The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries - 1-8-2020

Bubba remembers the Alamo

1-8-2020: I prepared a bunch of food for my trip south. Fried chicken, rice pudding, beef stew, grandma's oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and a double layer pumpkin cheesecake to die for. After I'm settled in for the night, I treat myself to a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. To die for. I am not a fan of pumpkin pie (detest it actually) so I was surprised to find I liked pumpkin cheesecake. Then again – anything with philly cream cheese is high on my list. I consider it a food group.

I woke up in Wells NV to sleet pelting the trailer by the frigid, driving wind. Dear God – just let me get out of here and to Ely in one piece. I was awake hours before I needed to be – listening to that relentless wind and peeking out the window to see if I was snowed in yet. It sounded much worse than it was. Thank you God. A skiff of snow was all she produced. I wasn't going to get any sleep. I crawled out of bed and went about morning chores of getting everybody fed and watered. I double checked the weather app – it looked promising all the way to Ely. I loaded the crew and we headed for the gas station. I always walk around my rig (usually several times) before taking off. Everything looked good. I fueled up at Loves and happened to glance in my side mirror. Every thing was not good. My front left trailer tire was all but flat. How did I miss that?

A quick Google of the closest tire shop yielded Pruett Tire, .2 miles away. You would think .2 miles would be a piece of cake. Nope. Something about under-passes and me do not jive. Why call it an under-pass – there are cars passing OVER ...why not call it a over-pass? The lady on the phone said to head North after passing over the under-pass. I swear. 2 miles later and I'm heading down that damn Great Basin Highway - once again in the wrong direction! This time I didn't hesitate to wait for a spot wide enough to flip a U-E. Instead, I turned into some unsuspecting ranchers driveway like I belonged there. What were they going to do, run me off?

I limp into Pruetts despite being directionally challenged. A tall, bearded man in a blue “Pruetts Tire” jacket saunters over. Doesn't say anything – just looks at me. I look back. I think to myself: I'm retired. I've got all day. This might be fun. I wonder how long I can stand here without saying anything before he asks me what I need? About 30 seconds into this little game he sort of nods “Sup..” Ok, Snowbird – we aren't in Les Schwab anymore. I explained my predicament. Bubba (I shall call him Bubba) simply turns around and walks back into the shop. Very slowly...we walks VERY slowly into a back entrance to the shop. Take your ever loving sweet time, Bubba.

I sort of shake my head and proceed to find the front door. A lady sits at the front desk enthralled in whatever she was doing. I'm guessing Game of Thrones. Like Bubba - “Sally” doesn't say anything until I interrupt her “work” and start to explain about my tire. She eventually gets around to asking if I've been helped about the same time Bubba reenters. Bubba walks to the water cooler and begins to fill a 2 liter bottle. I expect Bubba to say that yes, he is helping me. He continues to sloooowly fill the water bottle. I look at Bubba and back at Sally...then back to Bubba: “Pull through the alley. I'll meet you out back and tell you when to stop.” Great – I'm about to meet Bubba in the alley. At least we are getting somewhere. As slow as Bubba moves, I can jog to the police station and ask for help – no need to dial 911. Bubba disappears.

I wait for a while. The wind is ripping. I go inside to warm up and watch Sally's Mage beat the Orc Horde with a pouch of manna and pixy dust. I pick up an AARP magazine and get the giggles: If I weren't old enough for AARP already, I would be by the time Bubba got my tire fixed.

I wandered around the shop – used the bathroom, checked on my horses, etc. etc. Finally Bubba comes back - “Can't find anything wrong with your tire...it just doesn't have any air in it.” I swear. I didn't know how to respond. We went through various scenarios that might result in my tire loosing air. Bubba leaves again. I ask Sally: “So...I guess I'm done here?” “Yep,” she says. “No charge.” Sweet.

I walk out to my trailer expecting to leave. No Bubba...and no tire. WTF. I asked Jack if he'd seen him. Jack wasn't telling if he had. I wandered into the shop in search of Bubba. “I found a hole. It's an easy fix.” Bubba turns around and slowly saunters back into the dark corners of the shop. I decided right there and then that God was delaying my departure for a reason and to just go with it. I joined Sally at the front desk, picked up my AARP magazine and finished the article about what an awesome guy Tom Hanks is. He really is. I look forward to seeing his portrayal of another awesome guy: Mr. Rogers.

Bubba makes his final appearance with splendid and much anticipated news that my tire was now fixed AND he checked to make sure the others were OK. I thanked him profusely. I was so happy this happened here and not out in the middle of some godforsaken desert during a white-out. Sally took my 17 dollars and filled me in on a little known secret passageway out of Ely. It would save me a whole hour! I wondered...is that a people hour, or a Bubba hour?

I feel the need to add a disclaimer here. Bubba and Sally were actually really nice people. They got the job done and went out of their way with travel suggestions and checking all my tires. I've determined that people in Nevada in general operate on a different time dimension than some parts of the country. They are in no hurry and I think that is the way it should be. I thanked them both one more time – they wished me safe travels and I was off.

I held my breath all the way to Ely expecting the blizzard to hit any moment. It seemed too good to be true. The sun was bright and the pavement dry. I ran into several small snow flurries here and there but nothing to write home about. The cut off Sally suggested proved a success as well! I got a little turned around in the town of Ely itself only because of the difficulty navigating a large rig through old, narrow streets that were likely designed for foot and hoof traffic.

The cutoff out of Ely consisted of finding “The Six.” US 6 takes you to 318...318 then meets back up with 93. Beautiful, scenic drive with cool, old small towns that made you feel like you had stepped back in time. The White River Narrows with their red cliffs and impressive rock formations was my favorite part. The worst part was not being able to stop and take pictures. I wanted to pull over every few miles and snap a shot of this old building or that breathtaking mountain range. If I could make one suggestion it would be to put in turn-outs in a few spots along 318 for people to stop and take pictures. They do that around the Tetons. Then again – that would probably attract more tourists and ruin the whole atmosphere that exists now. There was enough trash scattered at what turn outs I could find. I pretty much think littering should be a hanging offense.

20 miles out of Ely and it became clear it was time to shed the long johns. The temperature visibly climbed a degree every few miles until it hoovered around 50 degrees. I'd made it out of the worst section. I was giddy.

I found the Alamo Rodeo Grounds without a hitch. At $13:00 a night – I might stay a week. Not really – but I'm sure not going to be in a hurry tomorrow. I could use a good nights sleep without worrying about bad roads and blizzards.

As I was scoping out pens for the horses, a man from the only other RV on site came up to ask if I needed help. He and his wife Renee were from Rupert Idaho. Small world. This was their first year without horses. John invited me over for a beer when I got settled in. Normally I am not a beer drinker but I wasn't turning this one down. I deserved this beer.

Now out of the freezing zone – I went about de-winterizing my LQ and filling the water tanks. Finally...a flushable toilet! Now for that beer! John introduced himself as John Smith. Sure you are, John. “No really,” he said – “that is my name. John Smith.” I said cool...my name is Marsha...Marsha Smith. He said: “Really??” I said no...not really but I don't believe you are John Smith, either. He just smiled and agreed that I'd probably worked in a prison too long. Speaking of prisons...they actually call them prisons here in Nevada. Not like Oregon where you have to call them Correctional Facilities or risk being written up and sent to “how to be a snowflake detention.”

John, Renee and I discussed the best way to get through Vegas without driving through “the spaghetti bowl.” If you see the traffic pattern on a map it looks exactly like a giant bowl of spaghetti. I'm going to try and avoid it at all cost. I managed to make it through Wells and Ely unscathed – I have no intentions of dying an a giant bowl of pasta.

I thanked my new friends for the beer and we agreed to try and meet up in Wickenburg on down the road. I've noticed one thing about traveling alone; you tend to meet more people. I don't know why that is, exactly. Maybe people are more likely to approach a harmless looking gal on her own...or maybe I am more likely to engage in conversation when I'm out adventuring. Whatever the reason – it's kind of cool and I look forward to meeting up with the “Smiths” again some day soon.

I can honestly say that this is one Alamo, I won't soon forget.