Following a main seal replacement and with less than 24 hours to departure, satchmo and Amskeptic roll the Vanagon's engine in to place.
They're not worried. They've done this before.
I watched.
The next morning, having convinced Amskeptic that I knew at least one road that was better than the Interstates he usually frequents, we all departed; Amskeptic and I taking "my" road southwards, satchmo westwards on a different mission.
Amskeptic made it clear that his was a solo run: "NO CANADIANS", he said. Besides, "I have to change my oil in Lewiston." Right. I left him at a turnout a few minutes from satchmo's place, a clever plan forming in my head.
See, I've done this road ("my road") several times before in various vehicles and I envisioned a perfect spot to shoot Amskeptic and the BobD along the way.
I fuelled up in Lewiston and, convinced that Amskeptic was still flat on his back at the turnout draining the last of his oil, I made a quick pleasure stop at a motorcycle store and proceeded towards my photo appointment with the BobD a hundred miles away.
Eventually, I found the spot, unloaded the cameras, made a few rehearsal shots, broke out the binoculars and a Sunny-D and settled down to wait for him to appear in the distance.
I waited.
I waited some more.
I timed the duration from when I first saw a vehicle in the distance to when it passed me. Ten minutes.
I shot some more rehearsals.
I watched some birds, but quickly returned the binoculars to the tiny bit of road where he would first appear, afraid I'd miss him.
I waited some more.
I ate some grapes.
He never appeared. I waited a full hour, convinced every minute that he was just around the corner.
But no.
He'd decided that the only way to make absolutely SURE that I wouldn't dog his tracks was to cancel his mythological oil change and blow outta Dodge, fast. All that time I waited? He was already long gone.
So I kept going. ALONE.
The closer I got to Maupin, the worse the weather. By late evening, it was closing in fast.
My just-installed side window got the leak-testing of its life. I drove the last two hours to Maupin in rain as heavy as I've ever seen, surrounded on all sides by lightning. By the time I pulled in to the campsite, it was completely dark and, as I rolled in, a weird Quasimodo figure attacked my windshield, yelling threats, hurling insults, pounding on Frito's hood.
Frito was carrying the beer.
