Alex Birch was my grandfather. In 1969 he was made production engineer on the team that would build the GMC motorhome.
Getting ready to retrace the trip made in 1973 when Alex and Beatrice Birch drove the 5th GMC motorhome off the production line over 7000 miles across the country from Detroit to Los Banos CA. Late August we will be heading South to Los Banos. Check back here to follow along.
There is a new page at the top of the Blog called There and Back Again Tour 2021 I will be updating on that page.
Like a checkered flag at the end of the straight stretch, we could see our Tour coming to an end. We had retraced Grandma and Grandpa’s trip of 1973 all the way back to Michigan. But where was the finish line? Was it Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Clawson? Was it at GMC headquarters? Hmm…..it shall be where the GMC motorhomes were built, the manufacturing plant in Pontic Michigan. It’s a perfect place to celebrate all the festive cheerfully colored motorcoaches that rolled off the line and now make their own “There and Back Again Tours.” Yep, it felt totally natural for ol’ Bea to stroll northward up Woodward Boulevard and park in front of the gates of the M1 Concourse. Yes, you read that right. The old GMC motorhome Pontiac Plant has been torn down and is now a newly excavated, and pristinely paved race course with solidly built racecourse infrastructure. The chain linked fence surrounding the track was locked up awaiting the next race event so we parked out front for Bea’s photo-op. Greg was so immensely proud of our Bea and so keenly connected to this vehicle he was popping a couple of buttons for himself as well. She did it! He did it! We did it! Grandma and Grandpa did it too, 48 years prior. There was such a rush of relief we both shed a tear as we patted the hood covers of our golden girl and said “That’ll do Bea, that’ll do.”
Greg was so thrilled to be at our “finish line,” that he decided that this stop warranted a video rather than a quick picture. This left me as the videographer. I should rephrase that. It left me as comic relief. First I forgot to push the video button, next I ended it too soon, on take three I bumped a random button and it made everything into cartoon colors and the screen freaked out. Greg had every right to grow impatient but I believe his celebratory mood prevailed and he started laughing at how inept I was with photography equipment. This led to me laughing, that led to a shaking camera, that led to hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard I started drooling, then Greg chortled at that and we were both out of breath. Lips pursed and slowly puffing air I managed to stop giggling long enough to push the red button and hold still, but grinning wildly and still laughing with my eyes. I still don’t know how Greg held it together long enough to hold his reporter-like demeanor and tell the camera that we drove, we toured, we broke, we fixed , we conquered, we finished. We went there and back again.
One more time we were reminded of one of the memo lines Grandpa wrote about how everywhere they went people would stop them in awe and take pictures of the motorhome. As we filmed at the entrance of the M1 concourse, Our pretty, shiny coach caught someone’s eye. They saw a one of a kind vehicle parked in front of a racetrack with someone taking video and they pulled over, rolled down their window and hollered, “hey, is there and event here today?” The GMC motorhome does that to people. Everywhere they go it’s an event! It must be. They are just that cool.
Greg had more than cousins to visit. A trip down memory lane always includes friends. As a child Greg’s Dad Jerry had a friend with a race car. Dan Hill raced a Classic Mini Cooper in the 1970’s. As a boy Greg was a Cub Scout and Dan got Greg’s Den invited to sell programs at the Waterford racetrack for a fundraiser. To a 9 year old boy, hanging out at the racetrack was a pretty keen gig, but when your Dad knows a racer and you get to visit the pits, it’s even better. I did mention that Dan was a racer. He was a great racer! When Dan won his race, the race organizers allowed him to take a victory lap. For grins and giggles, he invited Jerry and Greg to ride with him. Racecars do not have seats in the back to save on weight, but no problem; Greg tumbled in the back of that Mini, thrilled with his luck. Dan handed Jerry the flag to wave out the window. Greg braced himself with his sturdy tough skin jeans and converse tennis shoes and held onto the roll cage for dear life. As Greg’s face smooshed up against the side window, the crazy whipping of Victory flag mesmerized him and that moment right there is where Greg was contaminated with the racing virus to which there is no cure. Dan Hill made a racer that day. It took 36 more years for it to reach it’s full viral load, but now Greg shares the same affliction; the love of racing a Mini Cooper. Dan Hill was conveniently on the route to the finish line of our tour.
From the moment we stepped into Dan and Judy Hill’s house, we could tell what he did for fun. There are pictures of the race car in it’s many iterations, trophy’s of course, too many to count, and Mini Cooper memorabilia in several rooms. Almost before we sat down, Dan had asked Greg about his race car’s fuel delivery issue and had a few suggestions to fix it already in the hopper. It was amazing to sit at the feet of a master. The best thing a racer or mechanic can do to learn is to sit and listen, really listen to someone who has been there and done that. We chatted about Waterford Racetrack and how uniquely special it really is. They both listed their favorite tracks and admitted to their missed lines and squirrely turns. All of this was simply a kind of racer’s handshake to get to the really great part. Dan veritably whispered, “Do you want to see what I’m working on now?” Did you really even need to ask? When Dan and Greg stepped into the workshop they hovered over a red 1275cc ’67 Mini Cooper S with rose petal wheels that Dan is restoring from top to bottom. There was a rebuilt engine, a repainted body and he was working on the interior and the trim pieces all at once. Dan’s race car was stealthily stowed away in the race trailer, but this sweet little Guard’s Red cutie was the culmination of a long term project meant for Sunday drives. Somehow though, I can’t help but wonder if he will still put a 5 point harness on the driver’s seat just so he’ll feel at home. All in all this afternoon diversion from the route was not lost time at all. It gave Greg all that he needed, the brotherhood of racing, mechanical problem solving and a peek into possible future projects. Old race drivers don’t ever slow down. Go Dan Go! Dan’s an inspiration to be sure.
Dan’s race car
Dan’s Guard’s red 1967 Mini Cooper S with rose petal wheels
A good walk down memory lane always includes some favorite people and familiar sites and smells. Greg’s path through childhood memories is firmly stamped with his favorite foods. As a child the official kindergarten field trip was to visit the Franklin Cider mill, a sweet old fashioned cider mill that uses a waterwheel to press their cider. Forty nine years later he can still taste the nutmeg in their donuts through memory. The sweet sticky liquid gold of freshly pressed cider was calling to Greg. He made it a mission to test as many cider and donuts as possible while in Michigan to determine his favorite.
The purpose of the “There and Back Again” tour was to revisit history, share the story and connect folks through the GMC motorhome. Our personal touch was to connect with as many Birch relatives as possible to have them reminisce about Grandma and Grandpa and to share part of their pedigree with them. The GMC motorhome having been one of Grandpa’s vocational accomplishments has become part of our family’s heritage. Our first Michigan cousin was Sue Birch Reinhoel of Kalamazoo and her daughter Olivia. In a move that would make Grandma Bea Birch proud, they fed us. Sue thoughtfully selected a local brunch spot. They had everything from waffles and quiche to designer oatmeal and vegan quinoa drizzled with almond milk and chocolate. Stomachs pushing on our waistbands we shuffled out to the motor coach for a scenic ride through Kalamazoo County. Bea found her way to Verhage Cider Mill where there was so much more than cider. Tummies still distended we did not need any more food, but where there is cider, there must be donuts. In this case, there were donuts, pie and brownies in addition to a candy shop with more things we didn’t need but were irresistible. We stepped back into the coach with the prescribed cider and donuts and a few pieces of chocolate confections for good measure; all the tastes of childhood.
Sue gave us a tour of her newly minted home. It’s established enough to have a lovely lawn and patio, yet still fresh enough to have unfinished storage areas. Her kitchen is spacious and well appointed with gorgeous countertops. We grabbed some of her clever decorating ideas to take home and oohed and awed over her color palette but the best part of the house were the sweet doggies that lived to play fetch and enjoyed a good scratch behind the ears. Dog hair from a loving creature really makes place feel like home. After an hour of catch and the obligatory belly rub we too sported a few of those magical fibers of love as souvenirs to take home. Thank you for the warm welcome Bosco.
The next Birches on the map were Doug and Lynne Birch and their children Grace and Matthew up in Howell. It must be a Birch thing because we were greeted in the driveway with a smile and an electrical cord and a space all mapped out for Bea. Doug works for GMC so he is our cousin with the most connections to the GMC. He even transferred all of Grandpa’s tech talks that were on VHS to DVD. Like a good Birch, he fed us too. He and Lynn had hamburgers ready for the bbq, Founders seasonal beer and Better Made chips waiting in the wings. Greg had the best of both worlds; beer to appeal to his adult palate and Better Made chips to appease his longing for treats of childhood. Speaking of childhood, cousin Lynn took a moment to share her covid lockdown hobby. On the way to the basement she mentioned her lego village. We thought that it was maybe a reference to a tv show but upon the last step to the basement we spied 4 tables full of Lego creations. It was a childhood dream workshop with layers of lego sets set up like a village; a police station, streets, cars, airplanes, a forest and Santa’s wonderland complete with snowmen. The trickiest part of the whole village was to decide how to display the “millennial falcon.” Under the table were bins of lego sets awaiting their turn for display. This harkened back to Aunt MaryAnn’s glass display. Everyone experiences beauty and joy in their own way. I love a long full piece of fabric, full of possibilities. Greg has an eye for catching the light just right as it reflects off of a polished car. Cousin Lynn can make a happy little village out of tiny bits of plastic toys. Again our family fed us heartily and shared a bit of the beauty of real life.
The next day we had an appointment at the GMC heritage center. It houses concept vehicles and vehicles significant to GMC history. There were electric vehicles from the 1920’s, self driving vehicles from the 60’s and of course a beautifully outfitted GMC motorhome! They were open to information we had to share about the motorhome production and asked for a copy of Grandpa’s memo to add to their museum files. It was fun to meet with folks that are as enthusiastic about vintage GMC’s as we are.
We had driven the motorhome 3300 miles thus far and Bea was in need of an oil change. The docents at the GMC heritage center gave us a tip on an oil change station that had infrastructure suitable for a motor coach. It was up near 17 mile rd. We had noticed a polish grocery store nearby and we thought we’d walk over while they changed the oil. Alas, they were finished with the oil change before we had a chance to even look up and down the street! Fresh oil on board, we steered Bea northward onto Mound rd toward Srodeks sausage company. It was curious shopping in a store where I am basically illiterate. All of the food was wrapped in packaging with Polish writing on it. It was anybody’s guess as to what was inside. To this day, I’m still not sure what type of tea I purchased. The perogies turned out to be potato and onion, a nice complement to the polish sausage and sauerkraut. Greg had grown up eating glunkies and peroshkies, sausage and sauerkraut with potatoes at Grandmas house. This was another opportunity to embrace his childhood memories and honor his polish heritage. Even better was to be a mouse in the corner in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan listening to the polish housewives come in and chat with the butcher in polish about their dinner plans. I was beginning to wonder if Bea was not just a time machine, but a teleporter device as well. I felt like I was in another country. Greg is right though; sausage in Michigan is delicious.
Cousin Julie Birch Harris not to be outdone by her older siblings, met us in her driveway to welcome us with a parking plan and had her son Jordan fetch us an electrical cord. Having heard that Greg was looking forward to Michigan Pizza, she made a diabolical plan to feed us too. Julie and Scott Harris have three thriving kids, Jason, a computer IT specialist, Jordan an aviation mechanic and Stephanie a senior in high school who is trumpet section leader. They are all living under one roof and are a close knit family that works together seamlessly, but respectfully give each other space when needed. They welcomed us and cousin Doug and Lynn to dinner. We ordered pizza, lots of pizza. Greg showed interest in several toppings, so as to not disappoint, Julie and Scott ordered all of them! I think we had 8 pizzas for 9 people. Better yet, they served Faygo Rock n Rye and Red Pop, yet another sweet memory from childhood. Grandma Bea would be proud. Julie fed us well.
The Harris’s have a lovely formal living room on their main floor with some intriguing books scattered about but I gathered from the plethora of cozy mismatched blankets and throw pillows gathered on the sofa in the basement that the TV with the game console is where they spend their comfy family time together. It’s cool in the basement in the summer and the darker space lends itself to theatre like TV movie viewing. This is where the cool kids hang out. They sweetly let us share our pictures of the trip thus far and we invited them to come visit Port Angeles again. I do hope their meanderings take them west again.
The next morning Jordan and Greg inspected the breaks for wear. After coming down the Colorado mountains and the stop and go traffic in Detroit area we needed to be sure our breaks were ready for the coming challenges of the return trip. Jordan, a trained mechanic was most interested in the motorhome. He and Greg connected over motorcycle repair stories and talk of Jordan’s future vehicles. He was also the only family member not working on a weekday morning so he volunteered to escort us to Tractor supply for propane and Penzoil 30 weight oil. He offered to use his employee discount to help us with our purchases. This generosity warranted a thank you on our part of trusting Jordan to drive our Bea. He looked so natural behind the wheel and drove that 10,000 pound vehicle like it was an SUV. It’s like he was born to drive this vehicle. Oh yeah, he’s a direct descendant of Alex Birch. He was born to it. It made our hearts happy to see another Birch behind the wheel of a GMC motorhome. He topped off the propane and wouldn’t let us pay for it. Even Jordan fed us well. Some traits run strong in a family. Thank you Jordan. Grandma Bea would be proud.
All in all our visits with the Birch cousins were sprinkled with good food, better stories of life both past and present, and promises of adventures to come. It was great to listen to each family as they expressed their love and care for their parents and their hopes for their children. it is said that your cousins are your first friends. When you grow up in a family that likes to gather and eat together, your cousins are your first playmates. And since they are essentially they were essentially the same age as Greg plus or minus a few years, they are experiencing many of the same type of stressors. it’s a comfort to see we are not alone. Our cousins are out there figuring out life too, balancing work, parents, kids and sanity. Greg likes to work on motors for his hobby. Cousin Doug builds things in his workshop, Cousin Julie rides her bicycle.Cousin Sue likes to cook. I like to garden or sew for sanity. We love, we worry, we work, we fix, build and create, but we keep going. It was fantastic to see our cousins, 8 states away, live and work and cope just like we do way out west. Life will find a way, and with the Birch grandchildren it often involved delicious food.
As we edged toward the Iowa border Greg, who should by all rights be tired from long days of driving in the heat, became energized. His childhood home state was within striking distance. Our planned route was designed to avoid large city traffic because although Bea handles herself just fine, so many other vehicles do not, and that multiplies in the city. As we approached the Mississippi near sunset I was poised with my cell camera to take a picture of a new state, excited at the possibilities and what we might see. Greg saw the Google map blue line along interstate 80 and the little black note at the bottom: 4 hours 29 minutes to destination. With a quick flick of the wrist he glanced at his watch and started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “We could be at Uncle Chuck and Aunt MaryAnn’s tonight,” he cheered. I could tell from the pitch of his voice that he was focused on Michigan. Illinois near the Mississippi is invitingly green with fluffy deciduous trees to offer shade. I am certain with it’s long-standing record as a state there are intriguing history stops. Alas, no amount of antiquity was going to keep Greg from his family. See ya later Illinois, Nice to meet you Indiana. You’re looking good! We will have to get together sometime soon. Hello Michigan!
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After traveling on state highways at a mild pace most of the week, the speed limit on the freeway seemed a breakneck speed and we were in the slow lane! My eyeglasses had gone for walkabout 2 days prior somewhere near Denver so I was wearing my prescription sunglasses, a handy substitute until dusk. The freeway speeds seemed a bit more fast and furious because the distant shadows were darker than normal and even the tail lights were muted. The good news is the corrective lenses helped me read the road signs to assist for exits and connecting roads. Regardless of the late hour when one should expect lighter traffic, the volume of cars zipping on & off the freeway near Chicago and Joliet was astounding. “What is this road like during rush hour, I exclaimed? I followed up with, “nevermind. I hope to never know.”
Once we crossed into Michigan the traffic thinned and I figured Greg would be gunning for Kalamazoo. He surprised me with a stop just 30 miles south of our destination. The long driving day was catching up to us both. Our feet were swollen and his leg was numb because we just traveled through 4 states without cruise control. What did not seem like a necessity 2 weeks ago in our Port Angeles Garage now looked like a much larger priority. We both got out, stretched, refueled then lay down and stretched & rubbed our legs to get our bodies to even things out. Sometimes, destination be darned, you have to take care of your equipment. And the driver is the most valuable piece of equipment in the coach. Rejuvenated by a 15 minute nap and a fresh bottle of water, off we rumbled toward Chez Birch of Kalamazoo.
A kind welcome awaited us at our late arrival. Aunt MaryAnn and Uncle Chuck Birch had set up an RV space for us complete with a power cord. Two minutes after arrival we were plugged in and sipping ice water at the kitchen table over maps and travel booklets. Aunt MaryAnn even offered use of her washing machine. After a week of sleeping in pools of sweat each night, our sheets were the first thing to go in. Our hostess also graciously offered us the guest bedroom in the basement, a gloriously cool and quiet room with bed so big it was like real estate after sleeping on a trimmed down single cushion for weeks
Chuck and MayAnn have spent a good part of their retirement traveling to sites in Michigan and they shared travel tips and their pictures. It was encouraging to see another couple embrace the chasing of local history as part of their travels. They too found meaning in studying the history of an area and the peoples of the cities they visited, a kind of armchair anthropology; carseat anthropology if you will.
As the evening waned, Greg & Uncle Chuck commiserated over hand tools& workshop space. Aunt MaryAnn & I discussed genealogy and I admired her glass sculpture & china display. She smirked and thought me kind because her children tease her so about them. Hey! We all enjoy different kinds of beauty. Some folks have lavish garden displays, some of us have priceless art, others quilt and are amused by a rainbow of fabric stacked neatly on the shelf, some paint. My Uncle George thought that perfectly organized garage tools were more beautiful than a Monet. My sister is pleased when the frosting cooperates and flows to create delicate flowers & synchronous swirls. If hand blown glass makes MaryAnn smile, fire up the kiln! Again, like the stop at John Wayne’s birthplace it was nice to slow down and just be; be with family and see what retirement looks like for our kind Aunt & Uncle.
Although there was still a few stops related to the retracing trip left I could see Greg relax. We were in Michigan. We were almost there. We were going to make it. We now had family nearby as our safety net. That’s a good feeling. Lesson learned. As a notoriously shy kid, I would love to go back in time and tell myself to make more friends. Friends and family give you an extra dose of joy wherever you are. They also give you peace. Just knowing we could call for help made the ride that much smoother. We slept in peace that night.
Notes from the road by Rainy
Iowa is famous for it’s corn fields. Rightly so. There is an abundance of corn in Iowa. But they also plant lovely churches and grow friendly communities. Each time we stopped for fuel or snacks we were greeted by friendly folks that would chat while doing their job and we would always walk away with a helpful suggestion to improve our trip. After hours of floating past cornfields and cute country churches along hwy 6 then 92 E the vehicle came to a lurching stop. I looked up from the map to briefly see a brown point of interest sign and Greg proceeded right into Winterset, a cheerful town full of little white houses with inviting porches and American flags proudly flying out front.
“It’s just a quick detour he says, it’s a surprise!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had read the sign.
I commented, “Check it out, John Wayne Drive; Man , they must really like western shows in this town or something!”
“Ok, ok you caught me. Do you mind if we check out the John Wayne birthplace museum? My Grandpa really likes westerns so he was a big John Wayne fan. I saw a lot of his stuff when I was a kid at Grandpa’s.” Funny thing, same here! When in Omaha you eat steak and that one worked out nicely. When in Iowa, you celebrate John Wayne. Let’s go!
Wow! What a tribute! The museum celebrated his career showing each of the shows that he made with memorabilia from the shows. What a body of work! The fun part was the gift shop with tshirts and plaques with his clever poignant phrases quoted right on the front. Things like, ”Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” Ahh, words to live by. The most memorable part of the tour was the veterans memorial park around the corner with a painted freedom rock featuring a painted flag and faces of veterans. The museum of “the Duke” and freedom rock side by side was quintessentially American. A walk through these two sites made a fellow American walk a little taller down the street to the sweet tidy house on the corner where Marion Morrison was born.
It was the picture perfect example of an ordinary family home of the first decade of the 20th century. The wooden lapboard was painted a pristine white as was the one bay unattached garage, so small it was most likely a carriage shed originally. The fenced back yard had a properly mowed yard with large shade trees and a few mature apple trees dripping with fruit; fruit no doubt used to nourish a growing baby boy in 1908. The garden had tidily arranged flower beds with just enough flowers to make a display, but not too much so as to be fussy. It still looked like the home of an organized but busy housewife of 1908. I could imagine chubby little legs running around the shade tree and grabbing the fallen apples and climbing the steps to Daddy’s workshop. The yard was safe but spacious enough to foster a sense of adventure that would serve that little boy well in the future. It was fun to stop from flying down the road at 50 miles per hour and slow down long enough to absorb some of the America of our past, really take it in and see the history of everyday Americans. Hats off to the Duke, his family and the Veterans he honored.
Greg and I walked away from the Morrison family home smiling, both imagining John Wayne’s beginnings and reminiscing on afternoons spent with our respective Grandfathers watching his shows on tv. This led to stories of Grandfathers in western wear and discussion of their weaponry that was used for target shooting. I suppose there are Grandfathers scattered througout America that fancy themselves a John Wayne character or two.
Headed back to the freeway to catch one of Grandpa Birch’s memo sites, Greg had one more surprise stop to reveal. As I followed the little blue line on Google maps back to I 80, the little blue dot distressingly wandered off the highlighted route. As I scanned the roadway for signage I saw another point of interest sign for a covered bridge. Oh, wouldn’t that be fun if we saw one of those turn of the last century covered bridges like in the movies? Indeed! A few breaths later Cedar bridge appeared around the corner. Of course Bea was too big to drive through it but there was a perfect parking lot just to the west of it so we could hop out and walk across it, and a park adjacent so we could walk under it. Hand in hand we walked through the cover of the bridge, briefly stopping to steal a kiss in the cedar scented tunnel. Greg asked if he got brownie points for the romantic nature of a walk on a covered bridge. Brownie points indeed! When he pointed out we were under the cover of a bridge in Madison county Iowa I dubbed him the owner of a whole pan of brownie points. From the Duke in the morning to a princess in the afternoon; with the simple turn of the steering wheel Greg had hit a home run.
Notes from the road by Rainy.
The fuel stop that morning provided us with a puzzle. The fuel leaked again but substantially less, mostly because Greg was so cautious while filling. Maybe Bea is just not a morning gal. Again the drip subsided so we moved on armed with a bit more information, and again with no refrigeration. We chose hwy 30 that paralleled the freeway but provided the pastural country drive through a small town every 9 miles or so. We were experiencing small town America on this section of roadway. Each town offered either an inviting church, community hall or a Norman Rockwell neighborhood. I half expected Opie to appear around the corner with his fishin’ pole.
Our unexpected surprise was the sign pointing to a Pony Express station in Gothenburg, Nebraska. We got to tour the original pony express station that was used in 1860-61. It was a brief but tremendous piece of American History, an essential service before the transcontinental telegraph lines were completed. It’s an official mail stop in Gothenburg so of course we sat to write some post cards. One of my favorite museum artifacts was a mechanical calculator. I know, closet math geek here. Upon mailing the post cards in the nifty leather satchel mailbag we trotted back to the coach to resume our adventure.
Grandpa’s memo indicates a stop in Omaha, Nebraska to effect repairs McKenzie Pontic GMC. As the Nebraska fields drifted smoothly by I researched the dealership. Unfortunately, it had changed brands and changed ownership enough that it was no longer to be found. Well, we were routed through Omaha, so what do you do in Omaha at our estimated arrival of 8 pm? Steak! Omaha is famous for it’s steak! A few more minutes of screentime gave me a good review and a google map with a view of the spacious parking lot and driving directions to Gorat’s steakhouse. They claim they serve Warren Buffet’s favorite steak. Who am I to disagree with a man who has had steak on every continent? How was the steak you ask? Picture worthy, tender, skillfully cooked and absolutely delicious. Just like the view from Wolf Creek Pass Overlook, it stops your tastebuds in their tracks and time slows down for a moment as you chew. It’s too delicious to describe. You need to experience it yourself. Come. Come have steak at Gorat’s steakhouse. Oh, and stop at Wolf Creek Pass Overlook on your way. You won’t regret either.
Road weary and stuffed full of steak dinner we waddled back to the motorhome. Choosing to enjoy that meal from first smell to full digestion, we decided to call it a night and we drove the 7.5 miles to Council Bluff and we slept in a new state.
Notes from the road by Rainy
Our fuel from Denver got us to Chapelle, Nebraska where we camped overnight. The first thing we noticed about Nebraska were their lawns. They like large lush lawns in Nebraska. I bet the riding lawn mower sales are big there. Creekside RV resort welcomes visitors with an enormous lawn. The next thing you notice is the train whistle. It was like Bea was a time machine & Doc & Marty had just taken us back to 1988 in Cheney, Washington where Greg and I lived in our first apartment together, just 2 blocks from the train depot. Our primary concern that night was a shower & a load of laundry because we both were scented with that new perfume of the day; unleaded 92. As soon as we were smelling like Suave shampoo & Gain laundry detergent we felt human enough to cook a quick meal from the refrigerator items that would not keep long. Scrambled eggs & fruits salad are good anytime of day. Tucked snug in our beds we were grateful for cooler temperatures so that we might even get to use our blankets for sleeping. Using camp wifi We were able to check emails, surf facebook & publish blog posts. While our cell phones glowed us to sleep, the lullaby crescendoed with a train whistle. With each passing train that night I was transported back in time to 1988 and I would see our first apartment with the extra experienced sofa we’d acquired from Mom and Dad. I would recall the coffee can where we kept our food money. The next clickety clack along the tracks would help me remember our first Christmas tree from the Boy Scout lot and the scratched red Christmas Ball we bought for 5 cents at the consignment store. Whistle after whistle, I lay there reminiscing about our senior year in college watching it in my mind like a familiar classic film. With such an active track, I did not sleep very much, but I dreamed all night.
Notes from the road by Rainy
“Rainy, we have a problem. I need you out her right now. Grab some rags.” That grabbed my attention! I nearly apparated from my map study in the co-pilot seat to the fuel filler tube outside the coach to follow the stream of dripping fuel. More towels, we need more paper towels! I rolled bundles of paper towels off the roll and jammed them up against the offending drip. As they soaked I pushed harder jamming the dry edges in to absorb more as if applying pressure to a wound to get it to stop bleeding fuel. Greg hung up the fuel pump and grabbed hold of the wad and nervously yelped, “quick, check that the fridge pilot light is off.” Quick as Jack Robinson I was back in the coach double checking it was set to off. Yet even Jack Robinson had enough time to let the imagination run wild. Hmm, puddle of gasoline, open flame, gas station fuel pump; that’s a situation written for movie pyrotechnics. Our precious Bea was in danger.
Like a good doctor, Greg stabilized the situation by removing a few dangers, and slowed down to make some observations. He pulled the towel off to let it drip a bit so he could trace where it was coming from. His first instinct was that the leak was in the crook in the V of the fuel filler overflow. That had been a problem in the past. But our friend Dennis had fixed that just weeks before. A few more drips indicated the intersection of the fuel hose to the filler tube. Maybe the hose was cracked? Maybe the clamp worked loose? The dripping had reduced dramatically but this was going to take some time & thought. We needed to get out of the way so we drove around back of the gas station. Relieved that the coach had not burst into flame upon ignition, as soon as Bea came to a stop behind the gas station I hopped in and grabbed an extra roll of paper towels & the mechanic’s cushion. I was on traffic watch & paper towel duty while Greg wallowed on the ground fiddling with fuel lines.
A few days prior when Greg was working on the transmission cooler in the gravel driveway at our friend’s house, we had stopped at Goodwill to buy me a replacement purse because mine had broken. Noticing their comprehensive selection, I wandered over to their sporting goods shelf and found a 1 inch thick folding yoga matt for $4! This was a luxury we could afford by both storage space & money. The real challenge was getting a 14” x 22” folding matt home on the scooter. I tucked it behind me as a back cushion as if it belonged there. It looked fairly natural until you noticed the extra inches it took up in depth shifting us forward. Greg was so scrunched up in front we looked like we were on our way to the circus. Back at the motorhome it tucked nicely under my mattress, providing me another cushion; never a bad thing. Now Greg refers to my sleeping area as “The Princess & the Pea” bed.
Alas, even with the mechanic’s cushion Greg could not reach the offending clamp & line. He needed jack stands. We sipped coffee outside the coach because there were strong fumes inside. As we mused & weighed the possibilities the dripping subsided. With a cocked head Greg squeaked out, “well, it looks like this only happens when we add fuel. We have a full tank of gas. Let’s get to somewhere with a jack and jack stands before we need to refuel?” It was more of a statement but he said it with the type of voice that hinted that he was open to suggestions, like, can you be on board with this idea? Belted into the cockpit we hesitantly started the coach. Seeing no fire, we eased onto hwy 285 toward Denver with fervent hope that the dripping was over or at least the fuel didn’t drip on anything hot that could ignite. Momentarily my mind wandered to the contents of the refrigerator and to which items would need to be tossed after a full day without refrigeration. , a small price to pay if it kept Bea and us safe. I bet Grandma had to handle such things too when they had to choose between the air conditioner and the refrigerator. Speaking of Grandma, didn’t they have a fuel leak too? Reviewing the memo, Grandpa described how they had a crack in the fuel filler hose tee, near Des Moines, Iowa. I’m all for authenticity but we really didn’t need to duplicate this part of their 1973 trip.
Greg’s job was to listen to the engine & be alert to unusual squeaks, handling or smells indicating fire. My job was to find us a place with a sturdy jack and jack stands rates for our coach. The Blacklist served us well in Lake Havasu so I started scanning the entries for Colorado cities near Fairplay or Denver. With a list of phone numbers at the ready, I waited for cell phone coverage. We stopped in a Safeway store parking lot in Conifer, Co and finally reached someone via text. They had moved out of the state. But they suggested we call their friends Jim & Julia Dodrill in Lakewood, CO just west of Denver. They were not officially on the Blacklist, but a fellow GMC motor coach in need was enough for them to open their doors.
Their quiet suburban street afforded Greg the opportunity to wriggle under and reach the fuel line intersection of the hose in question. Greg was able to adjust and tighten the clamp and with hope he sent up a silent prayer that that was the source of the leak and the dribbling issue was solved. Nothing was leaking but we were fairly low on fuel with very little to leak so the proof was still on the horizon. We thanked the Dodrill’s for their hospitality, that included ice water and succulent Colorado peaches, use of their tools and driveway space, and open hearts to help a GMCer in need. With a grateful wave we set off to catch Shortline GMC in Denver, one of the stops in Grandpa’s memo.
Just like the stop in Las Vegas, we were not expected at Shortline GMC. When we drove up in our 44 year old vehicle it stood out against the new shiny inventory on their lot. The salesman were polite and listened to our cliff note version of the GMC motorhome and how Grandpa helped it come to be. Since it was clear we were not there to purchase a new car we were given permission to take pictures and the salesman went back to their work. The men in the repair shop were waving at us and taking cell phone pictures from a distance. We drove over to the shop area and shared the same short story and they were so excited that they took video of Bea. She’s such a poser! Really we shouldn’t be surprised that the mechanics were to ones to appreciate the beauty of an old machine. It takes a few rusted bolts worth cursing at and a few moments bathed in car fluids to really fall in love with a vintage vehicle. These men knew how to see the beauty of our Bea-utiful Bea. Thank you to the mechanics at Shortline GMC for the warm welcome and cheerful smiles. Through their skilled hands the GMC brands will live on.
The next fuel stop was the proof in the pudding. Just before leaving Denver we fueled up paper towels in hand and voila, no drips! We also listened carefully at the fuel gurgles when fueling and did not push our luck skipping that last little bit so the overflow tee didn’t have a chance to drip. So far so good. Well we may need to stop for fuel more often and only fill to 3/4 full but if this means we could continue traveling it was so worth the effort. Detroit here we come!
Notes from the road by Rainy
After the celebration at Wolf creek pass we figured it was all downhill after that. How little we did know. The funny thing about mountains in Colorado is that they like to hang out together in groups. Yeah, there’s that tall one in every crowd, but like a basketball team that practices together. they are all decent opponents. As our reward for cresting the summit we did get to go downhill for a piece. Alas, the neighboring hills wanted to stand up and be counted and we began climbing again. And down and up again, repeatedly, slightly less with each iteration. At first I was startled by the large numbers on the elevation readout, consistently bouncing between 8000-9000 ft. Then I realized that we were really only climbing mountains of 1000 feet because we were already so high.
The outside temperature began tumbling as the evening wore on and the engine appreciated the cool breeze from the downhill stints. Relaxing a bit we soaked up the scene of mountain ranches that reached for the horizon and the highway that disappeared over the next hill. The sun drooping on the western horizon informed us of our need to set up camp. Our first choice for a campground looked promising on paper, but presented a closed sign on a sturdy yellow gate when we approached. The scenic mountain ranches although storybook abundantly pretty had the dark truth of being barren of internet and cell phone coverage. Our campground research was now limited to the digital helvetica font of lists of nearby campgrounds on our Garmin GPS. The only criteria we had to choose our campsite that night was proximity on the map; an experience not dissimilar to Grandma and Grandpa’s camp choosing experience in 1973. Fairplay, Colorado seemed perfectly acceptable as it was only 16 miles from our disappointingly closed campground. Bea had earned a well deserved rest. Tucked behind the Napa Auto parts store, near the river, our respite for the night was a very simple accommodation at an old gold mine. The park is marked out on the mine tailings of the dig.
While traveling we meet folks from all over both geographically and sociologically. So does the park manager. When we went to pay for our site the next morning he proceeded to enter our cash payment into his receipt book noting the space number and type of hookup. When he reached the column marked name of guest he said what’s your name? Well, you don’t have to give me your name if you don’t want to.” Stumbling over that last statement we hurried through the transaction & seatbelted up for departure, uncertain as to how many of our neighbors had reason not to give out their name. Still processing this as the gravel crunched under our wheels in the driveway, Greg looked at me and wondered aloud.”Do we look like the sort that doesn’t want anyone to know our real names? Has life on the road been that hard on us?” He still and always will look like that sweet 19 year old college boy I met years ago so that’s not really a fair question. Recharged with sleep and a hearty homemade breakfast we meandered into town to fuel up.
Notes from the road by Rainy
Mesa Verde is aptly named. The flat topped rock stands alone against the skyline but it’s so much more than rock. It’s smothered in vegetation; hence the name of Green Mesa. The trees that grow here are stout and grow slowly like the high alpine trees in our state. The bushes here have a dusty hue of green hinting at a their high desert heritage. Hiking on the trails around the dwellings it has a dusty “cowboy of the west” feel, as pika scamper over the rocks. The Navajo ancients of the desert were clever ones, but the cliff dwellers of Mesa Verde were both opportunistic architects and brave. The rooms were cozily tucked under the shelter of overhanging rock and partitioned by hand-stacked rock walls.The access to their homes requires nerves of steel as they are carved into a cliff with sheer walls above & below. Covid restrictions closed access to the dwellings and that was just fine with my neural pathways.
The next memo item on our route was Wolf Creek Pass. We chose to get there via Durango because it has such a vibrant food scene & an awesome narrow gauge train museum. Parking in Durango proper is tight, so we stopped at Santa Rita Park on the Animus river. There was plenty of parking and the path along the river is serene. Better yet with a few extra steps you can be wading in the Animus river, which I did of course. Always bring your sandles. It’s a kayaker’s pleasure yet great for wading and picnicking. We launched the Buddy scooter shuttle pod and tootled around Durango mailing postcards and searching for an awesome cold beverage. Eleventh street station provided us the best chance at satisfying both of us. It’s an old Texaco station that now sports a collection of food trucks anchored by Ernies Bar and Taste coffee stand. This is where I discovered the lavender lemon freeze; a fancy lemon slushy with lavender buds. Greg sampled the wares of “on a roll” a special order ice cream truck that works on a cold stone while freeze-rolling your ice cream. It’s entertainment as well as luxurious ice cream. Again we had tried to let the coach rest during the hottest part of the day which is why we needed frozen confection to survive the afternoon. As dinner hour loomed I made us PB & J’s and cut veggies for a dinner on the road and we struck out for the Colorado mountains along hwy 160. The hillside to the south is where chimney rock shown against the skyline. It’s a rock protrusion that looks undeniably like a chimney. Pagosa Springs has a lot of tourist shops, hot springs & hiking trails. It’s the last stop for services before the climb starts in earnest. Bea did not need to say a word. We knew it was a climb simply by sizing up the grade of the road. And when the road started making switchbacks we knew something was going on. The mountain air was cool; probably low 70’s so the temperature gauge held steady. The switchback just before Wolf Creek Overlook taxed the old engine and the transmission crept up to 210 degrees so the pullout for the overlook was welcome. And what a sight! I was busy snapping pictures and even took video of the waving aspens near the expansive ranch when we were in the luscious valley but now that we were over 9000 feet high looking down on it I merely exhaled the thin air in awe. It was spectacular! Some views leave you speechless. This is one. Check it out some day.
When we exited the parking lot we were greeted with yet another climb. Believing the crest must be at the curve about 1/2mile ahead we were dismayed that the curve revealed yet another climb, albeit a gentler climb, a climb nonetheless. Our eyes widened as the GPS altitude digits started spinning like a casino game. When the readout approached 10,000 feet I started recording video to document Bea’s victory over that mountain. Stunned that the numbers continued to climb we held our collective breath expecting vapor lock, a pegged out transmission gauge or radiator steam. None came. Bea soldiered on, a little slower with each new foot of altitude, but forward she traveled. Chugging up the highway at the breakneck speed of 25 miles per hour I cheered her on, “you’ve got this, ol’ girl.” Greg quoted a childhood storybook, “I think I can, I think I can.” Amazed that the mechanical systems were all working in the green we beamed with pride as we approached the sign; the Great Divide, Wolf Creek Pass, 10,857 ft. We were proud of Bea, our good & faithful friend. We were proud of grandpa Alex Birch and the team of experimental engineers at GMC. We were proud of ourselves for taking on the challenge with a 44 year old machine. This was the turning point. This was the nemesis. This was Greg’s biggest concern of the trip, the biggest challenge for the motor and the highest pass we had ever traveled in our GMC.! Just like you would if on a horse I reached out and patted the dash as if to say, “ job well done, Bea.”
At the summit there was plenty of room to pull out and a pristine kiosk and sign to proudly announce to visitors the passing of the Great Divide. There was no doubt this was the site of Grandma & Grandpa’s picture. The sign was new with an updated font but the tree line was the same in the background so we waited for vehicles to clear and we positioned our coach just so to recreate the 1973 testing trip photo documenting the GMC Sequoia’s first trip over Wolf Creek Pass. Digital photo in memory we proudly descended toward Denver.
Birchaven 