Have you ever wondered what your subconscious mind is capable of? I mean, like when it runs amuck? When I'm sleeping mine is having so much fun it often embarks on such a course of reckless abandon that I'm surprised it remembers to come back. Some of my serious friends will have you believe it's still out there, wandering aimlessly in the abyss in the dire hope that one day I'll bump into it and use the occasion to get reacquainted with it again.

Some days I believe them.

Monday was one of those days.

I awoke at about 6 AM and laid in bed in an almost state of terror from the living color dream of the night before. I never would have guessed how many gremlins could be packed in an already over-packed bus and still do the things only gremlins can do. While I drove one was turning the headlights off and on, another was outside clinging onto the roof pouring honey on the windshield. Two were in the back; the emergency door would fly open and both would pick up some tool and throw it out then laugh hysterically as the door slammed shut. Two were dismantling the exhaust system while two others were underneath the hood switching the sparkplug wires around. I was horrified by the joker who discovered the handle that opened door also started the red flashing lights. Every time he worked it the oncoming traffic would slam on their brakes and head for the ditch causing him to scream with glee. I had to get out of bed and towel off.

I've made the trip between Montana and Virginia 11 times and have tried all the various routes; the northern one will take you through North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland and West Virginia. The southern route will take you through Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa then into Illinois and the rest of the states named earlier. If you go northern there aren't as many hills but there are a considerable number of toll ways. It was a good trade because it seemed logical that if anything would be the cause of mechanical failure, it would be hills so the more of these that could be avoided, the better. At the same time I wanted to take the route with the least road construction - what better place is there than the Internet to tell you things like this?

I would never have believed that neither MapQuest nor Yahoo Maps could give me this information. Ohh, they knew everything else! For instance, they could tell you how many bathrooms or telephones a gas station had. Have you ever driven past one and wondered how many phones or bathrooms it has? It never bothered me. Ohh, it was no problem at all finding a hotel, what exit took you there, which side of the road it was on, how many were in the restaurant and who was sitting in booth #3 and how he liked his damn eggs. They knew all that but they couldn't tell me diddly squat about ongoing road construction. I think they kept it a secret because they wanted it to be a surprise.

During the next four days I would learn to loathe surprises.

My wife, Lauri, grew up in Ronan and growing up in a small town causes one to have many friends. Her best friend comes in the form of the brother she never had; his name is Kim Aipperspach. The bulk of his friends call him "Spook." The girls he dated would call him by that nickname then mysteriously start calling him Kim. Lauri said when that happened then she knew the girl had fooled around with him. I don't have any reason to doubt her but to find out if this was true is not the sort of conversation I'll strike up with another man - friend or no. I've always liked him and knew him before I met Lauri and if it wasn't for him; Her Nagness and I would not be hopelessly bonded together today. He's a loyal friend. At the age of fifteen he started working at the Phillips 66 gas station in Ronan and he's still there today, only now it's called Arnie's Gas & Tire. Arnie's is the best place in town for good service, experienced people and reasonable prices. It was also my first stop of the trip. I went inside and found him exactly where I expected him to be - underneath a car installing a muffler system.

"Hey Spookums," I said, "what's new?"

"Ohh, same-o, same-o." he replied. I've known him thirteen years, it's always the same, I also knew what would come next. "What's Joseph up to?

"Ahhh, just heading out on the big adventure." I said, and then added, "I'm a little concerned about the tires on the bus...thought maybe you'd take a look at 'em."

"What's wrong with them?" he asked with surprise, "I just put them on?" I had Spook put brand new radial tires on the front and check out the remaining four after the seats had been removed.

"Nothing with the front tires, silly, it's the rear that concerns me."

"Which one?"

"All of them." I said as I looked around nonchalantly.

He turned and looked at me as if I was cranking on a hurdy-gurdy and a monkey in a gold-trimmed red velvet vest was sitting on my shoulder throwing brussel sprouts at him (his level of detestation for brussel sprouts is monumental). "What do you mean, 'all of them'?" he asked.

"You should take a look, Spook, it may be they're just low on air, I don't know." I reported as we walked outside to where the bus was parked.

When we rounded the corner he stopped dead in his tracks, looked at me then looked back at the bus, "Since when did ignorance become one of your attributes, Joe? Are you out of your mind!?!"

"As a matter of fact...ummm...well, after I drifted off to sleep last night it did go on a walkabout - I might bump into it here in a cupla days. Why do you ask?"

He looked at me, pointed then said, "How much weight do you have on that thing?" His voice caused the same amount of concern you'd expect to have if someone looked at you and said, "Do you have any idea how many cops are looking for you?"

My eyes followed his pointed finger - I hadn't noticed it prior to that but with it being parked on more or less level ground it was obvious how squatted it was. Spook walked around it acting as if he was scared to get near the tires, so I asked him if he was.

"What do you mean, 'acting'? I am scared, you idiot." Then he got down and looked at the springs. "Judas Priest...how MUCH do you have on this bus?" he asked again.

I looked to make sure no one was within earshot, "I'm about 2 tons over," I whispered.

"The tires aren't low on air, Joe," he said as he crawled out from underneath the bus, "it's brains you're low on." Nevertheless, he filled all four of the rear tires to 110 PSI - as much air as he dared - and outfitted the windshield wipers with new blades and with that it was time to go.

The first leg of the journey would be a fifty-mile drive south along highway 93 to where I would pick up Interstate 90. We have a saying here in the valley, "Pray for me I drive 93". It isn't a joke. It's the deadliest stretch of highway in Montana and at the same time it's quite possibly the most scenic. From the junction of 93 and I-90 the next leg would be 125 miles to the town of Butte, Montana, where a long uphill climb would take me over the Continental Divide. It would be the first of several major mountain passes I would encounter, however this particular one scared me and I'm fearless. I happen to know the downhill grade on the east side is 6% and is almost 7 miles long. To put it into laymen's terms; for every 100 feet you travel you drop 6 feet in altitude. It's one heck of a hill and if the brakes on the bus were going to fail then I couldn't think of a more perfect opportunity for them to do it.

When I hit the Interstate and switched through the gears I was really amazed at how well the bus handled and how fast I could travel with the load that was being carried. Speeds upwards of 70 MPH were possible and there were no discernable problems with handling, however I settled on 65 MPH as being an acceptable safe speed. When I say, 'there were no discernable problems with handling' I mean to say it handled like a bus. In those first fifty miles the driver's seat felt like I was sitting on the lid of a trash can, handle up. I don't think ole Burt and Ernie could have done any worse if they'd bolted a stump to the floor.

Arriving in Butte I spied a sign saying this gas station had propane but what really caught my eye were the bold black letters advertising...

Easy Interstate Access!

Dude! In a bus that was almost 2 tons overweight those three words would become my trip motto. Before the first 24 hours had elapsed if I walked by anyone during a fuel stop I'd give them a thumb's up, smile and repeat my motto - I didn't give a damn if they worked there or not.

I parked so the driver's side tank was in front of the pump and went inside to entice the attendant to come outside for the sale. I met him coming out as I reached the door.

"Howdy there, need some propane," he smiled and asked.

"You bet, fill 'er up." I stated grabbing the lapels of my jacket, "Every gallon you can get in it, if you please!" Doing some quick math I then said, "It should take about 35 gallons."

"Alrighty," he said as he screwed on the valve, cracked it open then turned on the pump.

Nothing happened. The pump ground to a halt. He looked up at me and said, "It's full."

"What? Full? That's impossible." I stated, "I just drove 175 miles, I don't get that kind of mileage, it can't be full." Then I thought perhaps I had confused which tank I had been using and turned the bus around for him to fill the other tank. I was informed that it, too, was full. They both can't be full!

While I was driving down the road one of them damned gremlins had been underneath the bus beating on the valve and now it was locked up tighter than a bull's ass at fly time. For whatever reason the valve had failed and my 500-mile range had suddenly been cut in half and I didn't have the slightest idea what to do about it.

Continue to CHAPTER FIVE