Premonition

 

Premonition
By Dave Wright

Hurricane Ridge, Olympic National Park

I’ve never been a big believer in premonition, nor have I been particularly intuitive, but while driving our camper on our trip to Washington state last September, I felt this nagging suspicion that we were going to experience a breakdown.

1,700 miles later we arrived at Eric’s home without incident. Quit your worrying, Dave.

Then, on a side trip to Olympic National Park, a noise like we were` dragging Marley’s chain rang out from beneath the camper. I pulled over on a narrow, winding road east of the park to discover a strap that held our water tank had rusted out. We had just filled up with water, so the tank hung precariously beneath the coach. I needed to drain the tank, and then lay in the swamp I had just created to attach the strap with a jerry-rigged piece of wire. Sue was impressed that I didn’t reach for the duct tape—usually my first choice for emergency repairs. Back on the road. Maybe this was the breakdown, and it was now behind us.

We pulled into Heart O’ the Hills campground on the north side of the park, which is a first-come-first-served campground. After having worried that there may not be an available site, we found that since school was out, it was only ten percent occupied. So many choices! Find the perfect location—a spacious site away from other campers, preferably on an outside loop. C206. Excellent. Check in, pay, and park.

“Look out for that post,” said Sue as I nursed the camper into the site. “It’s right behind you.”

“Gotcha.”

In order to level the rig, I had to back onto a pyramid stacked with of every chuck we owned…and it still wasn’t level. I hate sleeping with blood rushing to my head.

“This is stupid,” I said. “All I want is to step on the parking brake and pull out a bottle of wine. We’re moving to a site that’s closer to level.”

“But we just paid for this site.”

“I’ve got a needle nose pliers,” I said. “I’ll sneak the ticket from behind the plexiglass reservation board and replace it with a new one when we find a better site.”

I backed off the chucks. Bang! I hit the post. “Dang!” I flew out of the driver’s seat to check the damage: a dented bumper.

Sue remained mercifully silent. She didn’t need to remind me that I should have pulled forward off the chucks. Oh well. Maybe a dented bumper constituted a breakdown.

The next morning, we drove to the top of Hurricane Ridge to look down on a calming mist that clung to the mountains. Gorgeous. All was well with the world.

But by late afternoon, while driving to Lake Crescent a few miles west of Port Angeles, I stepped on the brakes and the right front wheel growled at us. We limped back to camp, but it was after five—too late to arrange a repair. Have a glass of wine or two. The next morning, I called every shop in Port Angeles. First call, No answer. Second call. No answer. Third call. Answering machine: “No new clients, next available appointment six weeks out.” Last call. “No openings for a month.”

“I guess we’ll just have to keep going,” I groaned.

Then, a miracle! No noise as we headed south to the Hoh Rain Forest. “Lucky, we didn’t get an appointment,” I said to Sue, “and have to sit around all day waiting to fix a problem that didn’t exist.

The miracle only lasted until we got to Kalaloch Beach National Forest Campground where we ground to a halt, took a hit of bourbon, and collapsed into lawn chairs overlooking the sunset. I tried to remain calm, but it was Thursday night—only one weekday left to get service before we wanted to leave for home on Monday morning. Maybe we could make it home. It’s only brakes. I tossed and turned all night, imagining the drive home through the mountains, downshifting in the slow lane, smelling metal on metal for two thousand miles. I knew that would have been poor decision.

Friday morning, I started calling truck repair shops near Eric’s home in Ridgefield.

No answer but, “Leave a message.”

“Sorry. We’re booked.”

Then, the words every stranded motorist wants to hear: “I can get you in today.”

Three and a half hours later, after winding and grinding through the hills of Washington state, we arrived at Ultimate Truck Service. By five o’clock, our checking account was decimated but we were safely on the road.

Let me know if you’d like to schedule a palm reading.

Dave

 

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