Saturday, December 03, 2005
Smo-Kee
In July 1986, my dad was sworn in as a Washington State Superior Court judge in the WPA-built Franklin County courthouse where I once worked as a filing clerk in the law library while in high school.. As usual, it was plenty hot when we pulled up to my folks’ place the afternoon before the ceremony, and we all tooled out to Sacajawea State Park at the confluence of the Snake and Columbia rivers for a swim. To my delight, the little stone museum with a magnificent display of arrowheads and spear points was open. I hadn’t been there in fourteen years.
A couple days later we headed up the Yakima Valley to the pine-forested foothills of the Cascade Range on our way back home to Bellingham. After stopping for refreshments on the Yakama Indian Reservation, though, the engine in our old Volvo sedan started hopping around under the hood, and it was nearly sunset by the time I finished bolting down the engine mount with some hardware I found in the bottom of my mechanic’s toolbox.
I’d worked up a sweat lying under the torrid oil pan, so the cool evening air blowing in the windows as we climbed the 4,694 foot Cayuse Pass on the back side of Mount Rainier was especially refreshing. By the time the glaciers came into view, it was nearly dusk, and we were the only car on this back road through the mountains. And with that spectacular view of alpine wildflowers and snow-covered volcano our transmission died.
Marianne and our dog Ajax stayed with the car while I hiked up the road to find help, which turned out to be a logger grilling burgers outside his cabin who had a big pickup and for fifty bucks offered to tow us down the mountain. Once we had the cable shackled between our bumpers, he said to give him a honk if we wanted to slow down. Otherwise, the next stop was Enumclaw.
For the next half hour, as he took the familiar curves at terrifyingly high speeds in pitch blackness, I kept both of my white-knuckled hands on the wheel while Marianne pounded the horn until our battery wore out. Pulling up to a stop in the empty Enumclaw shopping center, our logger buddy hopped out of his cab where a rock and roll tape was blasting at ear shattering decibels, unhooked the cable, and waved goodbye.
After holing up for a day with our friends Larry and Sylvia Keohane on their horse ranch just down the road, the local transmission shop assured us their hundred dollar repair would hold till we reached Bellingham--a little over a hundred miles away--if we took it easy.
When we thankfully rolled up our drive under the cedars of our front yard, there was a U-haul truck parked next door, and Ralph and Teresa Mize were shuffling out their front door with their sofa. After unloading our stuff and throwing some hay to our horses, we wandered over to inspect their work. The next morning, we waved them off to their new home at Pullman in the Palouse Hills near the Idaho border where Ralph would study horticulture at Washington State University.
Somehow that day, our rabbits got out and we spent all morning looking for them in the woods, until it was time to get the horses ready for Hank to shoe. Later, when Hank was loading his anvil and chaps, our neighbors Dan and Miriam Barnett and their kids pulled up in front asking if we’d lost the rabbit they had in the backseat. Meanwhile, the phone was ringing, and Marianne burst out laughing when she answered.
Smoky, our Russian Blue kitty, had evidently explored the back of the Mize’s U-haul just before they locked it up and drove the 300 or so miles to Pullman. They were just about to head to Oregon’s Willamette Valley to check out fruit orchards, and wondered if we’d like them to put our cat on an airplane to Seattle. After some discussion, we determined that would be fine.
An hour later, Teresa phoned to say the airport wouldn’t let Smoky fly without a crate and rabies certificate, and that she could stop by a vet for a booster shot if we couldn’t fax a copy to the airport. Going with the flow, we said, “Sure, get her a shot and we’ll pick her up at Sea-Tac.”
Half way to the airport, Marianne looked out the rear window, and said,”The whole freeway behind us is blue smoke. I can’t even see other cars.” We pulled off at the next exit and into a gas station, where we discovered our hundred dollar transmission repair was just about kaput. With Smoky waiting at the airport, though, we decided to grab a case of transmission fluid, and pray we didn’t pass a state trooper.
When we walked through the baggage terminal doors, we heard a loud wildcat growl from behind the claims counter, where the airline agent asked,”Is this your cat?”
After topping up the tranny fluid and putting the cardboard crate containing Smoky in back, we got on the road crossing our fingers we could make it through two hours of highway traffic without a ticket or breakdown. Half an hour later I nearly went through the roof of the car as Smoky managed to get a leg out of the lid and sink five claws firmly in my thigh. After Marianne managed to wrestle her back into her box, we lumbered our way home with frequent stops for fluid refills and were grateful for the evening breeze that now dissipated the blue fog we spewed behind us.
A couple days later we headed up the Yakima Valley to the pine-forested foothills of the Cascade Range on our way back home to Bellingham. After stopping for refreshments on the Yakama Indian Reservation, though, the engine in our old Volvo sedan started hopping around under the hood, and it was nearly sunset by the time I finished bolting down the engine mount with some hardware I found in the bottom of my mechanic’s toolbox.
I’d worked up a sweat lying under the torrid oil pan, so the cool evening air blowing in the windows as we climbed the 4,694 foot Cayuse Pass on the back side of Mount Rainier was especially refreshing. By the time the glaciers came into view, it was nearly dusk, and we were the only car on this back road through the mountains. And with that spectacular view of alpine wildflowers and snow-covered volcano our transmission died.
Marianne and our dog Ajax stayed with the car while I hiked up the road to find help, which turned out to be a logger grilling burgers outside his cabin who had a big pickup and for fifty bucks offered to tow us down the mountain. Once we had the cable shackled between our bumpers, he said to give him a honk if we wanted to slow down. Otherwise, the next stop was Enumclaw.
For the next half hour, as he took the familiar curves at terrifyingly high speeds in pitch blackness, I kept both of my white-knuckled hands on the wheel while Marianne pounded the horn until our battery wore out. Pulling up to a stop in the empty Enumclaw shopping center, our logger buddy hopped out of his cab where a rock and roll tape was blasting at ear shattering decibels, unhooked the cable, and waved goodbye.
After holing up for a day with our friends Larry and Sylvia Keohane on their horse ranch just down the road, the local transmission shop assured us their hundred dollar repair would hold till we reached Bellingham--a little over a hundred miles away--if we took it easy.
When we thankfully rolled up our drive under the cedars of our front yard, there was a U-haul truck parked next door, and Ralph and Teresa Mize were shuffling out their front door with their sofa. After unloading our stuff and throwing some hay to our horses, we wandered over to inspect their work. The next morning, we waved them off to their new home at Pullman in the Palouse Hills near the Idaho border where Ralph would study horticulture at Washington State University.
Somehow that day, our rabbits got out and we spent all morning looking for them in the woods, until it was time to get the horses ready for Hank to shoe. Later, when Hank was loading his anvil and chaps, our neighbors Dan and Miriam Barnett and their kids pulled up in front asking if we’d lost the rabbit they had in the backseat. Meanwhile, the phone was ringing, and Marianne burst out laughing when she answered.
Smoky, our Russian Blue kitty, had evidently explored the back of the Mize’s U-haul just before they locked it up and drove the 300 or so miles to Pullman. They were just about to head to Oregon’s Willamette Valley to check out fruit orchards, and wondered if we’d like them to put our cat on an airplane to Seattle. After some discussion, we determined that would be fine.
An hour later, Teresa phoned to say the airport wouldn’t let Smoky fly without a crate and rabies certificate, and that she could stop by a vet for a booster shot if we couldn’t fax a copy to the airport. Going with the flow, we said, “Sure, get her a shot and we’ll pick her up at Sea-Tac.”
Half way to the airport, Marianne looked out the rear window, and said,”The whole freeway behind us is blue smoke. I can’t even see other cars.” We pulled off at the next exit and into a gas station, where we discovered our hundred dollar transmission repair was just about kaput. With Smoky waiting at the airport, though, we decided to grab a case of transmission fluid, and pray we didn’t pass a state trooper.
When we walked through the baggage terminal doors, we heard a loud wildcat growl from behind the claims counter, where the airline agent asked,”Is this your cat?”
After topping up the tranny fluid and putting the cardboard crate containing Smoky in back, we got on the road crossing our fingers we could make it through two hours of highway traffic without a ticket or breakdown. Half an hour later I nearly went through the roof of the car as Smoky managed to get a leg out of the lid and sink five claws firmly in my thigh. After Marianne managed to wrestle her back into her box, we lumbered our way home with frequent stops for fluid refills and were grateful for the evening breeze that now dissipated the blue fog we spewed behind us.
