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Voices of Spencer Creek
Norm's Notebook: A Different Kind of Pre-Emptive Strike
I had no doubt that I was going to be dealing with this heap one way or the other and I might as well do so on my own terms.
By Norm Maxwell
Posted on Aug 3, 2004 |
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I checked my e-mail at the BLM salt mines and found an abandoned vehicle report of an upside down junk car and a motorcycle either on the 20-1-1 or the 20-1-l Road off of the Eagles Rest Road south of Dexter.
It was a good day to move metal so I headed for the scene with Expedition & trailer. I patrolled the two roads with no success and on the way back to the office I decided to take a look up a short spur that I had removed numerous heaps from over the years.
Sure enough, there sat a Dodge 15 passenger van on one new tire sans rear axle with car parts and trash scattered all over the landing. I examined the carcass and decided that it had blown a head gasket and somebody had removed the heads and then it sat for a couple years until "reality" set in that it was never gonna get fixed and it was time to tow it out on BLM land and leave it. The remaining license plate was three years expired and most of the side windows had been stoned or shot. By some fluke, the windshield was intact as it was facing into the woods.
The end of the road was very tight and I had to do one of my famous trailer winch side pulls with pulley to get the long rig turned around. Then I ran the main line to the front of the huge van and dragged it 180 degrees so it was facing down the road. The van was old enough so that it did not have a locking steering column and so it was easy to load up by winching it in a little and then running to turn the remaining front wheel so it lined up on the trailer better. Its undercarriage hung up a few times but I simply jacked it up a little with my handyman jack that I carry in the trailer's utility box. I took the opportunity to cut the bands holding the rear gas tank with bolt cutters and removing it before the stern of the van came on board and the trailer tilted level. The car trailer has an 18 foot bed and the van's back bumper hung over about a foot. I threw all the scattered car parts on the floor of the van and chained it down, pulling it tight with the 15,000 pound rear facing winch until the front bumper was an inch from the head rig.
Looking it over, I decided it was good to go and started down the hill in 4 WD, low transfer. I had the transmission, transfer case and both differential oils changed at Jiffy Lube last week despite General Service Administration's objections. GSA seems to think that the vehicles it leases to government agencies are driven leisurely to the coffee shop and hates to waste a dime on preventive maintenance as the machines are auctioned off at 66,000 miles. Drive train humming, the Expedition descends a couple miles of steep gravel road with minimal braking.
On the pavement, I decide I don't like the way the huge van is canted due to its one front tire so I pull over and remove it. It should ride better flat on the trailer. I put the car in 2WD and head back to the barn.
As I cruised up the grade on Rattlesnake Road at 50 miles per hour with two tons of Dodge on board, I noticed a rusty brown 60's Chevrolet pickup sitting at the mouth of a driveway with a cardboard sign that proclaimed FREE in red tempera paint. I could tell at a glance that the Chevy had not run for many years and that it had no motor or transmission. The doors were rusted out at the bottom and it had no license plates and doubtless no title. The windshield was cracked and its tires were bald and flat. It had moss growing on it and there were winters of dead leaves pasted on its hood and roof. A faded BAG A BAGWHAN bumper sticker hinted at the truck's last operational status. I had no doubt that I was going to be dealing with this heap one way or the other and I might as well do so on my own terms.
I continued on to the office and parked my rig out behind the warehouse after a triumphant pass in review through the front gate so everybody could admire the elephantine Sportsvan. This was not some puny Toyota or wimpy Datsun. The roofline of the van towered above the parking lot.
The next morning, I started in on the van to get it ready for the steel yard while it was still cool out. I took the bone dry gas tank I had removed in the field and pierced it repeatedly with my favorite 7 foot bar with a point on one end. It is probably an inch and a half in diameter and weighs perhaps thirty pounds. It easily penetrates both sides of the tank. Oh Hell. The van has a second, custom made fuel tank, tucked in the space under where the side opening doors are. I jack the carcass up on some ce-ment blocks and discover that it is relatively simple to unbolt. It drops to the steel trailer deck with a heavy "clong" noise and I discover it is made of heavy steel and has at least five gallons of stale gas in it. I siphon the gas with my high speed hose with built in pump into a five gallon can.
When the tank is empty, it is still heavy as lead and I put it on the gravel and attempt to harpoon it with Mr. Bar. The dull point of the bar dimples the thick steel and so I resort to Tim the Tool Man's favorite adage of "More power." I strike hard enough so that I put nickel sized holes in the metal on all sides and then throw it in the van. The gas goes in the Expedition. GSA keeps computer read outs of all the vehicles in the fleet. Gas mileage is computed to date automatically each time you fill up with a GSA credit card. When we were going through a fleet downsizing a while back, I saw printed charts of all the vehicles on district with columns for miles driven per month and computed mileage.
Most of the other V-8 rigs got between 12 and fifteen mpg while mine was listed as 18.9 mpg. That's frequently pulling a trailer. So far nobody has asked me the secret of my amazing fuel economy. After pausing alongside the dumpster to empty the garbage from the van, I stop for bean at Nan's Coffee Cart before heading to the steel yard. The weighmaster is impressed with my catch of the day as I present him with my pre-stamped DMV 6017 form made out for "BLM 44," an "old Chrysler van" and the driveon scale automatically records the combined weight of vehicle, trailer and junk van. I drive out back and the claw removes the van and places it on a mountain of scrap. The claw operator closes the grapnel to make a giant steel fist and pounds the van flat.
I move to the sweeping station and broom the dust and rust and sticks and stones into a pile so I can scoop it into the dumpster with a grain shovel rather than let it blow off on the road. The steel deck is gouged and grooved with hundreds of deep scratches. I weigh out at the gate and note that the van weighed about 4,200 pounds. The steel yard will mail me a ticket with the exact weight. Not that I care. I take the Delta Highway shortcut to I-5 and cruise the five miles to Highway 58. It isn't far to Rattlesnake Road on the other side of Pleasant Hill and it wasn't long until I was on final approach to the rusty Chevrolet pickup.
The derelict truck sat facing downhill with its hood frozen half open. I pulled my outfit on the wrong side of the road but there was plenty of room. I looked down the side of the hill through a screen of trees and could hear somebody puttering in a shop about fifty meters from my position. I stealthily backed my trailer to the front bumper of the junker and quietly hooked onto it and commenced winching it down hill. It rolled willingly on its flat tires and I was worried that it might suddenly charge into the winch when the bed tilted. I stood by with Mr. Fixit, my four pound hammer, to use as a chock when the heap reached the center of gravity. It did and the trailer came level with a quiet clang and I swiftly pinned it, chained the heap and pulled it tight, put my loose gear in the box and mounted up to flee the scene.
Just as I put the rig in gear and was rolling, some old hippy with a grey ponytail scrambled up the steep road bank and waved at me. He obviously wanted to talk. I waved back and pressed gently on the gas and pulled away diagonally across Rattlesnake Road into the right lane. I did not want to play 20 questions about what a fed employee was doing with the sad old Chevrolet. I saw no need to explain that I was going to scrap the heap so I didn't have to deal with it later up in the woods over the side of a landing. I was doing the world a favor. There was no way he could see the license plate on the Expedition and the trailer plate was dirty and covered with errant spray paint.
I drove a mile or so until I found a spot wide enough to safely turn around and then waited a few minutes to give the old hippy time to go back to his shop before starting back up the long grade. I was cruising at 55 when I passed by the old truck's former location and there was no sign of anybody. I crested the hill and started down the other side, dry leaves blowing merrily in my wake. On Highway 58 heading for Eugene, there was a sudden noise and the Expedition slowed perceptibly. A glance in the rear view mirror revealed that the frozen hood on the old truck had blown up and was acting as an air brake. More power. Even more leaves flew now that the air dam directed wind into the formerly sheltered engine compartment.
Don't panic, it's organic. Back at the office, I checked my pile of pre-stamped 6017 forms and discovered "BLM 88," an "old Chev PU." Close enough. I had a picture taken of me standing by the hulk holding the cardboard FREE sign by the fresh yellow 88 serial number on the passenger door for my official records and then prepped the junker and took it to the steel yard. Next week perhaps I will find the upside down car and motorcycle.
Norm
Copyright © 2004 by Norm Maxwell
Norm Maxwell has just received the Best of West By Northwest award for his article, The Fire of South Canyon: Remembering Storm King. Tens of thousands of readers have "voted" with their mouse by their selection of this story. Visit Norm Maxwell's other pieces about land use, firefighting and life in the country and more at West By Northwest.org.
Norm's Notebook: Dead Cars and the Six Million Dollar Manx
(Editor's note–Norm's "Dead Cars" story inspired a feature story in the Register Guard, "Heaps of trouble in the woods.")
A Homey Homage to the Homelite: The Stone Age of Powersawing
Take Two: Jackson Road
Norm's Notebook: Battling Broom
Norm's Notebook: A Last Look from the Big Rabbit
Norm's Notebook: From Forest to McMansion, How It Could Happen Here
Norm's Notebook: A Few Acres, a Few Chickens–Who Is Living on the Land Now
Remembering the 30 Mile Fire
Old Men and Fire
The Fire of South Canyon: Remembering Storm King
Wee-wee for BB
Norm's Notebook: The Story of the Spruce Tree, and Mosby Creek, a New Land Use Lot Adjustment>
Mentoring Military Style
Three Dollar Hammer
Song of the Open Road
Remember Fire Road
Home, Home on Fire Road and more.
© Copyright 2000-2004 by West By Northwest.org
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