I haven't done a "Having a Great Time..." post in a while--life does have this tendency to get in the way. I've been meaning to tell this story, because, in retrospect, it truly is funny. At the time, it wasn't, but fifteen years of perspective helps a lot.
Have you ever been to Markleeville, California?
Oh, you haven't even heard of Markleeville, California? You're in good company. I had never heard of it, either, until one particular day in June 1994, when I found myself there in some crazy circumstances.
My parents had loaded up their brand-new minivan to take my brother and I on a great road trip. We started at our home in Folsom, and made our way to Salt Lake City, Utah to visit family for a few days. After this, we set off for southern Utah to see Bryce and Zion Canyons. We even made a wonderful day trip to the Grand Canyon. On our way back to California, we stopped for a night in Las Vegas, so Aaron and I could play copious ammounts of Skee-Ball in the arcade and marvel at the gaudy oppulance of the MGM Grand Hotel.
It was a great trip. The Grand Canyon is, of course, incredible. Bryce Canyon was an absolute jewel. Though Aaron and I certainly had our moments, there was minimal family drama. We took a ton of pictures and had a wonderful experience.
On our last day, we set off from Vegas towards home, driving through the Sierra Nevadas with thoughts of privacy, our comfy beds, and going from one shared hotel bathroom to three seperate bathrooms at home. It was a long drive, but our van was spacious, and we had books, music and games to keep us occupied. I had my journal (this was my pre-blogging life). All was going well.
Then came the rock.
Driving through the Sierras is tricky--it's all winding mountain roads. So when Dad saw a medium-sized rock in the middle of our lane up ahead, he had three choices:
1. Swerve to the right. Hit a large, solid wall of rock.
2. Swerve to the left. Possibly go over a cliff, or at the very least, get hit by oncoming traffic.
3. Drive over it.
He chose Door Number 3.
The loud, metallic scraping sound jarred us all out of our thoughts.
"What was that?" cried Aaron and I.
Turns out, our minivan was lower to the ground than we really new...and one innocent little rock in the road had ripped a hole--in our gas tank.
Mom, Aaron and I all watched, wide-eyed, behind us, the trail of fuel we left on the road behind us. Dad cursed under his breath and gripped the steering wheel harder.
Then he took the turn-off to Markleeville.
We stopped at the only garage in town and explained our predicament to the mechanic. There wasn't much he could do but plug the hole up best he could and send us to Lake Tahoe for more complete service. In the meantime, we had a few minutes in Markleeville to buy fresh drinks and a couple of postcards for the scrapbook.
I think the mechanic used a little bit of Silly Putty and some gum he'd been chewing to plug up our gas tank. We put some more gas in, and wearily got on our way.
By the time we reached Lake Tahoe, our nerves were frayed. There was still a small leak of gas behind us as we drove along. Dad pulled into Harrod's and dashed inside, leaving Mom with Aaron and I to watch the car. Mom said, "Let's get out for a minute," and we stood a few feet away, terrified that at any moment, a careless person would flick a cigarrette out their car window, sending our new car and all of our luggage up in flames.
Needless to say, it wasn't fun.
Finally Dad returned, with paperwork and a car key in one hand. He had managed to secure the very last rental car Harrod's had to offer, and had gotten directions to the nearest Lincoln/Mercury dealership. He drove the van, with Mom driving the rental car behind him with Aaron and I.
Of course, being the last car available, the rental was a two-door. We crammed all of our luggage into the trunk, and Aaron and I climbed into the back, our knees up to our eyeballs, to make the two-hour drive back to Folsom in grim silence.
Never has home looked so good.
The happy ending is that a few days later, Mom and Dad drove back to Tahoe to return the rental car and collect our van--complete with a brand-new gas tank. We all escaped from the ordeal unscathed...though Aaron and I were stiff for a couple of days.
From "The Anxious Traveler." Originally posted on December 14, 2008.
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