car trouble
A friend and I kidnapped another friend Tuesday, and whisked him away to Red Feather for an afternoon picnic of grapes, cherries, strawberries, jicama, and other produce, Tilamook cheeses (extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack), a bakery fresh loaf of crusty Italian bread, and sparkling cranberry juice. Plus kefir and croutons. We sat at a shaded table just a few yards from the lake. Laughter and conversation eddied around us, but we were wrapped in our own, in each other. One friend is newly returned from China, the other (the one we stole away) moves to England in less than a week. This was a magical, time-resistant day.
After the picnic, I hunted for the turn-off for the Shambhala Mountain Center. Turned around and searched some more. Rinse and repeat. I fueled up at the tiny gas station - pumps so old that they can't be programmed with today's gas prices, taped over with signs that declare I must double the dollar amount shown to get the actual amount owed. The fellow behind the counter, balding and covered in age-spots, laughed and pointed me in the right direction.
Down the mountain six miles and a turn onto a well-maintained dirt road. Well-maintained with a low-grade incline. I braked as we neared a curve that had a steeper incline. The pedal hit the floor. The car didn't slow. I pumped the pedal. Nothing. Then pulled the emergency brake as I steered to the shoulder. Even the emergency brake was too free. It did the job, but not quickly. Still, the car rolled to an easy stop 4.5 miles from the Shambhala Center, further from Red Feather or Livermore. We checked our mobiles, but there's no service here. We didn't expect any. We moved the picnic basket to the trunk. Before we began walking, a car drove by. I flagged it down. The woman hadn't room for all of us, but agreed to take me to the center so I could call for a tow and a rescue. She then picked up my friends, and drove them down to the center, as well.
I called a tow. I called a friend to pick us up. Both estimated 90 minutes till they arrived. My friends had never seen the great Stupa, so off we went, cameras in hand, good cheer and laughter flowing from us. There were fuzzy bumble bees on the flowers along our path. There were craggy rocks in stark relief against the blue, blue sky. Butterscotch filled the air as sugar pines released their musk. And there was the Stupa. The colors so bright, the painted patterns like candy. The offerings ranged from a mirrored Eddie Bauer button, to a five dollar bill, to a child's plastic whistle. Inside the Stupa a lone man sat meditating before the great statue of Buddha. We lingered only a short time before heading back toward the car.
Again we were lucky. After no more than half a mile on the road, we flagged down another vehicle. This woman could, and did, fit all of us. She dropped us at my car.
My friend who had agreed to play knight was there, waiting. Had been for twenty-minutes. The tow truck arrived within another twenty. Then a forty-five mile drive back to town, pay and tip the tow-truck driver, and take our knight to dinner for his gallant rescue.
It was a good day. And the people I was with were exceedingly good sports about my brakes failing and our plans turning from their original intent. No one panicked. No one complained. I love my friends.
After the picnic, I hunted for the turn-off for the Shambhala Mountain Center. Turned around and searched some more. Rinse and repeat. I fueled up at the tiny gas station - pumps so old that they can't be programmed with today's gas prices, taped over with signs that declare I must double the dollar amount shown to get the actual amount owed. The fellow behind the counter, balding and covered in age-spots, laughed and pointed me in the right direction.
Down the mountain six miles and a turn onto a well-maintained dirt road. Well-maintained with a low-grade incline. I braked as we neared a curve that had a steeper incline. The pedal hit the floor. The car didn't slow. I pumped the pedal. Nothing. Then pulled the emergency brake as I steered to the shoulder. Even the emergency brake was too free. It did the job, but not quickly. Still, the car rolled to an easy stop 4.5 miles from the Shambhala Center, further from Red Feather or Livermore. We checked our mobiles, but there's no service here. We didn't expect any. We moved the picnic basket to the trunk. Before we began walking, a car drove by. I flagged it down. The woman hadn't room for all of us, but agreed to take me to the center so I could call for a tow and a rescue. She then picked up my friends, and drove them down to the center, as well.
I called a tow. I called a friend to pick us up. Both estimated 90 minutes till they arrived. My friends had never seen the great Stupa, so off we went, cameras in hand, good cheer and laughter flowing from us. There were fuzzy bumble bees on the flowers along our path. There were craggy rocks in stark relief against the blue, blue sky. Butterscotch filled the air as sugar pines released their musk. And there was the Stupa. The colors so bright, the painted patterns like candy. The offerings ranged from a mirrored Eddie Bauer button, to a five dollar bill, to a child's plastic whistle. Inside the Stupa a lone man sat meditating before the great statue of Buddha. We lingered only a short time before heading back toward the car.
Again we were lucky. After no more than half a mile on the road, we flagged down another vehicle. This woman could, and did, fit all of us. She dropped us at my car.
My friend who had agreed to play knight was there, waiting. Had been for twenty-minutes. The tow truck arrived within another twenty. Then a forty-five mile drive back to town, pay and tip the tow-truck driver, and take our knight to dinner for his gallant rescue.
It was a good day. And the people I was with were exceedingly good sports about my brakes failing and our plans turning from their original intent. No one panicked. No one complained. I love my friends.