Camp Rover

Ignition Key , continuedburst into High Power Mode. The fuse blockcrackled and the wires sang as recently lazyelectrons got more than just a little shot in thearm, and The Hellas parted the night likeMoses parted the Red Sea. Hey, wasthat a tomcat? Tell Darth that I got hisDeath Star right here, baby! We got some starwars action for him, yeah...We found Mark and his cronies a fewwinding miles down the dirt track, half anhour after crossing the weathered concretedam, and set up the tent in the driving rain.We then gathered under Mark’s enormouspara-wing canopy where, as seems to be thenorm on all-male outings, the talk migratedfrom ale to various defensive weapons we hadeach brought along. Forrest’s armory was themost impressive. His seemingly minusculedaypack contained a pachyderm-sized assortmentsof blankets with which to provide backupand fortification for the 21 flashlights stillinside. Forrest wasn’t concerned about bears,wolves or yetis, and the guys nodded sagely.They knew from experience that nothing stopsmonsters better than a flashlight fired fromunder or behind a great mound of blankets. Ifit’s a question of whether they’ll be safer inSAC’s Cheyenne Mountain or under a blanket,the smart toddler will always select GenuineFlannel over mere granite. Forrest’s primarydefense for this evening would be the latesttechnology from Fisher Price: the new timercontrolled,triple-barrel, white red and greenselectable beam flashlight, security bunkeredunder a Winnie the Pooh comforter. His battledress: a set of Little Tykes goggles, a yellowhard hat and a high volume (my idea) HuggiesPullup Nighttime. The monsters must havesensed the enormous latent power hidden inthe tent during their recon, or perhaps theymerely espied the empty 100-round Duracellbox in the Land Rover, because we sleptsoundly that night.The morning dawned picturesque, like ascene from A River Runs Through It, andremained that way as the dawn blossomed intoday. Light breezes partnered with early autumnleaves over the river in a dance that seemed toexist only to dodge the occasional rain shower.Sadly, there was a limit to the time that we hadto absorb nature’s beauty, and following somefine fishing and hiking, Forrest and I said ourfarewells. We packed our gear back into theLand Rover, secured the canvas flaps, and lumberedout of the canyon and across the damfor the return trip to Boise.The Land Rover was in fine form, its enginepurring like a sewing machine, which shouldhave been a strong indication that catastrophicfailure of something was imminent. No traffi con the 30-mile desert descent into MountainHome meant that we could disengage the overdriveand just mosey along, something wecouldn’t do on the ascent. 0-60 mph however,is doable at a staggering 29.1 seconds on theflats with no breeze. Those little engines reallyhave to spin.Ten miles out of Mountain Home, with 30miles across the blazing desert to go, the LandRover bucked twice, solidly, and ceased running.Wondering about that miss the nightbefore, I drifted off the side of the road andcame to a silent stop in the desert. I’ve brokemy truck before, but come ON!Knowing that my problem wasn’t fuel, Ipulled the cap off the distributor to reveal asoft patina of metal delicately coating theinside of the distributor in much the same wayas Jack Frost artfully coats windshield withanother compound that sucks. Well, heck(actually I said mother-heck); at least JosephLucas leaves clues. At least this clue wasn’tWales To Westford, c o n t i n u e dblackened with carbon and smouldering.When I inspected the inside of the cap, the originof the metal dust became apparent: thecontacts had been ground nearly completelyoff. That’s when I saw the aluminum fragmentson the engine block, and pieced together (punintended) what had happened.The electrode on the rotor hadloosened, grinding the contents offthe distributor cap. Foiled before itcould complete its mischievoustask, it came loose from the rotorentirely and dove down below thebreaker plate. It delivered a onetwocombination to the centrifugaladvance mechanism, breaking offboth posts and releasing the tensionon the springs, but the Sumowrestler-sized advance had the lastlaugh. Mortally wounded, it man -aged to revenge itself by waddingthe soft brass electrode into a littleball and shooting it like a bullet through thealuminum distributor housing and onto theengine block.A few tests later I determined that, byinstalling my spare cap and rotor, there wouldbe enough functionality left in the distributorto get Forrest and I home. Fortunately for usbecause no one passing on the freeway evenslowed down, let alone stop to render assistance.However, when I walked to the rear ofthe truck to get my spare cap and rotor fromthe toolbox, my heart turned to lead and sankto my stomach. It might as well have been agiant cyanide pill; it was, in fact, the realizationthat I didn’t have my toolbox. No spare, notools, and a two-year old with a chocolate milkmustache who equated the way that daddy waswalking and vigorously muttering with greathumor, rather than the Weight of Despair thatwas really the culprit.In the next 90 minutes I tried everything tofix that truck. I kicked it and hit it with rocks,too but let’s discuss that at another time. Itried ty-wraps, bits of tape, spit and really goodcuss words. And in the next 90 minutes, not asoul stopped to help. As I set down in failureon the side of the road to contemplate carryingmy little boy for 30 miles, I looked up and sawsalvation. My Leatherman Super Tool wastucked behind the Terratrip Rally Computer onthe dashboard. Suddenly, the barren side ofthe freeway in the Idaho desert became therich Land of Opportunity.Necessity is the mother of invention. Baby,what a mother! I’d been using my thumbnail toscrape adhesive from some Velcro to attachthe key from the lock on my high-lift jack tothe rotor as a makeshift contact until I brokethe key, and sat down in desperation. I cameacross the spare key to the high lift while rummagingthrough the truck registration pouch.Recovering it, I used the file implement on theLeatherman to extend and shape the depres -sion on the top of the rotor to fit the key. Thesmall screwdriver implement then came intouse (abuse) to create a slot in the rotor thatwould accommodate the width and depth ofthe key, at about 45 degrees from the top.Guessing the distance that the rotor contacthad extended from the end of the rotor, I mea -sured the key off, then used the pliers, I forcedthe key into the slot, then cut a piece of nylonty-wrap and forced it in there as well, creatinga powerful compression fit.Thirty minutes from having noticed myLeatherman and thirty minutes from facingdefeat at the side of the road, I fitted the rotorand locked the ruined cap back in place. Imoved into the driver’s position and, with myhead on the wheel, gently turned the key. Imust admit that the sound of that engine wasnever as welcome as it was right then. Forrestsaid, “Fix Daddy?”“Yeah, boy, fixed!” How sweet it is!The vehicle being parked with the words “GodleyHouse Bus” on arrival in Pakistan, 1962.traveled often in myLand Rover as part ofmy crusade against theabuses of “quangos”[unelected regulatorybodies for regionalissues such as economicdevelopment -ed].In my case, the WelshDevelopment Agencytook by compulsorypurchase [eminentdomain in the US -ed.] part of our common,where I feed my sheep. Their part of thebargain called for the Board to erect stockproof fence, an agreement on which theyreneged. So my Land Rover will transport me,maybe Lynne, Meg the dog, and certainly someprotest banners to The Royal Welsh AgriculturalShow and the Earls Court Show in London. Withits new crossmember andfirst-ever hitch, it will towan ex-Moscow State Circuscaravan to these events toalert attendees to the abusesof these 5,500 quangos.There are probably agencymembers who wish that aLand Rover weren’t so toughand reliable a vehicle!It’s not easy to go anywherethese days, given thepossibility of spreading footand mouth disease. With anelection coming up, we’renot hearing about it lately. I don’t know whatthe outcome will be. For the past couple ofmonths, we’ve hardly left the farm. For largefarmers, losing animals just means some finan -cial hardship and partial reimbursement. As asmall farmer attached to my animals, I don’twant to take the risk. The farm shows that weused to love to visit have been canceled, as havemany Land Rover events this spring. There maybe some in the Summer and Autumn.I do like my “Godley House Bus,” too. Itshistory enabled it to win the Welsh competitionin the “Source For a Legend” contest, but forme, it’s another embodiment of the rural, farminglife that is so important to me. There’s nocar like it.[James Powell invites Land Rover enthusiastsinterested in traveling to Wales to stay at theLlwyncelyn Farm. Write him at LlwyncelynFarm, Crickhowell, Powys, South Wales, UKNP81LL, or telephone him at 011-441-874-730327. He promises “many friends withLand Rovers and lots fine off roading,” andover the telephone, Lynne sounded like awonderful cook and companion- ed.]© 2001 Rovers North Inc • 1319 VT Route 128, Westford, Vermont 05494-9601, USA • 802.879.0032 • e-mail rovers@together.net • www. r o v e r s n o r t h . c o m