“Will we make to top of the mountain?” Our recreation vehicle clawed its way up a narrow, winding snowed-covered road in the Appalachians of New York State.
I had joined an online RV group and received directions to avoid the mountains in West Virginia, but the instructions did not start until Fredericksburg, Virginia. I had forgotten about the Appalachian chain in New York and Pennsylvania. If glances were deadly I would have expired after we crossed the boarder in Buffalo. I had given Haydn a wrong turn resulting in a dead-end. It is gruesome to turn an eight-wheeler around. Our rig was 37’ long with a Suzuki Sidekick toad that generated a total length of approximately 50’. “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” A toad in RV idiom is a vehicle that is towed behind, preferably 4-down (four wheels making contact with the road).
MARTA, was the designation our daughter had given our rig, an acronym for Metro Area Rapid Transit Authority. That name predated Toronto calling their system GOTRAIN. Our RV was very aerodynamic and resembled modern, designer diesel-electric locomotives.
Our destination was Lakewood Camping Park, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and trip length was 900 miles. We set off on a snowy Boxing Day.
The first night we stayed in a restaurant parking lot near Ellicottville, New York, the Aspen of the East, in the Allegheny National Forest. The owner let us plug into his hydro at no charge. We had driven past several ski resorts, but did not elect to go up their driveways to get to their parking facilities, because we did not want to repeat Buffalo’s cramped quarters of not having enough room to turn Marta around. The bistro lot was situated on a large piece of flat ground.
I had installed GPS (global position system) mapping software on my computer under the dashboard that drew a coloured breadcrumb trail on its digital maps. The route had looked charming on our 21” colour monitor between Haydn and my high-backed, emerald-coloured, driving seats. The maps had not been topographical and did not specify elevations readily. The voice commands did have a feature that announced how high the roads were above sea level that had not been activated when I chose the route. (I never disclosed that information to Haydn … secrets remain between husbands and wives that are not prudent to confess despite long years of marriage.) There also was a miniscule-sized box that bore altitude facts in tiny lettering that was not decipherable from the driver’s position.
I, of course, had realized we were in a mountain chain, and were committed to a route that was constricted and corkscrewed.
Just before we had travelled the length of Pennsylvania the engine overheated and clouds of vapour erupted from the radiator. We pulled over and waited thirty minutes for the engine to cool then stopped in a small town and purchased more coolant.
Before entering Virginia, Haydn saw the bronze tablet on the shoulders of the road informing travellers, “Geological feature: Pennsylvania’s highest elevation west of the Mississippi.” “Bang, Bang,” the imaginary shotgun aimed at me, fired.
Haydn babied the mechanical components of our vehicle for more than three hundred miles up one mountain, down, up another, down …
Several times we were down to the lowest gear and cheerleaded Martra to use all her strength to propel herself to the top. No problem going down, except would the brakes last and would we be able to stop quickly at the bottom if the need arose?
We cleared the mountains and spent the second night at a rest stop in Virginia. Clear sailing the rest of the way. We were now out of the mountains and expected to arrive at the rest stop separating North and South Carolina for our third night. The engine, transmission, cooling and braking systems had been under enormous strain over the Appalachians.
As night fell, just before Fayetteville, North Carolina, Haydn said, “What is that sound?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s getting louder!”
“Dam and blast” “Since we left the last gas station, I’ve been driving in second gear at highway speeds.”
“Boom!” As the rod in the engine blew!
Luckily we had the toad! We unhitched it and drove to a motel and called a towing service. Haydn felt badly that he had not noticed the gear lever position and I was equally guilt-ridden for not choosing a better route. That was unfortunate that he blurted out his mistake—he could have kept that information to himself and I would never have known. I suppose one of us had to be honest about what it was they did—just thrilled that the Gods had exempted me.
Poor Marta had not warranted her doom, but I resisted the Herculean urge to place a pacifier in her grille.
Prior to Marta’s birth, she was an ugly duckling, 1974 Citation 27...but that's a separate rather fascinating story.
