I know I haven't written anything new for 3 weeks now, and I apologize for that. I'm going through a rough spell right now, with problems at work, and pipe band drama (OK, drama's the norm for pipe band, but this one's a doozy and has the potential to bring it all to a halt). I've hardly been on-line and I'm afraid the muse has, for the moment, left me.
Instead, if you will indulge me, I'm going to rehash a Gunsmoke File from February 2004 which recounts our epic journey from Arizona to Colarado. It's a gesture of support for some dear friends who are undergoing some related, (but far worse) trauma of their own.
Getting There is Half the Fun
Recently I was asked if I had any travel disaster stories. My initial reaction was “yes, loads” but when it came down to it, I realized I’ve had many negative experiences, but none which truly stand out as being terrible. More like minor setbacks than true disasters and with the rosy-tinted benefit of hindsight, most of them were rather fun.
However, if I’d to choose one trip I’d least like to repeat, it would have to be when we moved here from Arizona. That was just plain ugly.
I’d been working in Colorado for a couple of months, while Dear Wife stayed in Phoenix, to handle the house sale. When it was time to move, I flew down on Friday night, anticipating that DW would have all our worldly goods and possessions packed and ready to go. We were scheduled to close on our new house, first thing Tuesday morning so intended to load up and get a couple of hundred miles under our belts by Saturday night. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. She’s something of a pack rat and after 18 years in the house, had found the task somewhat overwhelming so had barely got started. We worked through the night but by the time our helpers arrived on Saturday morning, had still hardly scratched the surface. Leaving them to continue, we went out to collect the hire truck I’d reserved earlier in the week.
Which wasn’t ready. “Nope, sorry, nothing available” said the clerk; making it quite clear he couldn’t care less. So, back home and a session with the Yellow Pages before finding a truck 50 miles across town. It was lunchtime by the time we got back so already we were seriously behind schedule. Next task was to collect the horse trailer, which had been in storage. One of the tires was blown. Not just flat, but completely exploded. Reflecting that on balance, it was better to have happened now than on the road, we decided it would be as well to replace all 4 of them. That neatly filled the rest of the afternoon so the planned Saturday evening departure was a complete write off.
We did sleep for about 4 hours Saturday night and on Sunday (most of) the friends showed up once more for an unscheduled continuance of the process. I never realized just how much stuff we owned and even after leaving a phenomenal amount for the new house owners, it was something of a squeeze when we finally pulled shut the door of the truck. Almost exactly 24 hours behind schedule we waved goodbye to our old life and set off towards that night’s target of Flagstaff, which is almost entirely uphill. With a top speed of around 45-50 miles an hour it was almost midnight when we pulled in.
Up bright and early the next morning and our first challenge was that the moving truck keys were nowhere to be seen. We hunted all over the room, in our pickup truck, the horse trailer and the ground around, before eventually finding them in the ignition. A good job nobody else had found them first. We made pretty good time over the next stretch of the journey and at Santa Fe, decided we had time to pull in and eat a proper lunch. Now Santa Fe is a beautiful town and quite rightly, is a Mecca for tourists from all over the world. So nice in fact, you can’t leave.
We now know that the while I25 does indeed head north after passing Santa Fe, it’s quite definitely an east-west route close to town. Which meant that there was no way to access it from the northern end of the city as we were trying to do. Or at least we would have tried to do if we’d been able to get out of city center. Built in a different age, Santa Fe’s streets are narrow and nowadays, thoroughly traffic choked. No place to be trying to maneuver a 24-foot moving truck when you’re so tired you can barely see. After about 12 circuits of the main plaza and multiple tours of the city’s residential districts (some of the gardens really are spectacular by the way, and you can fully appreciate them when you’re up high) I finally blocked traffic for 20 minutes or so while a friendly native explained the facts of life. After an initial misunderstanding, where I thought I was debating the village idiot (“You want to go south” “No, I want to go north!”) we finally got back on the freeway by going south, just like the man said.
One of our dogs was still in Colorado; DW had the eldest with her, while the youngest was with me in the moving truck. I’m told house moves are just as stressful for animals as they are for humans and in addition, we’d only adopted her a few weeks before I left for Colorado. She hadn’t seen me for weeks, didn’t know me all that well in the first place and now after all these strangers had emptied her house, I’d loaded her into this strange vehicle and was keeping her trapped for hours at a stretch. Perhaps not surprisingly, she began shedding hair at an astonishing rate. So much so that I spent large parts of the journey trying to de-fur my eyes, nose and mouth.
At around 3am we pulled into Pueblo and spent the next 45 minutes searching for a cheap place to stay, where we’d be able to bring the dogs inside without needing a room inspection before checkout. We finally paid $80 for 2 hours sleep and a hot shower and it was worth every penny. Breakfast was eaten at the wheel and after negotiating Denver’s rush hour traffic for the first time and grinding our way up the hill, we finally pulled up outside the realtor’s office with 40 minutes to spare. Only to find the office locked up and empty because the realtor had moved. Fortunately the office next door explained they’d simply moved across the road and we were still able to arrive on time. We looked like death, but we were on time.
Frankly, I have no idea what I signed that morning although should we ever have a child, I don’t believe it will belong to us. I also think I might be married to the village chief’s daughter. However, we must have done something right because after several hours, we were handed the keys to our new home and only a few hours after that, spent the first night, blissfully asleep. Under grubby blankets on the living room floor.
There’s no place like home.
However, if I’d to choose one trip I’d least like to repeat, it would have to be when we moved here from Arizona. That was just plain ugly.
I’d been working in Colorado for a couple of months, while Dear Wife stayed in Phoenix, to handle the house sale. When it was time to move, I flew down on Friday night, anticipating that DW would have all our worldly goods and possessions packed and ready to go. We were scheduled to close on our new house, first thing Tuesday morning so intended to load up and get a couple of hundred miles under our belts by Saturday night. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. She’s something of a pack rat and after 18 years in the house, had found the task somewhat overwhelming so had barely got started. We worked through the night but by the time our helpers arrived on Saturday morning, had still hardly scratched the surface. Leaving them to continue, we went out to collect the hire truck I’d reserved earlier in the week.
Which wasn’t ready. “Nope, sorry, nothing available” said the clerk; making it quite clear he couldn’t care less. So, back home and a session with the Yellow Pages before finding a truck 50 miles across town. It was lunchtime by the time we got back so already we were seriously behind schedule. Next task was to collect the horse trailer, which had been in storage. One of the tires was blown. Not just flat, but completely exploded. Reflecting that on balance, it was better to have happened now than on the road, we decided it would be as well to replace all 4 of them. That neatly filled the rest of the afternoon so the planned Saturday evening departure was a complete write off.
We did sleep for about 4 hours Saturday night and on Sunday (most of) the friends showed up once more for an unscheduled continuance of the process. I never realized just how much stuff we owned and even after leaving a phenomenal amount for the new house owners, it was something of a squeeze when we finally pulled shut the door of the truck. Almost exactly 24 hours behind schedule we waved goodbye to our old life and set off towards that night’s target of Flagstaff, which is almost entirely uphill. With a top speed of around 45-50 miles an hour it was almost midnight when we pulled in.
Up bright and early the next morning and our first challenge was that the moving truck keys were nowhere to be seen. We hunted all over the room, in our pickup truck, the horse trailer and the ground around, before eventually finding them in the ignition. A good job nobody else had found them first. We made pretty good time over the next stretch of the journey and at Santa Fe, decided we had time to pull in and eat a proper lunch. Now Santa Fe is a beautiful town and quite rightly, is a Mecca for tourists from all over the world. So nice in fact, you can’t leave.
We now know that the while I25 does indeed head north after passing Santa Fe, it’s quite definitely an east-west route close to town. Which meant that there was no way to access it from the northern end of the city as we were trying to do. Or at least we would have tried to do if we’d been able to get out of city center. Built in a different age, Santa Fe’s streets are narrow and nowadays, thoroughly traffic choked. No place to be trying to maneuver a 24-foot moving truck when you’re so tired you can barely see. After about 12 circuits of the main plaza and multiple tours of the city’s residential districts (some of the gardens really are spectacular by the way, and you can fully appreciate them when you’re up high) I finally blocked traffic for 20 minutes or so while a friendly native explained the facts of life. After an initial misunderstanding, where I thought I was debating the village idiot (“You want to go south” “No, I want to go north!”) we finally got back on the freeway by going south, just like the man said.
One of our dogs was still in Colorado; DW had the eldest with her, while the youngest was with me in the moving truck. I’m told house moves are just as stressful for animals as they are for humans and in addition, we’d only adopted her a few weeks before I left for Colorado. She hadn’t seen me for weeks, didn’t know me all that well in the first place and now after all these strangers had emptied her house, I’d loaded her into this strange vehicle and was keeping her trapped for hours at a stretch. Perhaps not surprisingly, she began shedding hair at an astonishing rate. So much so that I spent large parts of the journey trying to de-fur my eyes, nose and mouth.
At around 3am we pulled into Pueblo and spent the next 45 minutes searching for a cheap place to stay, where we’d be able to bring the dogs inside without needing a room inspection before checkout. We finally paid $80 for 2 hours sleep and a hot shower and it was worth every penny. Breakfast was eaten at the wheel and after negotiating Denver’s rush hour traffic for the first time and grinding our way up the hill, we finally pulled up outside the realtor’s office with 40 minutes to spare. Only to find the office locked up and empty because the realtor had moved. Fortunately the office next door explained they’d simply moved across the road and we were still able to arrive on time. We looked like death, but we were on time.
Frankly, I have no idea what I signed that morning although should we ever have a child, I don’t believe it will belong to us. I also think I might be married to the village chief’s daughter. However, we must have done something right because after several hours, we were handed the keys to our new home and only a few hours after that, spent the first night, blissfully asleep. Under grubby blankets on the living room floor.
There’s no place like home.
