The 1960's model Chrysler 318 V8 was one of the most reliable horse power to torque engines put out in that era. It was a classic that sat mounted in Mopar cars of that generation for a good decade. The Plymouth Fury Sport coup, the Fury III sedan, (adopted for Highway Patrols all over the country), and the 2 door Fury coup convertible were all capable of waging war on any drag strip or hidden road for a majority of that decade. Pink slips fell to the ravages of the Fury. It was Glorious.
The Plymouth Fury sedan was one of many vehicles The Boy would piece together with the assistance of The Old Man. It was capable of driving the driver and passengers back solidly in the seats due to the force of gravity suddenly exerted upon them. 0 to 60 in less than 6 seconds is very respectable for any car of that generation. The Old Man was proud of that car and the Boy, beamed.
In 1980 the ground around Mount Saint Helens in Washington State began rumbling. The mountain was going through stages of swelling an contracting. Unfortunately the seismic scientists of the USGS, the United States Geological Service, didn't detect the exact power building, nor the time it was to explode. For this reason a team of scientists lost their lives and the warnings to evacuate came late to the surrounding communities and folks living in the vicinity. Some did leave, but a few refused and paid the ultimate price.
On May 18th, 1980 at 8:32 AM Mount Saint Helens exploded in a violent eruption that sent ash and fire 80,000 feet into the atmosphere, and from there it spread KCL, Calcium Chloride or Potash to virtually every continent in the Northern Hemisphere. The two years following The Old Man's piece of heaven had it's best growing seasons ever. The clover grew thick, the sweet grass was high, and the corn plentiful. It was a profitable couple of years.
Less than a week after the mountain exploded The Boy decided to drive the Plymouth Fury to Washington State to check out the state of the Cascades, the mountain range St. Helens was part of. He was curious and wanted to see what was left. He packed a cooler, made the appropriate calls, he was on leave from the Air Force, put some clothes in a duffle bag, filled the car up with gas, and headed out down Highway 2 West. His trip had begun.
The Old Man tried to warn him about driving at this time, but The Boy's curiosity was strong and driven. He drove past Chester, then Shelby, Cut Bank, and Browning, then finely into West Glacier. The Mountains had arrived. The drive from Columbia falls to Kalispell is basically fairly even as they are at the tops of the ridges, then up again until the drive reaches Libby. The Libby Loggers are a historical rival of the Havre Blue Ponies. The two football teams would go to war in ritual combat at about the same time every year. It is as regular as the harvest and celebrated much the same way, ritualistically. Havre always one the game. After all it was a AA school and Libby wasn't.
When The Boy reached the Idaho border he noticed the car running slightly sluggish so he pulled over and took the air cleaner out of it's compartment atop the engine. Probably not a good idea. He was now at the top of the Continental Divide and would be driving down hill for the remainder of this leg of the journey. He pulled over at a Idaho state rest stop to stretch his legs and get some coffee. He found a nice little restaurant at the pull over and decided to get a burger, fries, and coffee. He got talked into a sundae surprise by the waitress. It was large, tasty, and probably not real good for him, but that was ok. He left a nice tip and continued his trip.
The drive across Idaho isn't a long drive. The top of the state is only 50 miles, however when The Boy reached that spot he looked down the long drop of a highway. At this point the decline of the highway is so steep that every few hundred feet there are panic ramps for those weak at heart, and trucks who's breaks decide to crap out. This was a hair raising trip. On this steep piece of road there where actually other drivers passing him at better than 70 MPH. He was not comfortable. The car was acting up and his nerves were sitting at the bottom of an ice cream cup.
He was finely at Bonner's Ferry and could see the mountains in the distance. There was something wrong, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. He kept driving. The car was sounding rough and spitting every now and then. It was not happy. He Turned North on 117 and drove for about an hour and a half. There was a roped off parking area. He pulled in and parked shutting his car off. The Boy got out of the Plymouth and looked into the horizon where a mountain should be. Saint Helens, or the top of, Saint Helens was gone. It was about half it's usual height. He could not believe his eyes.
The Boy cried at the sight of the mountain. His heart was heavy. He had walked some of this paths in the past and felt close to the mountains. This was an unbelievable sight. These mountains will never be the same again.
Then The Boy got back into his car and tried starting it up. Nothing. He tried again. Only a whir and an electrical noise. He opened the hood and took off the air cleaner lid. The engine was no longer pretty, it was covered in pot ash and the top looked like dried cement. A man in a tow truck stopped and talked to The Boy, then looked at the car, "This is not good." he said.
After explaining to The Boy that pot ash is not good for engines at all, that it looked like the motor had seized, and probably had seen it's last hurrah, he offered The Boy a trade. A 1965 VW bug for the Plymouth. Papers for papers. The Boy agreed and they loaded his stuff into the VW, and said, "Thanks mister." Full of gas, full of the sight of no mountain, and full of wonder, The Boy started his drive home.
That little Bug turned out to be one of the best cars The Boy had ever owned and the Old Man, well he just laughed.
Peace and Balance,
John
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