Valhalla

All I know is one thing: Escape the Cold.

On an 11-degree night, my heater failed...again.

As I fumble out of bed and into my slippers, my mind races with ideas about staying warm tonight and for the one week and three days left until the 2024 shuttle season ends. . The heater worked again for the last two weeks. "Jesus fixed it!" I proclaimed to BossMan who insisted on giving me a heating unit that sounded too dangerous for a closed space. A 5-gallon propane tank inside the RV? Uh....no!

Even on this 11-degree night, I don't want that heater.

I make my way to the front of the RV and jump into the driver's seat. I pump the gas a few times before turning the key. Old engines. It takes a few tries, but the engine rumbles to life. I give it a few pumps of gas, hoping it won't quit and need a restart.

The air vents I'd forgotten to turn off the night before when I went to get propane blast cold air, so I quickly climb out of the cab area and grab the Mr. Buddy Heater from the living room. I use it at night as a cozy fireplace-replacement when I'm winding down. The soft glow from radiant propane heat and a hot cup of tea are a reward for a long workday.

Back in the bedroom, I set the heater in what I like to think of as safety-mode. Since the only thing protecting the open flame is a little metal grate, I'm careful when placing the heater close enough to warm the bedroom, but not close enough to catch the bed on fire. The bedroom door is narrow, so I squish the buddy heater against one wall and use a cookie sheet to shield the wall from excessive heat. Essentially, I keep "safety first" because I want a good night of rest. T

Jumping back into bed, I pull the covers higher over my ears to stay warm. I need to be up for work in four hours, but I can't sleep. Not yet. Not with the RV engine running. The exhaust leaks fumes. (One more thing to maybe-finally get fixed on the good ol' Godspeed!)

When it's warm enough, I jump up, turn off the RV, and make a pointed decision to fall asleep.

It's hard getting up, and I hit the snooze a few times, but passengers must be picked-up and dropped-off, and I must drive a total of 440 miles today until the shift ends around 6 p.m.

In the quiet spaces of the day, I think about what I know, and it all boils down to three things:

1) I've got nine days of work left after today.

2) The weather forecast shows overnight temperatures in the teens along with anticipated snow.

3) The furnace isn't working.

The company had already put remaining passengers (4 or 5 total) on alert for cancellation due to the winter storms in next week's forecast. It would be easy to just cancel those reservations overall due to the icy conditions that will persist on the North Rim of the canyon even after the snow. After absolutely no arm twisting, everyone agrees that we should end the week on Saturday. Later in the day, I learn that when the company called the passengers, they agreed to the cancellation as the wisest course of action. Win-win! Yay!

Next, I text a couple of our part-time drivers. They agree to cover my next two shifts and finish out the season.

With a little bit of sunlight left in the day, I hurry back to the RV and secure the cabin for driving.

That evening, I'm driving south and west in the dark...away from Tusayan. While watching the thermostat to make sure I don't overheat the RV, I revel in my success at breaking away from the job to get to warmer temps.

About ten miles out of Kingman, I start hallucinating trees and telephone wires in the shadows. It's a weird feeling that my sleepiness brings on. On one level, I'm heading west on Interstate 40, past rocks and hills. The constant thing is the lines of the interstate. But, it's also like I'm traveling through another dimension, one which I can only see at this level of sleep-deprived consciousness. I know I need to stop.

At the sign for Wikiup, I know I'm close to Kingman.

At Kingman, I pull off at the first truck stop on Blake Ranch Road. It's warmer here.

The next morning, I look at the maps. I really don't want to get on the interstate. It's one thing to drive on the interstate with my flashing lights at night to ensure trucks can see I'm a slow-moving vehicle. But, during the day, my RV blends into the surroundings. Sand and rock. I feel camouflaged in the desert. I don't want a fast-moving semi to approach me too quickly.

Instead, I find what looks like a delightful side road into the heart of Kingman. From there, I can roll on the Route 66 up to Oatman, then down to Catfish Paradise, and back on the interstate for eight miles. Eight miles is better than fifty.

The delightful road soon turns to a dirt-and-gravel road, which then gives way to a dirt road, which then gives way to bumps. The road is only 15-miles long, and I've already gone a little over three miles, so we better than 20% there. I can do this.

I pull over to secure the RV cabinets with bungee cords. Looping one end of the bungee cord over one cabinet handle, I stretch it until it is taut and secure it to the nearest cabinet handle. I do this for both sides of the RV and the sink cabinet. The bathroom cabinets have secure hooks, but I check them anyway. In the bedroom, my clothes closet has spilled some of its contents onto the floor. Hastily, I stuff shirts and jeans back into their cubbies, close the door, and loop the braided latch over the woodscrew. This holds the cabinet closed.

For a few moments, I let Buena outside, while I walk around and feel the air. It's nice not wearing a winter coat. I take some pictures of the three different kinds of cacti in the area before loading Buena back into the RV and continuing down the dirt road.

At a split in the dirt road, I consult my phone map to stay on course. It seems okay until the map shows me another fork in the road. But in reality, no road is here, only the road that I'm already on. I look at the map again. The fork should be right here...to the left of the RV. It's not. This is strange.

Nothing left to do but continue on this road.

I drive about a quarter of a mile, and the road suddenly splits. I stop and look at the map app. The map shows only one road.

Maybe the map was off. Maybe this is where I stay to the left. The road looks wider than the road to the right, so it must be correct.

I turn left and continue forward, but a growing apprehension overtakes me. The dirt road has narrowed significantly.

It's all still flat ground. Worst case scenario, I can back the rig up and get back on that other road.

I see the Hualapai (wall-a-pie) Mountains and know that Kingman's shops are to the southwest of this dirt path, so even if the map doesn't show I'm on a road, I have a general sense of location orientation.

The narrow road tilts up to one side, and I can imagine off-roaders probably have fun riding slant around the curve. Inside the RV, I remind myself of what St. Stan once said, "The undercarriage of the vehicle is heavier than the roof. You won't tip over." Good thing I bungee corded the cabinets shut!

Up ahead, I see a dip in the road. It's more than a dip. It's a ditch of sorts.

I stop the Godspeed, turn off the engine, and get out.

Buena looks at me inquisitively. She thinks it's another play stop. "No, Buena. I've got to check this out. Wait here. I'll be right back."

Walking to the ditch, I see that the dip in the road is about three- or four- feet. I look at the approach I'll have to take to take if I want to clear the steep, narrow wash without scraping the back end or--worse!--getting the back end stuck in the wash. If I angle the RV on the approach into the ditch, there's a chance that the only thing that will get hung up on the descent is the rear bumper. I'll have to make a sharp turn as soon as the front tires cross the narrow wash.

Maybe I can build a little bridge out of rocks to avoid going all the way into it. The sound of an engine prompts me to look up, and I see a black truck on a roadway about thirty-five feet ahead of where I stand in the wash. The truck comes to a stop and a bearded fella gets out.

"Mwfa mot tooble?" he calls.

"What?" I holler back, making my way up the embankment toward where he is parked.

He's a skinny older guy, and his truck looks newer. He walks toward me. "You got trouble? Are you stuck?"

"Not stuck. Just trying to clear the ditch," I say as we're about fifteen feet apart.

"Do you need help?"

"I don't know. I'm just trying to figure out the best approach to cleaning the wash," I say and then explain how I ended up here.

"Oh yeah," he says. "You can't trust Google out here. People are always getting stuck. That's my property over here. I'm always rescuing people or towing them out. One time this lady was out here and she was so disoriented because she trusted the internet maps. You can't do that out here. These roads don't match the maps."

"Yeah...I found that out," I say. Together we survey the RV and the wash.

"You'll be able to make it," he says.

"I think so," I say hopefully.

As I open the door to the RV, Buena jumps out and runs to the man.

"Buena, get back here! Come here!"

She doesn't listen. She wants to sniff the man.

Apparently, she likes him because she follows him as he moves away from the ditch.

"Buena!" I say, a little more harshly this time.

After a few minutes of me trying to get her, he walks back toward my RV. Buena is all kinds of tail-wagging joy.

"She must smell my dogs," the man says.

"Buena, get in the RV," I say, holding the door open.

She stays beside the man.

"What's her name?"

"Buena....after Buena Vista, Colorado. It's where I got her. They use the French pronunciation. It should be Bw-ay-na, like the Spanish pronunciation, but they're so insistent about the Bew-na or the French pronunciation, so I named my dog after the town." I don't know why I explain this to people, almost as if in apology, but I do.

"Hey, Buena," the man says calmly, "go get in the RV. Come on." He leads her over, and she jumps inside.

My dog hates me. She doesn't listen.

Getting back into the driver's seat, my focus returns to the ditch. I have to make it across. I'm pretty sure my AAA coverage has lapsed. Even if it didn't, I don't think AAA will come out here to tow me out.

Starting the engine and putting it into gear, I don't even pause. I just go.

Perhaps I go a little faster than intended, but I want to make sure I have the power to make it up and out.

Only....BOOM!

I get hung up on the way out. I gun the engine and smell rubber burning.

The guy waves his arms.

Once I'm sure the RV won't move forward, I kill the engine and get out.

I'm stuck.

Of course...I'm stuck.

"Looks like you turned it a little too sharply there," the guy says. Then he offers to tow me out.

As he backs into the spot, I look for a moment at the stickers on the back of his truck. One is in Arabic, and another one is a Three-Percenter symbol.

He gets out of the truck with a tow strap and comes over the RV. We're both under the front end, trying to figure out where to hook the tow strap.

"Doesn't look like there's anywhere to hook it," he surmises.

"Oh, there's some where to hook it," I assure him. "This thing's been towed before."

"I wouldn't doubt it," he says.

Eventually, we find a place to connect the tow strap. Then, we discuss at what point I'll give it the gas.

We follow through on the plan, and in mere moments, I'm out of the ditch.

As he unhooks the tow strap, he says, "You know I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for forgetting my glasses at home."

"Thank God you were here," I say and offer him payment for his help.

He refuses payment but says he'll take a hug. I give him a hug.

We exchange names and small talk for a while. His name is Freeman. He's a patriot and a free thinker. He explains the Arabic on the back of his truck. "It says Valhalla in Arabic." He indicates that this is a slur against Muslims because the word Allah is part of the word. I'm not sure what he means, so later I do a little research into the term and find this:

According to Brittanica, Valhalla is described as a place "in Norse mythology, the hall of slain warriors, who live there blissfully under the leadership of the god Odin. Valhalla is depicted as a splendid palace, roofed with shields, where the warriors feast on the flesh of a boar slaughtered daily and made whole again each evening. They drink liquor that flows from the udders of a goat, and their sport is to fight one another every day."

I'm not 100% sure how he sees this as a slur, and I don't want to spend the brain power on that now because I've got more pressing matters. I need to get the RV back to Havasu and figure out where I'm going to work and how I'm going to make ends meet until the Grand Canyon shuttle season opens again next May.

"The Google maps are going to show you the wrong way to Kingman from here. You follow me until I honk the horn. When I honk the horn, stay straight on the road, then turn right, make another right, and a left. Got it?"

"Right, right, left. Got it. Thank you," I say and follow him out.