path: root/essays/wired excerpt v8.txt

There's no temperature gauge. It broke several thousand desert miles ago. But you can smell it coming, whiffs of radiator fluid slip in the draft at the front of the engine doghouse. That's when you know, it's time to stop. It doesn't happen often. The 318 likes to run hot, but climbing mountains with a 12,000 pound RV on your back will eventually make any small block engine overheat.


I start looking for a place to pull over. There's nothing. The left side of the road is a sheer cut of rock, quartzite, phyllite, limestone laid bare by dynamite. To the east as far as I can see the barren rocky foothills of the White Mountains bubble and scrape their way toward the desert floor, dust swept and brown. Dotted here and there are clumps of creosote and sagebrush, interrupted occasionally by splashes of yellow Rabbitbrush. It's a stark but beautiful landscape. Without a pullout. But it doesn't matter, we haven't seen another car in at least an hour of driving. We are on Highway 168 somewhere in Eastern California, between the Nevada ghost town where we camped last night, and the top of the White Mountains. So I stop right in the middle of the road.


When the engine shuts off a silence descends. No wind. No birds. No talking. We—my wife, three children, and me—just listen to the quiet hissing of steam escaping the radiator cap, and then a gentle gurgle of coolant in the engine. It's October, but I'm glad I had the presence of mind to stop in the shade, the desert sun casts a harsh light on the road. After a minute my wife turns to the kids and says, "you want to walk around and see if we can find some fossils?" 


As a child of the 70s, I've spent a fair share of time at the side of the road next to broken down vehicles. This is what vehicles of those days did. The 1967 VW fastback, which managed to get me home safely from the hospital after I was born, was replaced with a 1976 mustard yellow Volkswagen Dasher that routinely overheated near Yuma, AZ on its way from my childhood home in Los Angeles to my grandparents' home in Tucson. To this day my father curses that car. There was also a 1969 Ford F-150 pickup that was reliable until you stuck a camper on its back and tried to climb over the Sierra Nevada mountains. 


I was no stranger to dealing with the sweat, the cursing, the money, and the occasional blood, required to keep old cars running. It used to be a necessity. These days it's a labor of love. But most people don't dive in as deep as we have. In June of 2016 my wife and I bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, a motorhome that, at the time, was just shy of its 50th birthday. My kids called it the bus. Which was apt. When you say motorhome most people picture something that looks nothing like our old Dodge. To call it an RV is to say a Stradivarius is a violin. The Travco is not an RV; it’s a 27 foot long fiberglass container of beauty and joy. It’s bright 1960s turquoise and white with sweeping curves and rounded windows. It is bold in a sea of beige modern RVs. The Travco was cool enough that it was once featured in Playboy magazine. Johnny Cash had one. So did James Dean and John Wayne.


We bought it to make it our full time home. We were tired of the suburbs and we wanted our kids to see the United States, to have a better sense of the place they were born. I didn’t want them to read about the deserts and mountains and forests, I wanted them to be in them. And I wanted them to also know the frustration and the joy of continuing down the road by the sweat and effort of fixing things, if not themselves, then at least by me.. 


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There aren't many Travcos left in the world, but in June of 2016, after a few months of haunting Craigslist I found one for sale in the mountains of North Carolina, in the sleepy college town of Mars Hill. A couple who restored vintage trailers found the bus somewhere in Tennessee and tried their hand at fixing it up. Then they changed their mind and put it up for sale.


I could have picked up where they left off, but as I looked it over, I decided I wanted to gut it. I wanted to understand the Travco, to design and build out everything in it exactly the way we would need it. Wood, sealant, metal, fiberglass, and all the things RV interiors are made out of are static. They just sit there, which makes them relatively easy to restore. 


I grew up around repair and restoration. My grandfather worked for the telephone company and had a shed full of tools behind his house in Tucson. When he retired he spent his weekends buying broken things at the swap meet and his weekdays fixing them to resell the next weekend. In the summer it was blazing hot in Grandpa’s shed, but my cousins and I didn't notice the heat. We were too excited watching him tear things apart—phones, televisions, radios, blenders—and breathe life back into them.


My dad had a garage full of tools as well. I was playing with hammers and tape measures from the time I could walk, graduating to model airplanes in grade school. As I got older, I started using more tools, taking more things apart and trying to put them back together. I gravitated toward working with wood, which I found more forgiving than radios and blenders. I sketched bookshelves, tables, chairs, and then built them as best I could. I came out of childhood with a few carpentry skills, and more importantly, perhaps misguidedly, a belief that with the right tools and a good mentor, anything was fixable. 


In his 2010 book Shop Class as Soul Craft, Matthew Crawford sees the need to be capable of repair as more than just a desire to fix things. He sees it as a desire to escape the feeling of dependence on stuff. The more I began to work on the bus the more I understood what he meant. Your stuff will never again fail you because you can repair it.


Yet these days of high technology, products are often covered with stickers warning you that even undoing a screw will void the warranty or risk injury. Companies like John Deere have even argued that it is illegal for the owner of their machines to repair them. This is creating a world of passive consumption devoid of personal agency. Crawford calls the person who wants to fix their own stuff, the Spirited Man. This figure becomes the antidote to passive consumption. "Spiritedness, then," writes Crawford, "may be allied with a spirit of inquiry, through a desire to be master of one’s own stuff." The spirited man "hates the feeling of dependence, especially when it is a direct result of his not understanding something. So he goes home and starts taking the valve covers off his engine to investigate for himself. Maybe he has no idea what he is doing, but he trusts that whatever the problem is, he ought to be able to figure it out by his own efforts. Then again, maybe not—he may never get his valve train back together again. But he intends to go down swinging." 


Since I first read Shop Class I have decided it’s better to go down swinging. It’s not just me either. I see this in the work of filmaker Van Neistat, who explicitly took the Spirited Man mantle and ran with it. But also in the thousand people without filmmaking skills who are quietly working in their yards, in their garages, at the side of the road. Shade tree mechanics. Tinkerers. Spirited men and women who want first and foremost to understand, to expand their understanding of the world around them, to know how to use the tools we toolmakers have created for ourselves. The spirited man or woman doesn’t want to be passively entertained, or coddled. They seek to take part as co-creators in the world. We’re not along for the ride, we’re here to stand at the helm, trim the sails and steer the ship.




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When I set off in the bus, I had no idea how the engine worked or if I would be able to keep it running, but I intended to go down swinging. Standing there in the hills of North Carolina, looking over the bus for about an hour, I saw there was some obvious water damage. I knew I’d have to tear out walls and replace them with new wood. And I figured if I got got the walls off I might as well re-wire, re-plumb, and re-insulate the thing. I was unfazed. With the interior, I could see the finished result. 


The engine I was blissfully ignorant about. It was hard to start, but once it got running it seemed good enough to my untrained ear. I handed over the money and climbed into the cockpit.


That first drive was nerve wracking. According to the odometers of my past cars, I've driven near 250,000 miles. But driving a car is nothing like strapping yourself to a 27-foot long monstrosity in unknown condition and pointing it downhill. A prudent man would have done a test drive. A couple of hairpin turns had my palms sweating—I made a note to myself to buy my next vehicle in Kansas—but I finally managed to get her out on a four lane road where she felt more manageable. After I had been driving, tensely, for a couple of hours I pulled over at a rest area to take a break.


The engine wasn't even off before two people came up to the bus to take pictures, ask about it: What year is it? Where did you get it. Then they asked the question I would come to realize everyone who loves old cars wanted to know: what engine is in it? 


The Travco is driven by a Chrysler 318 LA, a 5.2L small-block V8 engine. The LA stands for lightweight A series engine. This is the same engine you'll find in most things Dodge made in 1969, from the Dart to the D100 truck. Larger engines like the 440 are more sought after in vintage racing circles, but the 318, as most enthusiasts call it, is the unsung hero of the muscle car era. Some people claim the cylinder bore size in my 318 is bigger than what you find in a Dart, which would give the bus's 318 more power. (I've done a little research, but still can’t confirm or deny this;  that said, on the side of a long mountain climb in the desert hills of Nevada for instance, it can feel like I have the power of a Dodge Dart, with 8000 extra pounds of weight on top.) Still, on that first drive with the Travco, when I stopped at that rest area to collect my wits, all I knew was it had a 318 Chystler engine. Beyond that I knew almost nothing about engines. I knew that the modern ones looked complex and intimidating and involved a lot of computer chips and automation via sensors. But I'm a former computer programmer; part of what I was after, when we decided to live in a vintage RV, was fewer computers. 


[[break?]]


The first year with the Travco, I spent most of my free time rebuilding the interior. For the bulk of 2016 it sat in our driveway, me inside, sweating through the southern summer, freezing through the winter. Our neighbors begin to give directions based on it: “we’re two houses after the big blue bus.” I gutted the interior down to the bare fiberglass walls. I rebuilt all the electrical, propane, and water systems before insulating it and sealing it back up. I kept everything low tech. There's only one computer chip in the bus. There's no backup cameras, no motorized awnings, no automated systems at all. I had to go out of my way to find a hot water heater with a non-electric pilot light system. I have to get out and light it by hand every time we reach camp—but the system will never fail. 


A friend of mine joked that I had become like Captain Adama from Battlestar Gallactica, who famously wouldn’t let networked computers on his ship because they introduced a vulnerability he considered unacceptable. It wasn't that he was opposed to technology, his character commands a spaceship after all, it was a particular kind of technology, perhaps even a direction of technology, that Adama opposed. In his case networked technology opened the to door to murderous robots bent on destroying humanity. Our case is a little less dramatic. We just didn't want to have to have something break when we're far from the nearest place that could fix it.


(No one is perfect though, and the bus does include one complex, fragile system: our solar panels and batteries. I think even Adama would approve of the solar panels; they have been our primary source of power for years. But he wouldn’t approve of the Bluetooth network the solar charge controller uses. That network is an unnecessary potential point of failure. Sure, it’s nice to be able to check our solar and battery status from my phone, but we don’t have to. To mitigate that vulnerability, I installed a shunt with a hardwired gauge. Should the Bluetooth fail, or, more likely, should I lose my phone, I can just look at the gauge. Like Adama, I am not opposed to technology. I’m opposed to unnecessary technology and single points of failure.)


The comedian Mitch Hedburg had a joke about how an escalator can never break, it can only become stairs. In web design this is referred to as graceful degradation. How good your technology is depends on how elegantly it handles failures. (This is a design principle I bet even Adama could get behind.) A lot of modern design has taken exactly the opposite approach. In the name of convenience, complex systems are hidden behind deceptively simple user interfaces. But no matter how simple these things might seem when you use them, the complexity behind them is inherently fragile. 


Sometimes inconvenience can even be a benefit. It has a way of forcing you off autopilot and getting you paying attention. With an engine as old as the Travco’s, I found out I need to pay attention. It's part of the cost of admission. 


[[break]]


Modern user interfaces have hidden this fact from you, but the first time you start your car every morning the engine is cold, which makes it hard to start. There are three important components in an internal combustion engine: air, fuel, and spark. The spark is a constant, but when your engine is cold it needs more fuel than air. A computer chip controls this mixture in modern cars, but in older, aspirated engines like the 318, the carburetor controls this mixture with a flap that opens and closes. In our 318 this flap is controlled by the driver via the choke cable—a steel wire attached to the carburetor flap at one end, and a knob on the dashboard at the other. Pull out the knob and the flap in the carburetor closes, limiting the air coming in, and allowing the cold engine to start up.


Manual choke is archaic. But since ours was broken when we got it, I went even more archaic. Every time I start the engine I lift up the engine cover, unscrew the air filter, and close the carburetor flap with my finger. At first this was just expedient. Fixing the choke was on my list of things to do, but finding a long enough choke cable, with a period-correct Dodge dashboard knob took years of scouring eBay. By the time I found one I was simply used to doing it myself, literally by hand. The eBay choke cable has been sitting in a storage hatch under the back bed for more than a year.  


The truth is, I like opening the engine, I like making sure everything looks right, I like watching it come to life. If something is wrong, I know right away. Once a wire came off the ignition coil and instead of wondering why the engine wasn't starting—which it wasn't—I was startled to watch electricity arcing out of the ignition coil. That's not right. But it was also very simple to fix. I found the wire and plugged it back in. The engine started right up.


Every morning before we head out on the road, I open the engine cover and spend some time studying the 318, connecting with it. It's a ritual, somewhere between making coffee and invoking the gods, a small part of my morning that's dedicated to making sure the rest of our day goes smoothly. For a long time I really was looking over the engine before every drive;  these days I am often just spending time with it.


Car enthusiasts often get this way. It might seem irrational to be attached to a particular set of nuts and bolts and cast iron, but it happens. Now, driving around the country, when I see broken down cars in someone's yard I don't see junk, I see failed relationships.


—


The bus is very much a relationship. The five of us moved in and hit the road on April 1, 2017. My wife said that if it didn't work out we’d just pass it off as a bad April Fools joke. It worked out. Though like any relationship, me and the bus have had some rocky moments.


April 2nd, less than 100 miles from home, we had our first problem. I had just finished backing into a campsite at Raysville campground, still in Georgia, when I smelled a strange scent, something like burnt grapefruit. I laid down in dirt and slid myself under the engine. A thin, warm red liquid splashed on my forehead. Transmission fluid was leaking out of the bottom of the radiator. There are two transmission lines running into the bottom of the radiator where fluid is cooled before being sent back to the transmission.


I didn't know exactly how to fix it, but I knew enough about engines to know that this wasn't too serious. As long as I kept the fluid level topped off, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. I didn't want to disrupt our new life on the road by taking the bus in for repairs on our third day out. Instead I added a transmission fluid refill to my morning ritual.


In the first three weeks, I went through a lot of transmission fluid. I topped it off every morning before we hit the road and every time we stopped for gas. Treating symptoms works for a while, but inevitably the underlying cause gets worse. We made it down to the South Carolina coast, and then swung south, through the windswept marshes of the Georgia coast, and then we headed inland, across the swampy pine flats of south Georgia and into the Florida panhandle.


I put off dealing with the leak in part because State and National Parks frown on people working on their rigs in campgrounds. And we were heading to a friend's beach house on St. Georgia Island.. Friend’s houses are much more conducive to repairs. But the day we arrived the leak got dramatically worse. I pulled into the driveway with barely any transmission fluid left. At this point, I felt overwhelmed by the problem; it seemed like too big of a task. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go down so soon, swinging or not. Instead I spent an hour on the phone searching for a mechanic willing to work on such an old, huge vehicle. I finally found one who was game. A few days later, my wallet a bit lighter, the problem was solved. Still I had these lingering doubts: how spirited was I, taking my engine to a mechanic without even trying to fix it myself?


We got back in the bus and on our way, tracing a route along the white sand beaches of the Gulf Coast, west through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, into New Orleans where people cheered the bus from the sidewalks. For two months the bus ran perfectly. But as we headed into the June heat of Texas, the temperature gauge began to climb. And climb. All the way into the red. We took to driving in the early mornings, which helped, but something needed to be done. 


We stopped to visit relatives in Dallas and had the radiator re-cored. That eliminated it as the source of the problem. (Again, those niggling doubts about taking it to mechanics, but even experienced mechanics rarely recore their own radiators). Not an hour outside of Dallas the temperature gauge shot right back up to the red. We stopped at another repair shop. They replaced the water pump and thermostat. We headed out of town early again, before it got too hot. That worked. Until it got hot. The temperature gauge climbed again. 


Our temperature problem, and the brutal West Texas heat, was getting to us. I punted. In Amarillo we got a hotel for the night and I called my uncle. He listened to me for a while, and then told me to go get a temperature gun and take readings around the engine when it was running. That night, I paid way too much for a temperature gun at a local hardware store and we hit the road again early the next morning. Every half hour, I stopped, got out and took readings on the top and bottom of the engine. Everything was within the operating parameters. We drove on into the midday heat and watched the temperature gauge climb again, but the readings done with the gun remained fine. I called my uncle back. “If I were you,'' he said, “I'd pull the temperature sensor out of your engine and chuck it out in the desert somewhere." I hung up feeling that the main problem with the bus was me. I didn't know how to find the problems, let alone fix them. 


The problem with spiritedness is that, in the beginning, desire far outstrips skills. I don’t know when my Uncle started working on cars, but he’s 35 years older than me. Thirty five years chasing the spirit of inquiry teaches you a lot. 


I did the best I could with what I knew. I knew he was smarter than me so I took his advice. I unhooked the temperature gauge from the engine sensor. And everything was fine. I was happy to realize there was nothing wrong; I wasn't happy thinking about the thousands of dollars I'd spent trying to fix what turned out to be a faulty $15 sensor. How did my uncle know what to do without even being there? The learning curve felt insurmountably steep. 


Two months later, near the end of a summer spent in cool pine forests in the Rocky Mountains, we decided to attempt a 10,000 foot pass near Ridgway Colorado. We'd managed to get to 9,600 feet before, and the one we were headed toward was not a steep climb as Rocky Mountain passes go. We started early, but we didn't get more than a mile into the climb before I smelled that familiar grapefruit smell of transmission fluid. I pulled over and crawled under the bus —and saw the transmission cooler line leaking again. 


We turned around, limped back to Ridgway, and found a side street to park on. I got under the bus again. This time I knew what I was looking for, and sure enough, once I got the nut off the end of the transmission line I could see that the metal pipe, which flares out to wrap over metal fitting on the radiator, was not just cracked, but missing a whole chunk. Instead of forming a tight seal over the metal fitting, fluid was shooting out the side. The transmission cooler lines are fitted tightly along the side of the engine. There is no slack. I couldn't just cut them off, put in a new flare and reattach them. Even if I could have made it work they would have been nearly touching the exhaust, which would heat them far more than the transmission cooler ever cooled them.


I was forced to reach out for help, again. I called around for a shop that had big enough bays to work on the bus and eventually found one in Montrose, 30 miles away down the mountain. I put the existing line back on as best I could and limped back to the Ridgway State Park campground. We started repacking,  and gathering up what we need for a few days of tent camping in a rental car. 


That evening, I was sitting outside the laundry room in the campground, watching the famous golden light of the Rockies play across the Cimmarron Range, when a fellow camper came to do his laundry. He stuffed his laundry in the machine, and we started talking. The conversation came around to the bus, as most conversations I have in campgrounds do. After he asked about the engine, he asked me something no one else ever had, something that caught me off guard. Something that has haunted me since: "Do you turn your own wrenches?" I said I did as much as I could, but that sometimes I had to get professional help. "You have to turn your own wrenches," he said shaking his head. "You can't have a vehicle like that if you don't turn your own wrenches." 


I realized that night, I couldn’t keep relying on mechanics. I needed to understand how the 318 worked from the inside out so that I could get in there with my own wrenches. Still, I took it to the mechanic one more time. We spent a couple weeks in a tent while the mechanics in Montrose tried to find new transmission cooler lines for the bus. Eventually they did and we were on our way again, but not for long. A couple weeks later, coming down western Utah, bound for Zion National Park, I stopped for gas and guess what I saw pooling under the bus? You can't have a vehicle like this if you don't turn your own wrenches. You'll go crazy or broke or both.


It was a Sunday in Utah. We tried to find a mechanic, but nothing happens on a Sunday in Utah. So we pulled over on a back street, across from a mechanic's shop that was closed. I crawled under the bus and started poking around. This time the leak was from the back of the transmission line rather than the front. I unscrewed it and sure enough, the flare was cracked again. I knew what to do, but I didn't have the tools and the hardware stores weren't open. 


I climbed out from under and sat down on the Travco’s step, wiping the grease from my hands. My wife was just asking me what we were going to do, when the rolling metal door of the shop across the street rattled and opened with a clang. A man about my age came walking over and asked if I needed help. I told him my problem. It turned out it was his shop. He didn't work Sundays, but he was there working on his own projects. Together we pulled off the transmission line, took it inside, cut off the cracked flare, and re-flared it. Then he showed me where the last mechanic had gone wrong. He'd overtightened the nut, crushing the metal on to the fitting until it cracked.. We tightened it. Gently. The mechanic wouldn't take any money. Help someone else out someday, he told me.


[[break]]

Sitting at the side of the road in Nevada, almost two years in with the Travco, I knew that engine overheating isn't really a thing that can be fixed. It's what happens when a small engine tries to climb a big hill. Eventually old cars will teach you so much, including patience.


I go for a walk up the road, to see what's beyond the next curve. Maybe the road crests a ridge and drops into a cool, lush valley with a river running through it. The bend doesn't seem to end though. I keep walking but can never see more than the next few hundred yards, the road just keeps climbing. I give up and head back to the bus. My wife and kids are back from their explorations, ready to go. The engine has cooled some, so we clamor in and decide to make another push up the mountains. But now we're starting from zero. On this kind of incline, I give us a mile before we overheat again. (I won’t know exactly,  because the odometer is broken).  After about five minutes I spy a pull out. I haven't smelled radiator fluid yet, but I decided to take advantage of the ability to pull off the road. 


My wife and I talk about turning back. There's a strange college back in the valley behind us called Deep Springs. They have a sign out front that says no phone and not to bother them, but something tells me they'd be okay with the bus. We could get a fresh start in the morning. It's been a long day of driving and the kids are tired and hot. 


Then we hear an unmistakable sound that always makes me smile. A loud engine, with the unmistakable thump-thump heartbeat roar of a Harley Davidson, is rumbling up the hill. In a few minutes the bike appears and the rider pulls over. He asks if we're okay. We go through the usual talk about the bus. Then he tells us we're only about a mile from the top. Suddenly we're not quite so tired. The prospect of making it over the mountains feels possible again. We thank the rider and he continues on his way. We give the engine some more time to cool before we try again. 


An hour later we’re back in the road, trying for the top. It's a long mile, we never get above twenty miles an hour, but after a little while we crest a ridge and  a spectacular view of the Owens Valley in California opens up below. I can see the Sierra Nevada mountains rising up out of the hazy valley. We are at the top. I have just a second to enjoy it before we pass a sign that says, "Caution, One Lane Road Ahead." The narrows as this bit of highway is called, comes up so fast we don't have time to plan for it. We're just in it. Thankfully, nothing comes the other way. I have no idea what happens if you meet another car coming the opposite way, especially one of the empty hay trucks that drive highway 168 at about 70 miles an hour. 


Coming down the steep grade we stop to rest the brakes a few times. After about three hours of descending, we pull into a campground outside of Big Pine, California. It's empty this time of year and the road is full of ruts that have the bus lurching and creaking around. About 20 yards from the first campsite we hear a loud clang. My wife and I look at each other. I pull into the first campsite, and shut off the engine for the final time with a deep sense of relief.


–


The next morning we watched the sun come up on the high peaks of the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains.  We had a leisurely breakfast and sipped our coffee well into the morning. We found a train museum up the road and thought we'd take the kids. 


It was around 10 when I started up the engine and then made my customary walk around the bus to make sure all the windows and hatches and vents were closed and properly secured while the engine warmed up. Everything looked good until I came around to the driver's side where I noticed the rear wheels were oddly far back in the wheel well. But wheels don't just move around... that would mean the entire axle had moved. Oh shit. 


I knelt down and peered under the frame. The rear axle, which supports about 5000 pounds, is held in place by two mounts, one to the front of the axle, one to the rear of the axle. These hold the leaf springs in place. The mounts are secured by four welded steel pins, one at each corner, which hold the axle mount to the chassis. On the driver's side, the forward axle mount, three of the four pins were gone. It was hanging by one pin and had swung down and backward, shifting the entire rear axle about six inches backward.


If that pin gave out while we were moving, the axle would come free and most likely tear the back end of the bus off before dropping it on the ground. It was clear we weren't going anywhere. Suddenly all the things that had happened until now, all the leaking fluids, excess oil, even overheating, seemed pretty mild compared to this. Then I thought of something my uncle had said to me over and over, "it's really not that hard, it's all just nuts and bolts."


Nuts and bolts aren't where most of the work is though. It's the problem solving that happens in your head. That skill takes years, even decades to develop. I am still early on this journey, but it is infectious when you hold something unknown in your head until you come up with a hypothesis about what might be wrong. This takes me many miles of driving, many miles of thinking.


It also requires asking many questions of many people. I've met Travco salesmen who knew the original designer, mechanics who've worked on Travcos, and dozens of people who knew the 318 engine inside and out. All of them helped me in some way, even if it was just an encouraging word, a congratulations on keeping it on the road.


As I sat there staring at the axle dangling by a single pin, I had no idea what to do. So I turned to my uncle, texting him a picture of the problem. A few minutes later my phone rang. My uncle happens to live about two hours from Big Pine, back over the state line in Nevada. Sit tight, he said. He was loading up some tools and would be there that afternoon. 


We took the kids hiking down to a nearby river. I try as hard as I can to make sure that our adventures don't get in the way of letting our children be children. Making the bus "work" for us is as much about making sure they have space to run and play as it is turning wrenches. 


Around three that afternoon my Uncle[a] pulled into our campsite with a truck full of floor lifts, jacks, and tools. He crawled under the bus with me. He didn't say anything, just lay there studying the situation. When he climbed back out he said, "I think we can fix that." We made a run to a hardware store in Bishop, about an hour up the road, where we bought some grade 8 steel bolts, which are strong enough to hold. We also went to the store  and grabbed some steaks and potatoes for dinner. The biggest lesson I've learned from my uncle is, "relax, and make sure you're having fun while you do this."


That night after dinner, while we sat around the campfire, he told me the plan. We'd use two jacks, one to hold up the bus, should that last pin give out, and another to maneuver the axle mount back in place. Once it was close we'd use a flange alignment tool to line up the hole in the axle mount with the hole in the chassis. Then we'd slip in the grade 8 bolts. Once he laid out the plan it seemed simple enough, obvious even. But I never would have thought of it on my own. I'd never even heard of a flange alignment tool and I had no idea there were bolts strong enough to replace forged steel pins. No matter how spirited I wanted to be, I had a long way to go.


The next morning we did exactly what my uncle said we’d do. It took the better part of the day, but when we were done the bus was good as new. My uncle didn’t like the sound of the engine though. Why don’t you bring it to my place, we’ll see what we can do about that noise. 


We spent a few days exploring the area. The kids got to see the train museum. We swam in some hot springs. Then we made our way up to my uncle’s house and I began to learn how everything in the engine worked.


This is, in part, what I love about living in the bus, part of why we keep doing it five years later. It's the people that keep me going. It's all the people I know, all the people I've met, the people who've helped, some professionals, most not. Because we haven't stopped needing to fix things in the bus. In the course of writing this article I had to rebuild the vacuum booster that powers our brakes system, replace a head gasket, several worn belts, a failed alternator, the voltage regulator, a fuel pump, and do all the routine maintenance like changing the spark plugs, wires, and oil.


The bus will never not need fixing. But my relationship with it has changed. I no longer look at the engine in awe and mystery. I know what all the parts do. I don't know everything that can go wrong, and I don't always know what to do when it does, but I have the thing I've come to prize the most—the relationship with my fellow shade tree mechanics and car enthusiasts. They are what keeps me doing this. It isn't just me turning my own wrenches, it's everyone who turns their own wrenches. 






















[a]can you give us a physical description of him?