the link.

After scarfing down a quick lunch while we showed the rig to the curious church folks, we made one final trip to see a ballgame (a common way for us to celebrate the big events in our lives), complete this time with complimentary tickets, free premium parking, an announcement from the booth, and a few pictures of us and our truck on the jumbo screen in the outfield. Everybody loves Walter.

After the game, we had anticipated getting a couple of hours down the road before stopping for the night. Sunset was still two hours away. But the sky was already so dark. Cars were turning on their headlights like twilight had arrived. With lightning streaking the sky all around us and the windshield wipers struggling to keep up, we agreed we should get off the road sooner than later. Finding a suitable remote campsite in this weather, in the dark and the soon-to-be mud, was not a good plan.

We drove a few miles outside of town and pulled into an enormous truck stop. It was crowded with vehicles of all shapes and sizes who apparently all had the same idea: park and wait it out.

It isn’t exactly the most romantic or Instagram-worthy start to our epic journey, but as I type Sunday evening, we are wedged in snugly between to gigantic semitrucks, their generators creating a steady hum of white noise. The storm has passed, but we are tucked in for the night and will start our journey again tomorrow. And believe it or not, we are both happy campers, quite literally. We are ecstatic, in fact. Our adventure, life with no home base—not even a temporary one—has begun.

Monday, mid-morning

Camping at a truck stop, at least that particular truck stop, is not bad at all, really. The bathrooms were sparkling clean; the staff was friendly; the long-haul truckers we encountered were quiet, polite, and friendly. We both slept well, comfy-cozy as we were, between the massive walls of much bigger rigs, lulled to sleep by the gentle rumble of generators and idling engines. Leftover cinnamon rolls and bottled juice from the truck stop’s convenience store made a lovely breakfast and we were ready to roll.

Now the sky is clear, the tunes are playing, and Walter is finally growing into his name. Are you familiar with The Secret Life of Walter Mitty? I haven’t read the original 1939 story by James Thurber, but the 2013 movie by that name was really fun. In this modern remake, Walter Mitty works a desk job for an adventure magazine. He dutifully does his job, the same thing day in and day out, processing photos of other people’s adventures. In his wild and vivid imagination, though, he gets to be the hero. In his daydreams, he gets to live the just-out-of-reach life of excitement he so admires. Then one day, everything changes. An unforeseen set of circumstances launches Walter himself, ready or not, into a series of adventures beyond his wildest imagination.

That’s why we named our travel rig Walter. Until we purchased him in September of 2021, he had always been a simple, hardworking service truck—in the telecommunications field, if we are interpreting the layout and labeling of his original toolboxes correctly. He did his job, day in and day out, but his four-wheel drive capabilities were only needed to get to more remote jobsites. Now, starting today, Walter is the hero of the story. Now he is out on the open road, living his best life—a life full of epic scenery and adventures.

Walter Mitty, meet Walter Mitsubishi. It’s time to leave behind the mundane job and explore the world!

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Monday, late night

We had assumed we would be wild camping tonight, boondocking on public land somewhere near Idaho Falls—somewhere peaceful with a view. I had imagined us setting up camp late in the afternoon with plenty of time to make a great dinner, then washing the dishes and relaxing in our camp chairs until we were sleepy, grinning frequently at the adventures before us.

Instead, we rolled into a spartan roadside rest area just before dark, relieved to be off the road and all keyed up from the stress of the day. We traded paradise for a parking lot.

With my full approval, Andy climbed up onto our bed, cracked open a cold beverage and chilled with his phone and headphones until he nodded off for a little nap. It was well-deserved. I made the elaborate dinner I had shopped for and looked forward to, but the joy I’d expected was replaced with tense shoulders and silence.

We ate without much conversation or energy. The curry I’d made was too spicy for me. I struggled to finish my serving, even with the side of naan. Andy thanked me for dinner and offered to help with the dishes, as long as it was put off until tomorrow morning. I boxed up the leftovers. Andy crawled back into bed. I hope he sleeps well. He needs it after today. I wandered through the parking lot to the bath house to use the toilet and brush my teeth.

And now here I am.

You see, our dear, heroic Walter didn’t fare well today. Something went wonky. The temperature gauge said we were on the verge of overheating for the entire afternoon and early evening. We stopped in several places. We visited and/or phoned various truck repair shops. We got a little advice here and there for things to try, and we and borrowed resources as we could improvise.

None of it seemed to pinpoint the problem. Hills were a struggle. But not always. Flat ground was easier. Except when it wasn’t. Instead of exploring beautiful winding backroads, we crept along the interstate at 30 miles per hour. Or 20. Or 60. Then back to 30. Needle almost all the way up to the red. Engine light on. Needle back down to normal range. Engine light off. Back on again. At one point we had to pull off in the middle of nowhere—no services, no nothing, except a ring of ominous clouds surrounding us, the kind with gray streaks connecting them to the ground.

We tipped the cab forward to experiment with taking the engine’s temperature while we idled or revved. The physical temperature readings didn’t match up with the gauge’s dance party moves. We have some guesses but can’t figure out what Walter’s deal is.

We limped into the rest area exhausted and on edge. Tomorrow we will arise early to finish cleaning up the mound of dishes that has accumulated and try to get to a truck service station in Idaho Falls so we can continue on our route. If it weren’t for the show we are supposed to be at by Thursday afternoon, we would just take the whole day off tomorrow, and possibly the next, so we could rest and recover—all three of us—but we have commitments. Miles to go before we sleep and all that.

But we wanted adventure, right? So here we have it. No beautiful country roads, though. For now we will stay on the dull interstate, as close as possible to roadside services.

It’s the strangest thing to realize we have no back-up plan. Our home is attached to a vehicle that is currently not roadworthy. I apologize for not being able to wrap this up with something more significant. I’m fresh out of clever or inspiring or deep.

So much depends

upon

a big yellow

truck

spattered with insect

guts

and smelling of

curry¹

I am sorry there is no 7 Questions segment this week. I just couldn’t get it together this time. And there is no audio track, either, as Andy is already sleeping in our bedroom, which butts directly up against our little dinette, where I now sit to type. I hope to be sleeping next to him within the next few minutes.

I anticipate having a good report full of exciting things to tell you next week, friend.

Until then,

Sherry

1. Ever since I wrote a paper for a college literature class on William Carlos Williams’ poem about the red wheelbarrow, I have found myself occasionally reworking and repurposing it. If you aren’t familiar with it, you can see it here.