Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [6]
In preparation for these trips we would pile the accouterments on the roof of our car: a couple of Coleman coolers, a white gas stove, lanterns, tents, fishing poles, aluminum lawn chairs, and bags of charcoal. There were axes, shovels, thermos jugs, cooking utensils, and sleeping bags all cinched into place and covered with a tarpaulin. We were carrying a canvas iceberg. The car interior, containing a brood of kids and two dogs, was no less cluttered. If they could have seen us, Okies right out ofThe Grapes of Wrath would have felt sorry for us.
We set sail on the roads of the American west. And when I say roads, I don’t mean interstate highways. My parents avoided those like watered-down gas. There was no adventure in traveling an interstate. Those were for wimps. Instead, they would search for the most obscure byways, take forgotten trails through sleepy towns and gravel-covered mountain passes. The sight of a sign reading, “Danger: Unimproved Road,” might as well have said, “Gates of Heaven Beyond.” My dad steered for those passages like an ancient Greek heeding the call of a Siren. I recall one occasion when a locked chain between two wooden posts held just such a warning sign. My dad took it as a challenge and dispatched his army of boys to rock one of the posts back and forth until it was loosed from the earth. We pulled it up, drove the car through, and replanted the post. Not only was it an unimproved road, now it wasour road.
My parents navigated trails in a Pontiac station wagon that a modern army tracked vehicle would not attempt. A fallen tree or boulder in the way? Not a problem. Like Chinese coolies, the Mullane boys would saw, hack, lever, or sheer-muscle any obstacle out of the way.
Not that some of these excursions didn’t put us in peril, like the time we were deep into the mountains of southern New Mexico when the radiator boiled over. It was obvious from the virgin dust there had been no traffic for many days, possibly weeks, maybe never. This was long before the days of cell phones. There would be no call to a tow truck. We were facing Donner Party extinction.
My dad, an expert at repairing planes, always carried an extensive set of tools in the car. Unfortunately, it seemed every time we broke down we were missing that one tool we needed. Apparently, our station wagon didn’t have the engine of a C-124.
On this occasion, though, no tool was going to help us. We needed water and there was none around. But my dad was nothing if not resourceful. He directed us to tear apart the car looking for anything wet. A couple cans of Coke and beer went into the radiator. A jug of cherry cider that my older brother had purchased from a roadside fruit stand was quickly enlisted. Several oranges were squeezed into this Prestone.
Then, my dad noticed my younger brother wandering away. “Where are you going?”
“I have to pee.”
Soon we were all standing on the grillwork of the car peeing into the radiator. “Steady, boys. That’s a damn Jap Zero you’re aiming at. Don’t waste a round.”
It was enough. Smelling like an overripe Porta-Potty, our hissing wagon limped into a gas station. The gagging mechanic asked if something had died under the hood.
On another occasion, overheated brakes threatened our descent from a mountain pass. No doubt recalling his earlier