Before I launch into my adventures at Lake Powell, I have to take a moment to tell you about the epic journey to get there.
Before I do that, you have to know something about my friend Ben, who happened to be our driver. Ben is the ultimate consumer. He is the boy they talk about when they say "boys and their toys." He could fund a small third world country on what he spends in a year. He will buy the best of everything, from a Galilean Thermometer to a robotic vacuum cleaner to a TV the size of a movie theater screen.
Case in point: Ben decides to buy a speed boat. He told me that he probably should have bought the 19-foot boat, but it was just that the 22-foot one would be so cool. What did he do? He bought one that was 23 feet long. The problem was that his massive, gas-guzzling Chevy Tahoe couldn't manage to haul this beast of a vessel. So the only possible solution was to buy a new truck. And when I say truck, I mean a vehicle that makes a Hummer look like a golf cart and gets mistaken for a semi.
Anyway, back to the story. So I arrived in Denver at midnight on a Friday night and met Ben, his cousin Sam and his friend Elisa. (By the way, this is after I almost missed my flight because the airline I was using had posted the wrong sign for the line I was supposed to be in. Luckily, about 20 other people made the same mistake, so they held the flight while we went through the longest security line ever).
We were only about an hour and a half outside of Denver when things got a little bumpy. Sam, and I consoled Ben that it was probably just a rough patch in the road, but he got out to check the trailer anyway. Nothing. We continued on, and all of a sudden things smoothed out, lending credence to our road explanation. Meanwhile, we passed a semi truck and smelled burning rubber as he braked while decending down from a pass. "Sucks for that guy," someone said.
A half hour later, Sam asked to stop, so we pulled over at a gas station. By this time, it was about 2:30 a.m. I was walking by the truck when I did a double take at one of the tires on the trailer. It was completely stripped of any rubber and was sitting on its rim. We discovered that somehow the back metal covering had bent forward and ate into the tire. That was when it was bumpy. It smoothed out after the rim sheaded its rubber coat. And yes, that burning rubber smell? It was us.
The boys took to trying to bend the metal back into place, ignoring Elisa and my pleas to just wait for AAA. They had very few tools, but they managed to bend it back with needle nose pliers. To change the tire, they had to set up a jack that looked like a lego toy on a piece of wood, then crank it manually (since it was missing a piece that cranked it). They set the tire in place and removed the jack just as the AAA driver pulled in.
It doesn't end here.
We got back on the road, and Ben and I delved into some profound conversation while the two others slept in the back. Suddenly, Ben saw the state line sign for Utah. I wondered why he looked ill as I celebrated. Apparently, he was supposed to stop in Grand Junction about 30 miles back for fuel, but neither of us saw it. The gas gage read 20 miles. We woke the others up to join in our panic and come up with a plan. We decided to make it up one last hill, coast down the other side, then pull over and wait while Ben hitchhiked. Ben's boss had just informed him how you do not let a diesel truck run out of gas under any condition, as it can wreck havoc on the engine. We made it over the hill and got off at an exit, where several semis were parked.
Ben approached one and offered him $60 for five gallons of diesel, and the man happily complied, even siphoning it out of his tank for us. Impending catastrophe averted.
After all that, we did make it to Lake Powell, just two hours late, though all of us were a little jumpy thinking about what crazy problem could arise next.
Lesson learned: Cary a complete jack, keep an eye on the gas gage, and expect the unexpected when traveling with Ben.
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