Back to the Chateau

 

 I started off the weekend by traveling across the state. I knew I would get hungry along the way, and refuse to compromise when it comes to nutrition. I walked out of the gas station with the priceless gems pictured below. Actually, they were priced at a little over five dollars -- which I thought was a good deal when compared with the package of six of these beauties for which they were asking almost three dollars.

 

 

Of course, I already had a bottle of pop in the car to keep myself properly hydrated. The traffic got worse as the day wore on, but I completed the journey without notable incident. Mowing and replacing a check valve broke the monotony of packing stuff. Fortunately, a good friend was able to give me a hand with one of those tasks. 

I did get two welcome breaks. First, Les Freres Corses came to pick up the feline from which Le Chateau au Chat Gris derives its nomenclature--our place in Byzantium isn't appropriate for her wild nature--and we stopped by the local shake shop for shakes and fries. The second distraction came in the form of a football game that I had to watch as I was too exhausted to do anything else. Although not terribly exciting, I found the 69-0 score completely satisfying. It may be the only time I get to watch that team play this year.

After our return to the eastern empire, I was invited for some gaming fun and passed this afternoon playing the rescue at the ruins scenario three times. The green men came away victorious twice, and the red men successfully rescued the princess and slayed the green men once. Unfortunately, the great white ape didn't make an appearance, so we did not get to experience martian red men being clubbed, rent, and flung against the ruins. I also forgot to take any pictures of the event.

 

Adventure or Ordeal

 

It seems to me that I've heard it said that attitude is the difference between an adventure and an ordeal. There may be some truth to that, but I think there's more to it than that. Go ahead. Ask me what makes me think that.

I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you. I had an ordeal yesterday. It was supposed to be an adventure, but an ordeal cut short the adventure. The wounds are still red.

It started when I asked Rubicon Jones (obviously a pseudonym) about a good place to fish. He gave me a location and warned me that it was about an hour and half away. I decided that wasn't too far, and riding the motorcycle (an ADVENTURE bike) to go fishing would make a fun outing--the first of what would prove to be a series of bad decisions.

You may not be aware of the fact that a prior fishing companion, sometimes referred to as Big Dog, gave me a new fishing pole when I left for Byzantium--he was that excited to see me go. I needed to try out the new pole, and fishing season is winding down. Saturday morning I stopped by the Everything Store to get the three Ls: license, lures, and Livewire. When I got back, I realized that I actually needed the five Ls: I had left off line and live worms. I strapped the pole to the bike and loaded the case with lunch (the 6th L), and stopped back by the Everything Store to purchase the two missing Ls and hit the road. 

The day was only moderately warm--more of an inviting shoulder than a sweaty gym shoe temperature range . It was perfect weather for riding and I expected the fishing to be great as well. What could possibly go wrong?

First I missed my turn and drove a few miles out of the way and had to take a roundabout course back to find it. Things went swimmingly from there, for a while. The pavement ended but the gravel road wasn't too treacherous. I did get behind a pickup pulling a horse trailer down the middle of the narrow road, but he quickly let me pass when I pulled up to emerge from the dust cloud.

I followed the signs and the directions on the digital map until I came to a bridge. A white pickup was pulling out and I stopped to confirm that I was still on the right track. He knew the place I was going and was going by there. He gave directions, so I went ahead to avoid eating his dust. I did stop and check the map at the fork in the road. I noticed that the next turn was only a little over a mile away. At precisely that distance a mere suggestion of a road turned off the gravel. I figured it led to where some rancher filled a tank with water for the cattle I saw, or where he put out salt blocks. Nevertheless, I only went a short way before I checked the map again. It indicated that I had passed the turnoff. 

Obedient to the digital wisdom, I went back to the suggestion and followed it. This was another error in judgment. I should've driven to some unknown destination instead of choosing this road less traveled. Fate tried to warn me. A hundred yards in, the suggestion became rutted. I was going faster than I should've been and the front wheel couldn't turn within the rut to counter the sideways thrust of either my momentum or whatever it may have been that I hit. When I did turn, the bike made a sudden stop and cast itself to the ground. I continued on in a beautiful aerial maneuver that I call the Whaump.

 I slammed to earth and the inertia allowed me to roll to my knees and stand. I then saw that I had judges for my maneuver. The white truck and its occupants had arrived in time to see my acrobatics. When I raised my hands above my head to make sure I was still capable of the action, the judges may have thought I was signaling the end of my maneuver. I didn't get to see the scores they gave because the intense pain in my side spurred a panic at the thought that I had broken every rib on my left side. 

Apparently I hadn't fractured any bones and I was able to lift the bike back onto its wheels and take the seat again. It started, and I followed the pickup which had taken a second fork. After a few hundred yards, the driver stopped and turned around. He pointed to where the suggestion of a road disappeared over a rim and reported that he wouldn't take his truck down that way because it was too steep. He did however say that there was another way that he could take his truck down, and he would show it to me.

We went back to the first suggestion of road and followed it over and down. It became steep and treacherous enough that I let him get way ahead before I resumed course. I remember thinking that this was probably a bad idea--but if he could take his truck down over this trail, it must be ok. I re-evaluated that decision when the steep, rugged, rutted path tipped the bike over a second time. "This is probably just one bad spot on the trail," I thought. "Once I get past this, it will get better. I may have some trouble getting back up this spot on my return, but I think I can do it."

I lifted the bike again and worked my way with fear and trepidation deeper into the abyss. The trail did get better--before it got worse. Two or three drops of the bike later, I found the pickup turned around and stopped. The driver indicated that he couldn't go any farther in his truck because it got rougher and steeper, but that I could take the bike down and there was a four-wheeler trail in the bottom I could take to a better exit.

At this point, knowing that what I had already been through had taxed my abilities, that I was already tired, and considering the idea of venturing into something this maniac thought too treacherous for his rig, I decided that fishing wasn't that important. Escaping this chasm of despair became my priority. I told him I would follow him out. By the time I got turned around, he was gone.

Now I was alone in the 5th or 6th circle of the Inferno without even other tormented souls for company. I knew I would have serious troubles getting out. I was completely right. Thoughts about my guide's devilish motives pestered me, but that course of thinking wasn't getting me out. I started up the trail. The steepness of the way was exceeded only by the menacing incline of the path. The rear wheel slide on the sideways down while the front aimed for the forward up--and we all went down again.

This would probably be a good time to note that the specs on the bike put it at 388 lbs OR 176 kg. It totally felt like the 388 to me. We wrestled once more, even though it was several weight classes above mine. We struggled; we grappled. In the totally unfair match--gravity was totally helping the bike and completely against me--I prevailed in raising it upright. I took my cycling coat off and draped it over the case on the rear of the bike and walked ahead to find a spot to rest should I manage to escape the black hole of defeat that threatened to suck me forever into its eternal gloom. 

Back at the bike, I mounted. It wouldn't start. A new desperation clawed at me. Who could I call to help drag the recalcitrant bike from this abyss? Could I even call? It's unlikely that cell service extends below the third circle of the Inferno. I would have to walk out and find someone. A thought pierced misery's suffocating embrace. I checked. The kickstand was down. I had to leave the bike in gear and hold the brake lever to keep it from slipping backward. The bike would not start when in gear with the kickstand down. That was an easy fix.

I started it and wrenched the throttle to summon the full power of the Bavarian Motor Works. The bike fought and clawed its way forward. We went up and left the roadway, came back onto the roadway, left again. I held on, bouncing and battling to remain upright and on the unruly yellow beast. At last we made it to the designated rest spot where I halted. I walked back down to retrieve my jacket, which had fallen into a swarm of stickers, and the right blinker cover that had broken off in the last fall-down.

We repeated the major portions of this exercise on two more occasions, but the overwhelming despair and been banished by our success at the nadir of our fortune. No longer adversaries, the bike and I combined our abilities to surmount the obstacles and escape the maw of misfortune. By dint of its single cylinder and my willingness to pick it up and try again, we left the hopeless hole behind to regain our place among the unforsaken.

We celebrated with a half-sandwich and several swigs of Livewire for me, and replacing the blinker cover--with a little help from the electrical tap--for the bike.

Was it an adventure or an ordeal? At the time it was an ordeal that swallowed the adventure. Now, I examine the raw wounds on ankle, knee, calf, shin, and thigh, and feel the aches in many muscles--particularly my back--and I can confidently say that it was an ordeal that will be remembered, in time, as a mostly involuntary adventure. Perhaps that's the difference: An adventure is entirely voluntary. An ordeal includes a significantly involuntary element.

Driving to Byzantium

 

Blog post for July 14, 2024

Is Byzantium a place or is it a state of mind?

If you ask that question of those who study poetry seriously, they’re apt to inform you that Byzantium in the poem, “Sailing to Byzantium” is indeed a state of mind, a place of spiritual rebirth for a scarecrow of a man, “a tattered coat upon a stick,” who begs the sages of that city to be the singing-masters of his soul, to gather him “into the artifice of eternity.” I’m sure there’s more, but that’s the nutshell version.

Byzantium, for my purposes, may be a state of mind, but it’s also a place. The place to which I have arrove arriven, arrived. I nailed my 95 theses to the wall, in the form of a polite notice that my days over there in that "no country for old men" had reached an ending point. I had already received the invitation from the sages at Byzantium bidding me welcome to that holy city.

We loaded the four-wheeled transport ‘neath the blaze of western sunshine and slipped the moorings for the open road. The trip, in accordance with my preference, proved entirely uneventful. The drone of the tires, the efforts of the big engine, the forced breeze from the AC, and the euphonious tones of the radio accompanied me. I noticed that I had a tail but I wasn’t alarmed. I was expecting that brown-eyed girl in the family car.

On our arrival, no one greeted us except for the key to the front door. We unloaded as twilight crawled into the darkness of night, and we kept unloading even after our desire to do so had long gone the way of the twilight. We would not have completed the job had not the fils joined us to help with lifting both heavy and light. At long last, hot, tired, and irritable, we crawled into bed to learn that the post 11:pm hours had been appointed by the neighbor below to play a video game with a loud and heavy beat—over and over again. Although the shenanigames eventually ended, the heat went on and on.

After a great breakfast at a local restaurant (Homestead Family Restaurant for $33) and the first trip to the megamart for groceries (where we ran into an old friend), we got serious into the unpacking. A second trip to megamart got us a window fan. A third trip much later in the day revealed that in contrast to our old country home, our car, and the four-wheeled transport, and in common with the new digs, megamart had no AC units for sale. The highlight of the day was Chinese take-out from the New Hong Kong Restaurant. For $13.00 the two of us had a delicious meal with just enough left over for lunch the next day.

Today, we attended with a small congregation who seemed genuinely glad to see us, and got to see another old friend from our original stomping grounds.

Tomorrow, I should meet the rest of the sages and their handlers, as well as some of the men-at-arms, and the high alchemists.

 

Rocinante and the Volcanic Slag

 

I saddled up and loaded the steel steed with requisite equipment and bags, including a sandwich for the road. We passed the first brief leg of the trip racked with doubt and trepidation. If everything went as planned, it would be our longest ride together. Of course, if things went other than as planned, the ride could be our last.

We both took fuel, burdening the visa and lightening the lunchbox. With a half sandwich to fortify my commitment to a potentially rash decision. I revved my buttercup Rocinante onto the open road. Although all the apps augured sunshine, the dark clouds foretold differently and with greater authority. We discovered rain within the hour. It was but a taste of the adventure to come and barely wet my helm.

When we left the busy thoroughfare for the mountain passes, our course attracted nature's eye. On the ascending trails it seemed the storm had already passed, but when we mounted to the high plateau we rode straight into nature's wrath. She struck with increasing ferocity, attempting to sweep Rocinante from the way, forsaking rain in favor of gale force blasts.

Onward, ever onward we rode until at last we reached the mountains of the moon. My buttercup Rocinante rolled against the blast in a high desert of volcanic slag. Heaps of cinders and stately lava domes were decreed in this forsaken landscape above a sunless sea. The dark domes bulged and cracked as if from the force of monstrous aliens arising from the basalt confines with death and destruction for humanity.

At last we escaped the gale of nature's wrath and the valley of the shadow to complete the ride to Eldorado. Fortunately, the weather for the return trip was much better. I met a traveler in Carey, who rode a Bonneville Triumph, and had a nice conversation with him. I saw no maids with dulcimers and I had seen some years before the cave of ice. Nevertheless, you may want to close your eyes with holy dread for I on junk food have fed and found it all very high priced.

Travelin'

 

We traveled through a sea of corn and soybean plants, the prow of our craft plowing the rolling waves of verdure. Mile after mile of lush growth surrounded us as far as the eye could see. To be honest, we couldn't see very far because the corn tended to be taller than the windows of the little white ship in which we sailed.

We were off to the Midwest, crossing Wyld-oming, a Nebrask, and the Wa of Io to traverse the mighty Mrs. Ippi into the Illinois country to Carthage and Nauvoo. We book-ended the tour with jails -- from which we were released on our good looks and charm (or perhaps encouraged to leave with all possible speed would be more accurate).

Everything was interesting, and the sites, along with the company, helped to remind me that there are more important things than concerts and cruises, shows and shops, and so forth. If families are forever, both family and forever deserve our attention in daily allotments. 

We had wild nights of pulse-pounding cribbage games--yes, we live life in the fast lane with no guard rail. Some were run-away affairs and others came down to crucial one point nail-bitters. For the record, I think I came out ahead at 4 wins to the 3 wins by the other players. I left my contact solution at a previous hotel, but our hotel that night at Keokuk was in the Walmart parking lot, so I was able to run over and pick up a small bottle 10 minutes before it closed. I had believed that Walmarts were open 24/7, but that one was closing at 11.

The stories in the car were a high point. The patriarch told of his motorcycle trip at 15 across Idaho into Wyoming, which included a rain storm, a flat tire, a broken spark plug, and an accidental death. There was the time he wore a girl's swimming suit, the incident of the blasting cap in the fireplace, and many more. We even got a few of the stories recorded.

On the ox-cart ride in Nauvoo, we learned that oxen pull so slowly that it may be faster to lay on one's belly and breaststroke across the prairie. The performing missionaries were particularly fun and we had a nice visit with a few of them after one of their performance. Unfortunately, we missed what was supposed to be the best performance that involved all 30 of them because it was moved back an hour and we were out of time. We took a wagon ride behind a team of Percherons and enjoyed the tour. If I have the choice to travel by ox or Percheron, unless it's to my death, I'll choose the latter. We visited Browning's gun shop and a few other places. All of the folks giving the tours were well informed and exemplary hosts for the brief time that we were their guests. The guide at Carthage jail enhanced the tale by walking through the motions in the upper room as he related the story of mob attack, the death of Hiram, wounding of John Taylor, and Joseph's shooting and falling from the window.

I made a command decision to take the detour to Missouri to see Liberty jail. We got there just before closing and the guide took pity on us to take us on the tour. Another win for our triple attack of good looks, wit, and charm -- or an example of the kindness of the folks who do those tours.

I was disappointed that Mound City, MO, doesn't actually contain any mound builder sites, and that I came so close to Cahokia without realizing it and going to see the place. Everything else has to go in the win category for this trip--except, I just remembered, for the breaded pork chop sandwich at the Casey's gas and convenience store in Nauvoo. There's a reason the item is entirely concealed in wrap; even the ketchup and swiss cheese I added could not redeem the hardened shingle between two slices of bun. On the other hand, the Nashville chicken wings at the Maverick station in Rock Springs, Wyoming had exactly the right amount of spice to make me want more. -- You can see that we patronized only the finest dining establishments. I particularly enjoyed some small powdered donuts of a brand with which I was not familiar from a gas station in Missouri where the clerk recognized the Boise State Bronco logo on the patriarch's hat. When we picked up a bag of a familiar brand of similar items the next day near Brigham City, Utah, the clerk congratulated us on our "healthy" breakfast choice. I stared into her green eyes and noted that we refused to compromise when it comes to nutrition.

Those are the highlights of the 2023 trip, our third annual celebration of sharing the same name.

 

Strange things are done in the midday sun

By the men who moil for adventures;

The canyon trails have their secret tales

That would make you spit out your dentures;

The Firehouse ruins have seen strange doin's,

But the strangest they ever did see

Was that day on the brim of the canyon rim

With my dad, my son, and me.

(With apologies to Robert Service)

The picture above was taken from a point part way up the canyon wall. Notice how the near wall on the left has a nice gradual slant to it. We couldn't get to that. Our path--and I use the term "path" only in the generic sense of what we left behind--went nearly straight up the canyon wall.The few spots that had a hint of a gradual slope were more thickly brushed than the Withywindle and twice as mean. Somewhere along the way I barked up my shin, but I don't know whether it was on rock or a limb. Anyway, we survived.

I spent most of the week around Blanding, UT, with a trip to Moab in the mix as well. We saw some cool ruins, got to look around in the house where my dad was born, tried to get to Wilson Mesa, and got to spend time together. Did you know that you can play cribbage with poker chips? If you've forgotten the cribbage board, you can. However, I don't recommend trying it with a pinochle deck. We picked up a cheap deck of regular cards at the dollar store but we couldn't find a cribbage board. In fact, only one person we asked even knew what cribbage is. None of the store people knew what it was.

I've included a little more of the tale in my newsletter. (You can click the newsletter tab at the top of the page to sign up for the letter).

________

On the writing front, Truth in Flames is burning toward the exciting conclusion. I can count the remaining chapters on three fingers or less. Fire and flame has been a constant theme in this 5th installment in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series and the saga combines various types of flame with the fire for freedom.

In reading, I've finished Speak Like Churchill, Stand Like Lincoln by James C. Humes (I have included notes from this in the newsletter), and The Vampyre by John Polidori. I'm still reading A Man Called Intrepid and a couple others.

I've missed a couple weeks - but with good reason. We were having a hot time in the old town. The old town was in another Washington County, but not my Washington County. The temperature there rose quickly to 106 degrees and stuck there like the needle of the fuel gauge on the old Dodge Dart. Pardon me while I digress. After some driving, the needle on that fuel gauge would drop from full, or from whatever level I had filled it in the usual manner until it reached a quarter tank. It would remain at a quarter tank as long as I kept driving. I knew that the next time I drove it, I could go anywhere, but then I would have to gas up after the trip. I could go anywhere on a quarter tank: One trip to school and back, a trip to Caldwell and back, wherever. It didn't matter how far I went. The needle would stay at a quarter tank until I returned, at which point it would measure empty--there was no in between, no 1/8th of a tank, no almost empty. It went from a quarter tank straight to empty. The car would go anywhere within the realm of my travels, near or far, on a quarter tank.

Back to my point -- it was hot. It was hot every day until the day of our return. Then it rained. The temperature over the pavement was 111 degrees, according to the information provided by my car. 

We walked all over the college campus and made multiple trips to mega mart as well as Smith's. I hadn't been in a Smith's for years, as they had all pulled out of Idaho well before the turn of the century. The motel represented that it had breakfast for us. It did not. Stale madeleines in plastic wrappers and old, brown bananas do not a breakfast make. 

We did find some good places to eat. A place called Capeletti's Restaurant turned us away one night. By which I mean that we hadn't made a reservation and there was a 25 minute wait--and I know that 25 minutes really means at least 40 minutes. So we made a reservation for the following night. I recommend the Caprese Bruschetta. The bone-in pork chop came with real mashed potatoes, delicious squash, onions, and some other sauteed vegetable that I can't recall. The chop itself filled most of the plate and slanted like Vasquez Rocks from atop the mound of mashed potatoes to the edge of the plate. I would certainly have it again.

If you prefer your meat ground and nestled within a bun among tasty sauce and toppings, I direct you to Morty's Cafe. Morty's specialized in hamburgers. Wife and daughter had the Iconic burger. I had the Hawaiian burger. Certainly among the best burgers I've ever had. Juicy and delicious. I would like to go there again.

In addition to eating and going from campus to stores and back again, we enjoyed the park on the bluff overlooking the town. The pictures above are from the Narrows and the picture below is the Arch.

The Arch is small. It's a very short hike up to the right and above the Narrows. The journey to the Narrows is more of a short walk, and the rock formation squeezes together such that it would be difficult for even a starving child to make the full passage through and up the stairway of broken rock.

We visited Brigham Young's winter home and took the 25 minute tour. Our guide was a gentleman from Rigby, Idaho who had moved south to retire.

Perhaps the best part of the stay was the trip to the visitor's center. The temple renovation won't be complete until next year. We met a wonderful sister missionary from Rigby, Idaho who has only been out for a month. She explained the role of the cannon in building the temple and how the lightning strike on the anniversary of Brigham Young's death resulted in the change he had directed for the temple's cupola. She also directed us to some touching videos about some missionaries who had been featured on the show The District. That proved to be a great way to cap our visit to the domain of saints, students, and sunshine.

I also completed a re-read of Warlord of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I should do a full review on it later.

The Last Jet I Flew...and some thoughts looking toward a new year

Here we are. The new year stretches like an immense scroll of blank paper before us, clean and untouched, disappearing into the ether, awaiting the ink and smudges of our daily struggle. The past year stretches out behind us, bearing the print of our thoughts and actions, stained with spills, strikethroughs, blackouts, tears (and tears), rips, beautiful prose, memories (good and bad), pages upon which we would dwell fondly in our thoughts, and pages we would like to forget. Each day is really such spot upon the great scroll of life; we just give it special significance with the turn of the new year. 

The new year is full of promise; we will be better than we have been; we will improve. January begins pregnant with hope and resolution. Before February, most of the hope and all of the resolution expire, stillborn in the face of winter's grim and frigid reality, and our recognition that we would rather embrace our weaknesses than fearlessly forge them into strengths. 

We imagine this:

We discover that it's really going to be like this:

Like water, we choose the path of least resistance. Having followed that path so many times before, the way is worn and easy, with sides too steep and slick to easily overcome. But this year might just be different. Small goals are still goals. Gradual achievement by small increments builds eventually to lofty attainment. Of course, procrastination can be very satisfying in the short term. You decide.

The conclusion of the travelogue
The last jet I flew in was from San Francisco to Boise. I can't remember much about the flight. I think maybe I had the cranapple juice. We arrived at night, several hours later than the original itinerary had promised. My son picked us up. He drove us to my parents' house where we had left our car. We had a nice visit; we shared some of the high points of the trip before loading up and heading home. 

That drive was the last leg of the trip; it was the most difficult. We had risen before 7:00 a.m in France. That was 11:00 p.m. in Boise (of the day before). We arrived back home after midnight. We were awake for over 25 hours (or I was; I'm pretty sure my wife slept on the plane from France). That's not something that I haven't done before (or more plainly stated: I have stayed awake longer than that before). I don't know if it was the travel or what, but I was completely exhausted. So a good nap during the drive would have done me a world of good...except that I was the one driving. I think I did sleep for a millisecond during the drive; I'm pretty sure I had a dream during that minute foray into the twilight zone of consciousness. I've never understood how people can fall asleep while driving...now I understand.

What a great year!

An Unscheduled Visit to Mountain Home

The clash of the dark cars in France will have to wait. I have another, more recent travel story to tell.

The day was hotter than a linebacker's armpit--but, fortunately, much drier. Wife and daughter were enjoying the air conditioning. The other gal, who was not quite twenty years old, suddenly got cranky; about 12 miles out of Mountain Home, she blew a hose. We coasted to the side of the road. The small by-pass hose at the front of the V8 spewed coolant from a small hole. I knew that my dad could fix that temporarily with electrical tape...but I would have to wait for it to cool, and I would have to be able to get it started again.

Within minutes, the county sheriff himself pulled in behind us. He wanted to know if we could move any farther off the freeway. Nope. The engine wouldn't turn over (we were going to need a tow). He stayed behind us with his lights flashing until the tow truck arrived...and pulled over the guy who refused to change lanes for the tow truck.

My awesome insurance agent answered my phone call; he said that my policy did include towing; the first twenty miles would be free. I confirmed the number that I needed to call for the roadside assistance. I called the number; the tow would not be free because I had not been in an accident. (What? Maybe I planned this mishap?) Anyway. They would find an available tow truck and have me pulled to the nearest shop...in Boise. 

Long story short...we waited an hour and a half for the tow truck. We were towed to a place in Mountain Home; the insurance company had assured me the place was open on Saturday. The tow truck driver assured me that they were not open on Saturday; he was right. I decided to have the vehicle towed to my brother-in-law's house about ten miles out of Mountain Home. On the way, the insurance company called to confirm that I would say they had provided me with excellent service. I declined to so classify it. The tow was great...but that was it.

I think there is something about the Mountain Home area that messes with my vehicles; it's sort of a vehicular Bermuda Triangle for me. Every major car problem I remember having while on far travels has been within Elmore county: December 1981, car totaled on the highway from Fairfield a few miles outside of Mountain Home. August 1995, fuel pump died on the freeway between the Mountain Home exits. August 2003, Jeep overheated and engulfed in flame outside Prairie in Elmore County. Add this August 2017 incident to the tally. Maybe it's a good thing that the bad things happen there. It's not outrageously far from help. 

My brother-in-law, Dan, is what I call "a car guy" and an extremely helpful, nice guy--and his wife kept us in cool drinks during the stay. At his place, he, my dad, and I (by which I mean that I mostly watched, and held the flashlight) replaced the culprit hose. We also discovered that the rig would run...but the battery was bad...and the housing near the hose was leaking more than a little. He advised me not to drive it home. My parents gave us a ride to their place, and let us borrow their pickup to get the rest of the way home--delayed only by 5 or 6 hours as a result of the unscheduled stop; we got in about 11:00 p.m.

Fast forward one week. Dan had the rig repaired, and enough juice forced into the battery to give me at least one start. I actually got four starts out of it before it was completely dead again a couple days later. New battery time. I charged it overnight; it started. I drove to the auto parts store, bought a new battery and replaced it in the parking lot. I also got a new oil pressure switch (which I suspected was bad because the needle in the gauge bounces at times like a cheerleader on speed). I would discover to my dismay, later in the day, that I didn't have any sockets that were both deep and wide enough to remove the existing oil pressure thingy. The new doohickey required a 13/16 socket; that was too small for the bad one. After removing a front tire and the cover inside the wheel well, three trips to town, four new sockets, and a new socket extension, I was triumphant in making the replacement. I spent more on new tools than the part itself cost. An inch and 1/16 was the size required.