48. Pearl Takes Me Westward - By: Ron “Pops” Collar

The following ‘venture is written by my old man, Pops, as I call him. He also goes by a slew of other names that my brother and I started calling each other and him years ago, “James, Leeroy, Jones, Ortiz”. They can be used interchangeably or in any combination therein. I guess we were young and thought it funny. Now, we’re older, and still think it’s funny. The following is the account of Leeroy Jones Ortiz, AKA “Pops” as he drove Pearl westward from Arkansas to California. If you don’t know Ron Collar, also known as “Iron Ron” to a slew of my friends - you’ll have to ask him how he earned that one, it’s a story worthy of its own pad of paper. If you don’t know him, it won’t seem as wild to you that he drove a flooded and resurrected van 1,900 miles to the west coast. But if you do know him, you know that is seemingly one of the last things he would ever want to do. Pops is one of, if not the most, trustworthy men I know. If he gives you his word, you can count on it, no matter what. He’s a man who knows what likes and likes what he knows. Hunting, fishing, golfing, and producing legendary grilled salmon from his green egg out in his cook shack are some of his favorite endeavors. One thing you won’t find him opting in for though is traveling. It lends itself to too many what-ifs and unknowns - all of the uncontrollable variables that coincide with venturing out on the open road. And with that, I submit my platform of storytelling and let the white-bearded Iron Ron take the helm for this one…

Pearl Takes Me Westward

Written by: Ron Collar

 “My youngest son, Mason, asked me to write about my experience with the Black Pearl for his bearded ventures blog. Even though I was the editor for my high school newspaper and journalism minor in college I don’t think my writing skills will match those of Mason’s. He has shared some stories in this blog that have been riveting and have placed me there with him while reading them. As most of you now know Mason and Hannah were married on November 13, in Marietta, Georgia. They decided that they would experience something different and Hannah would become a travel nurse and Mason would join her wherever she landed and perform his work duties remotely.

Hannah’s first 13-week contract was going to be in San Luis Obispo, California. She started in late January. They decided to travel to the destination in her vehicle together which left them with only one vehicle in California. Sometime before they left Little Rock, we were having a conversation about that situation and my new daughter-in-law asked me if I would consider driving Mason’s Ford Transit camper van to California a few weeks after they settled into their new surroundings. Well, who can say no to their new daughter-in-law? They offered to put me up for a couple of nights and fly me home.

Keep in mind this was the same van Mason lived out of for six months during his western adventure trout fishing expedition. This is also the same van that has well over 170,000 miles on it and has been submerged in 4-5 feet of water. (See previous bearded venture blog for more details about that). I kept the Black Pearl at my home in central Arkansas after they had departed for California to become a little bit familiar with it. I performed a little work on it while in my possession and had a few things checked out prior to leaving so I could be somewhat comfortable making the 1868 mile westward journey to California. I had several thoughts before I left whether or not I had made a rational decision to deliver the Black Pearl to California. I was honestly beginning to have some doubts about Pearl’s capabilities. Those of you who know me know that I always have a plan and I work my plan so there are no or very few surprises. What could possibly go wrong with a high mileage van that had been mostly underwater? Granted, Sullivan’s Automotive had spent several weeks replacing all the fluids, draining the gas tank, and replacing the computer in the van trying to get it rolling down the road once again. They had done an admirable job. It had several creaks and rattles and had 4 different warning lights flashing on it. I was told don’t worry about those they were just electronic issues and there really weren’t any problems. The low tire pressure warning light, the door ajar warning light, and the engine light came off and on at their discretion. I knew the tires weren’t low, no doors were ajar and the engine seemed to be running reasonably well.     

My van adventure began on the morning of February 23. My first goal was to drive to Oklahoma City and spend the night with my brother-in-law, John Clark. With friends in Fort Smith and John in Oklahoma City, I figured if something did go haywire with the van I would be able to get someone to come get me. I figured if the van could make the 5-hour trek to OKC it might have a chance to make it all the way to California. The first day was great. Driving 65 miles an hour so as not to push Pearl too hard the first day I arrived in OKC and John took me out to a great little Mexican restaurant for dinner. Piece of cake right? The next morning I awoke to about an inch of sleet on the roads. Did I mention I hate driving on snow or ice? Not because of me of course but all the other want to be NASCAR drivers on the road. I pulled out about 9:30 am so the other traffic could clear some and maybe wear down some of the sleet. My front tires were spinning on flat ground before I got out of John’s neighborhood. Oh, joy. I made it to I-40 and headed West. The big trucks had worn one fairly clear lane on the freeway however most would pass me on the still icy side because I was only driving about 40mph. I learned that gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles didn’t help much. You just come to expect that you weren’t going to be able to see much until they got around you. Thank goodness I had replaced the windshield wipers before I left Little Rock. The road became fairly clear after reaching Texas. When I exited the freeway at Tucumcari, New Mexico, to get some expensive gas I tapped the brakes as I was rolling down the exit. Something didn’t feel right. The van was slowing but the brakes weren’t responsive. I was pressing hard but not stopping as it should. After conversing with Mason I decide to try to make it to Albuquerque where I could find a brake shop the next morning to check things out. I made it to Albuquerque that night and was glad to see the motel room that had been reserved. I found an Applebee’s and enjoyed a nice dinner. I just kept a lot of distance between myself and the vehicles in front of me while on my way. The next morning came and I looked outside and screamed NOOOOO! It was following me. Another two inches of snow had fallen during the night. I found a brake shop the next morning and they agreed to look at the van to determine what was causing the sluggish brakes. After a couple of hours, they determined they didn’t have the expertise to repair what they thought was the problem and didn’t have the parts required anyway. They suggested I take it to a Ford dealership. Well, we found one that could give us a diagnosis that day. Only one problem…..it was 25 miles northwest of me towards the foothills where the roads were even slicker than they were in town. Of course, the Ford dealership two miles down the road couldn’t fit me in until the following week. I was seriously beginning to question my sanity in accepting this challenge.

I finally arrived at the Ford dealership in Chalmers, NM. They were able to get me in fairly quickly just as they had promised. After about three hours they came to see me. I was expecting a fix to be in the four-digit range since it was a dealership and they knew they had me in a pickle. Prayers were answered. I was told they had performed a complete diagnostic check on the brakes and couldn’t find anything to fix. Whew!!! Apparently, the brake shop unintentionally fixed whatever the problem was without realizing it. Do I believe in miracles? Absolutely! The first shop acknowledged they felt what I was feeling in the brakes and couldn’t fix it and the dealership couldn’t find anything wrong. Don’t ask me???? All I know was that after paying $82 to check the brakes, they were now working properly. As Willie Nelson sang about… ”On the road again”. I’m off again. I grabbed a quick Chick-Fil-A sandwich and continued my journey westward.  

I drove late and made it all the way to Flagstaff, Arizona. Did I mention Flagstaff had received 12 inches of that white stuff the day before? It was still around when I arrived. While entering Flagstaff around 8 pm I spotted a familiar sight……A Cracker Barrel Restaurant. I was famished. The sandwich I had grabbed at 2 pm had long disappeared. After pulling off the freeway I discovered the side roads were still covered in snow and pretty slick. There weren’t a half dozen people in the restaurant because they close at 9 pm. I ordered catfish with pinto beans, turnip greens, and cornbread. My meal tasted great even though I discovered they prepare turnip greens a little different out West than they do in the South. I must have looked pretty beat down and pitiful while eating my meal. I was exhausted after my hectic day. I found out that some wonderful person had paid for my meal when I approached the cash register to pay. I learned if I ever needed a free meal all you have to do was enter a restaurant looking beat down, whooped, tired and depressed and God just may deliver in the form of some kind soul buying your meal. I’ve never experienced that before in my life. I’ll have to pass that good deed along at some point very soon. I splurged on a Hampton Inn that night and got a very good night of sleep not having to think and worry about the brakes. I was reminded the next morning that the further West I went the higher the gas prices were. I filled up for $4.49 a gallon and was determined to make it to my destination that evening. Did I mention it was eight degrees in Flagstaff that morning? Ccccold!  

I soon entered California where the temperatures started rising as well as the gas prices. I was now seeing $5.59 a gallon. California is different, very different. I did see some pretty country along the way and hit my first traffic jam in Bakersfield, California, the hometown of Merle Haggard… “Okie from Muskogee”. I was surprised at how much agricultural land was between Bakersfield and San Luis Obispo. I spotted fields of orange trees, lemon trees, spinach, lettuce, almond trees, and acres upon acres of grape vineyards. I thought all the wine country was further North. I was wrong. I pulled into Mason’s and Hannah’s place that evening around 7:30 pm and was greeted with a couple of homemade pizzas. Their hospitality was simply divine. I felt like a King. They even put me up at the local Motel 6 since they aren’t allowed to host overnight guests in their 600 sq. ft. studio apartment. Guess what? Motel 6 actually left the light on for me. The next couple of days were spent sightseeing, hiking, and sampling some of the very good local “expensive” cuisine. California is pricey and that doesn’t go well for a natural-born cheapskate. Mason took me to the airport Tuesday morning for my return flight home to Arkansas. I do love the Black Pearl however I’m really glad I don’t have to drive her for a while. Over and out.”

 

47. Wind, The Ultimate Sculptor

White Sands National Park

“Do you want to go?” she asked looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Really?!” I wanted to make sure it was something she was actually down for and not just saying that because she knew I wanted to go. “I mean, why not?” she retorted matter of factly. “Let’s GOOOO!” I hollered out as we barreled down interstate 10 towards El Paso. That’s as west as West Texas gets. More Mexico than Texas some may argue. It takes a special person to want to tack on 2 additional hours to a 3 day, 1800 mile, 25 hour road trip to swing through a national park that wasn’t on their radar until the day before. Not to mention that the trip had already been prolonged thanks to a faulty gasket in the water pump of our Jeep. But she was down. 

The alarm went off well before sunrise and in that dark hotel room in Las Cruces, New Mexico there loomed the always present first thought in those earliest of morning hours, do we reeeeeeeally want to do this or do we roll back over? That’s always my first thought anyway. Maybe some hardened marine or self-disciplined guru who salivates at the thought of cold showers doesn’t fight those thoughts, but I am neither. I enjoy the pleasures of a hot shower and a warm bed. So, for me, it’s always my first thought no matter how excited I am for the adventure. But, nevertheless, my feet hit the floor and hers weren’t far behind me.

The morning’s first light began illuminating the angry, sharp mountain range north of Las Cruses as Hannah and I drove towards White Sands National Park. I’ve only heard this park referenced once or twice in my life and it was only by some of those who have traveled the most. Never was it a raving like other places I had heard about over and over again. However, we were 60 miles away and I don’t plan on taking any weekend trips to south eastern New Mexico in the coming decade. So, onward we trekked. Some of the roads reminded me of the entrance to Death Valley National Park - a long slow climb up to the desert mountain pass and after cresting it, miles and miles of the expansive desert landscape lay rolled out before us. Brown. Different shades of brown. It’s a unique beauty that I’m sure is revered differently by those who see it differently. Much like a friend of mine from Texas once told me that he felt “claustrophobic” driving through the hills of Arkansas. Beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder. But I can respect this beauty. It’s not the beauty I wish to wake up to every day, but I respect it and call it beauty nonetheless. 

The temperature gauge on the dash read 35 degrees as the “blood-orange” sun morphed the morning sky from an ignited pink to rays of lemon yellow and light blue. The desert lands hold some of the most magnificent sunrises and sunsets. It’s almost as if the sky takes up the slack for the earth’s lack of color variance in these places and says, “I got you, watch this.” We rolled on, each mile looking like the last as our eyes continued to be drawn upwards to the ever changing colors filtering across the morning sky. And there it was, the sign reading “White Sands National Park - Next Left”. It was as if God used the spin the globe and where your your finger lands method when choosing where to place these white sands in the middle of this desert land. No seeming rhyme or reason, this is just the place where his finger landed on the globe. Pulling up to the entrance, the park ranger greeted us. Small talk led to the weather and he informed us it had snowed the day before. That would’ve seemed hard to believe for this area except for the fact that the temperature gauge still read just a few degrees above freezing. The windy roads began to reveal a snow white sand between desert shrubs on either side. We came to a stop at the end of the road and looked out at what appeared to be a bleached white Sahara Desert. 

It is wild. Truly, a uniqueness that I have never seen in all my travels. There’s something special about sand dunes. I don’t mean the sand dunes at the beach. I mean when it’s miles of just sand, no vegetation, just sand. Those sand dunes are something that I don’t know how to precisely put into words. Maybe another post, another time, I’ll attempt it. But for now, I’ll just say that they are a beauty unlike any other on this earth. They don’t take your breath like the giants rising out of Glacier National Park or Yosemite. The aren’t as diverse as the terrain of Yellowstone National Park. They aren’t as far stretching as the peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park. They are unique. They are a softer beauty. If granite mountains were a finely crafted walnut dresser with it’s sharp precise corners and edges, sand dunes would be something done on a lathe. Something with flowing curves and rounded angles that mirrored each other. They are perfect. Flawless in design and shape. Better yet, the wind is constantly erasing the imperfections that man leaves behind, our footsteps. They remain only until the next strong wind storm comes and then as we had never been there, each footprint is swept away. The wind, constantly mending, constantly molding. 

White Sands National Park is just that, but with each granule of sand hand dipped into thimble of bleach. Hike to the top of a sand dune and peer out as they stretch for miles rising and falling, perfect in shape and contour. Man can move parts of the earth. Man can shape and mold. Man can create. But here, wind is the ultimate sculptor, and sand is its perfect medium. 

46. It’s Not A True Adventure Until Something Goes Awry

Little Rock, AR - 1,801 miles to - San Luis Obispo, CA

“The motor is smoking!” is not something I ever want to say, but especially not when my wife and I are two hours in on a twenty-five hour drive. But, that’s exactly what rang out of my mouth while idling on the on-ramp after the exit proved fruitless of our need for a bathroom. It was one of those country exits where the only thing it led to was JB’s farm and where the Hixon’s had their firework stand when their boys were still teenagers. That’s just my best guess, but I don’t think I’m far off. No gas station in sight. In fact, there were no buildings in sight. Just us, our smoking engine, and the cars flying passed us on the interstate. 

Popping the hood was like opening the oven doors after forgetting you had turned it to high broil on your toast twenty minutes ago. Smoke filled the air as the evening sun began its final decent behind us. “Is it going to explode!?” Hannah half asked, half exclaimed as she took a few steps backwards. I can’t blame her. I think everyone who has a smoking engine thinks the same first thought. I sure did, I just didn’t vocalize it. As the smoke cleared, I could see a stream of liquid pouring out of the front of the motor. Some choice words meandered through my head and exited my mouth softly. I’m not proud, but I’m not ashamed. Sometimes in these situations it just seems called for. Smelling the liquid I began to assess just how bad this was using my highly limited mechanical knowledge. Gas? No. Good. We won’t blow up. Oil? No. Well that’s good too. Coolant? …I think so. I look over and the overflow tank of coolant was bone dry. Yep. Coolant. A small amount of pride bubbled up as the coolant bubbled out. I don’t know much more than how to change my oil on my truck. But, when you’re stranded on the side of the interstate in middle of nowhere, figuring it out yourself is one of the best options. Largely because it’s on the short list of your only options.

Watching the AAA tow truck pull the Jeep up on it’s flatbed, Hannah turned and looked at me. “Now it’s officially an adventure.” I said back to her bringing a laugh of half amazement, half not really knowing how to respond. It’s easy to want to go on adventures, to step out of your comfort zone, to try something new. But the unexpected, the unknown, the unforeseen troubles along the way, that’s what can deter many a folk. The fear of the “what ifs” arise discouraging an adventure and encourage a tried and true weekend plan full of known variables. I can’t say that anything is wrong with that, but it just ain’t for me. The unknown variables are part of the adventure, you might even say it’s what makes the best adventures. It for sure makes the best stories. And that is what I want my life to be full of, stories. I hope one day that I can sit in an old rocking chair, smoking my tobacco pipe, telling stories full of adventure to a younger, wild eyed boy igniting his mind, churning up his own ideas of adventures to set forth on. One thing about adventuring is certain, it won’t go as planned. Thankfully for me that couldn’t be more true, as the tow truck’s hazard lights lit up the face of the most beautiful woman, who after meeting 11 months prior, I now call my wife.

There we were, jumping into a tow truck with no seat belts listening to the wild repo stories of Mitch, a good ole country boy from Marshall Springs, TX. It was well past dark at this point but as we bounced and careened down i30, I couldn’t help but smile. It was too ridiculous of a situation not to. But we had a plan. The plan was simple. Get towed to the nearest AutoZone parking lot and I would learn how to replace a water pump in real time by watching a YouTube tutorial. It’s amazing what kind of confidence watching a YouTube video can give you. And I was two to three videos deep by this point, so it was go time. We had another 23 hours of driving ahead of us, we weren’t trying to tack on spending the night in Mount Pleasant, TX and spending the next half day waiting on a car mechanic to get to our issue. So, for the next couple hours, Hannah held the flashlight while I removed our old water pump and replaced it with a new one. The freezing temperatures and 25 mph winds didn’t help much. But what did help was a 45 minute phone call with a very selfless mechanic who talked me through how to burp the air out of the engine and make sure I didn’t overheat the car. That man was a Godsend. 

Shaking uncontrollably from the cold the engine finally began to pump hot air out of the air vents telling us I hadn’t screwed anything up too bad. To celebrate we called in an order of piping hot pizza from the Italian joint just up the road. With the heat on full blast still trying to get rid of the cold shakes that pizza tasted like a dream. Sometimes it’s the situation that dictates how good a meal really is. I think it was surprisingly good pizza for a small town in Texas, but that night, it was a pizza that seared its way into my memory for being truly incredible. 

With full stomachs, motor grease still on our now warm hands, and cruising 70 mph down the interstate, our laughter echoed above Willie Nelson as he sang us westwards… 

On the road again,
Goin’ places that I’ve never been,
Seein’ things that I may never see again,
And I can’t wait to get on the road again…