When I found a stack of my grade school journals, I looked forward to fact-checking some of my most formative childhood memories. Sure, I’d have to flip through pages of going to the mall, visiting grandma, and complaints about who I was mad at and who was mad at me. But surely the most memorable events would also be on record.
The first event I looked for happened near the end of my fifth-grade year, so the date wasn’t difficult to locate. The journal entry, however, was eminently disappointing:
The pencil-written entry, dated June 3, 1990, reads: “We took a trip to San Fransisco on May 26. We spent Saturday driving up their (sic.) We rented a brand-new car, and when it had 300 miles on it, the transmission went out. We were stuck at a rest stop for 6 1/2 hours.”
Really, Jill, that’s it? That’s what I have to work with? Sheesh, this project is going to be more difficult than I thought.
Despite failing to inspire my youthful muse, this fateful trip to San Fransisco made its way into family lore. My Dad often rented vehicles for road trips, reasoning that it was more prudent to spend the rental fee and put fewer miles on our family cars. He also saw the benefit of driving more reliable vehicles than the sedans in our garage, which I believe at the time were an early-1980s Ford Mustang and a mid-1980s Mazda 626. I don’t remember what model of sedan he rented for this trip, but it was brand new — my journal at least tells me that much. As usual, my sisters and I squeezed into the back seat: me, age 10, Lisa, age 8, and Sara, age 3.
I believe this is the trip where I first figured out how to retreat into my own world, with my cherished Fisher Price tape recorder and the volume on low. I taped music from the radio, all of my favorites: Wilson Phillips, Paula Abdul, Sinead O’Conner (Nothing Compares 2U, still amazing.) We crossed the always-surreal Bonneville Salt Flats, ate our customary McDonalds pancake breakfast in Wendover, and continued west through the black rock deserts of northern Nevada. I was mesmerized by the endless desolation and a curated soundtrack that spoke to my soul.
We had just topped out on a mountain pass when the car made a strange clunking sound and the engine died. My Dad said something to my Mom about coasting into the next exit, hoping there was a phone. He expressed relief when the next exit was a rest area, and I remember feeling less scared for a short time. But there wasn’t a phone at this rest area, nor much of anything else besides a block of toilets and an unshaded picnic area. Dad said something about hitchhiking to the nearest phone, which was probably in Elko, some 50 miles back, or Battle Mountain, some 50 miles ahead.
“Battle Mountain, Nevada,” he said through his teeth with such derision that the memory of his tone and tenor still resonates.
Ten years later, Battle Mountain would become somewhat infamous thanks to a Washington Post article proclaiming the tiny Interstate town to be “The Armpit of America.” The writer designated it as such for its “lack of character and charm, its pathetic assemblage of ghastly buildings and nasty people.” He also wrote that its location in Lander County, Nevada, was “in the midst of a harsh and uninviting wilderness.” The local newspaper editor lost her job for cooperating with the Post, but the town eventually embraced this title and convinced Old Spice deodorant company to host a “Festival of the Pit.” The festival is now defunct and the town has since reached out to a new generation who can truly appreciate its charm. Its new slogan is “Basecamp to Nevada’s Outback.” Adult Jill thinks Lander County, Nevada, is beautiful. 10-year-old Jill … not so much.
Dad caught a ride with a trucker heading east to Elko … because — I believed at the time and still do — at least it wasn’t Battle Mountain. Mom had her hands full with our toddler sister and told Lisa and me to go off somewhere else and play. We wandered through the sagebrush and scrub grass, running our fingers along the chainlink fence, and checking to see if the restroom block had vending machines (nope.)
As the minutes and then hours ticked past, I felt a deepening sense of foreboding. The hot desert sun seared my skin. There was no air conditioning here, no shade. The dead car provided no security and only a diminishing number of snacks and Capri Suns. And where was Dad? Why was he gone for so long? Did he die on the highway? Were we going to die out here?
My stomach churned but I felt I should be strong for Lisa, who didn’t seem to sense the gravity of our situation. I pulled out the tape recorder and pressed record, taping over my cherished Wilson Phillips so we could tell silly stories and pretend we were radio reporters assessing the situation. The afternoon light started to grow long. I could see Mom’s stoicism breaking down as well. Her face betrayed her worry. Even Sara seemed to sense our predicament as she’d become increasingly fussy, inconsolable even with Capri Suns.
Dad finally returned, sunburnt himself and animated with his tale of wild adventure. He made it to Elko and called the rental company. They agreed to send a tow truck and a new car to the rest area. But then he couldn’t convince anyone to give him a ride back. He hitchhiked west on the Interstate for nearly five miles, without water, before a trucker took pity on him and picked him up. To top it off, he couldn’t remember if he’d told the tow truck driver what side of I-80 we were on, so he had to cross the many lanes of divided highway and hike over to the eastbound lot while we continued waiting in the westbound lot. Life before cell phones was wild, wasn’t it?
Finally, the tow truck driver arrived with different car, which we still drove all the way to San Francisco that day. I remember nothing about the actual vacation, but the ominous feeling of being marooned in the Armpit of America while my father hitchhiked across the desert has been seared in my psyche. Maybe I couldn’t write about it at the time because I was traumatized by the experience and the harsh lesson it imparted: It doesn’t matter if your car is brand new; it can still break down in the desert. When it does break down in the desert, no one will come to save you unless you embark on a difficult and dangerous journey to find a payphone in Elko. And while you embark on this journey, you’ll have to leave your entire family unprotected in the hot desert, clinging to their Fisher Price tape recorder and the comfort it provides — that while we effectively control nothing about our lives, we can still find levity in stories.
May 13 edit: My Mom wrote and filled me in on a few details I was missing as well as a few I had wrong. Memory is, as always, imperfect. I try to depict as much, in the tradition of storytelling, that the details are the product of individual perception and not the full truth. Here is her account:
I have the details of the story seared in my memory. Your Dad actually convinced a family to take him to Battle Mountain for the phone. We were on that direction of the freeway. They were nervous at first but could see all of us waiting and took pity on him. The call to rental company was at the gas station right by the freeway. The rental company determined we were exactly halfway between Salt Lake and Reno. They sent the car from Reno. He thought he could convince someone to take him in the direction of our rest stop. No one was going that direction. He decided to try hitchhiking for a better chance. He walked 5 miles with cars speeding by him, including the highway patrol. Finally, a beat-up car stopped. The guy was rough around the edges and there was a shotgun in the back seat. He proved kind and took your Dad to the rest stop on the other side of the freeway. He crossed over traffic to check on us. He did not think the rental company would remember we were on the other side so he crossed back again to flag them down. It was good he did that because that is exactly what happened. The tow truck driver had to drive to the next exit to turn around and that took a while. We finally had our car and still had to drive to the hotel in San Francisco. We arrived at the hotel at 2:00 a.m. I did not write this as eloquently as you, but your Dad was really a hero in the story. He always checked the fluids of the rental car after that. It is hard to believe how difficult it was before cell phones. After that first communication with the rental company, we had to go by faith that it would work out. Unknowns were a part of everyday life. Battle Mountain was seared as a desolate place in our family lore ever since.
Plus, Plus. An prime story of FAMILY!
Your mom is the hero in this story for sure!