My father was nearly in tears laughing in the passenger seat next to me. I was not laughing, but I did learn that day that my car could go 24 miles past empty. I cherish this memory which for me epitomized his ability to rightly consider inconveniences, thereby making them adventures. For my part, I learned a bit more about my car, and myself.
In the summer of 2013, the Coast Guard reassigned me from Oakland, CA to Washington, D.C. I had always wanted to drive across country and see the sites but doing so with our then twin toddlers was impractical. I barely got through describing the route I had in mind when my Dad responded that he wanted to come with me.
On day 1 of our trip, we put Giulia, my mother in law, and the kids on a plane and began our driving trek. Our route took us North past Mt Shasta, Crater Lake, and Oregon's high desert. Turning East, we passed through Southern Idaho, Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, and into South Dakota. We were on day 5 of our trip when we took an exit to see Devils Tower - a curious rock formation I thought he’d like, which meant that I would like it too.
A few miles after we exited, the gas light on my car came on. The car said 32 miles to empty and it was another 30 miles to Devils Tower. Certainly there would be a gas station. Not that Dad cared. By my nature I’m not fond of leaving things to chance. Conversely, Dad could recount dozens of stories where he ran out of gas or got lost or ran out of gas while getting lost and relied on the help of strangers and angels to get him home. Needless to say, he was unphased by a gas light that slowly began to preoccupy my mind. In fact I suspect he liked it.
We made it to Devils Tower with the car saying it was 2 miles to empty and no gas station in sight. Ever the social media pro, Dad insisted we take a photo. I relented, but our different moods are plainly visible. Photo complete we decided we would head back toward the highway along a different road from the one we had taken to Devils Tower. We knew there was no gas on the path we took in, so our thinking was our chances were better on a new route. We officially hit the 0 miles to empty and my dad was still grinning.
We continued on, enjoying a beautiful Dakota countryside that was completely devoid of gas stations or anything else. At this point I had turn off the AC but I could not coast in neutral because this new path, the one we thought more advantageous to our situation, was entirely uphill. (See map below.) Fortunately we spotted the crest of the hill and figured we could coast to the highway from there. We were wrong.
Only after we crested the first hill did the actual crest of the hill come into view. The first was a false summit. We were 9 miles past empty and our new goal was a good 4 miles off. My dad was now audibly laughing. I was calm, but silent, with my eye fixed on that second hill. We reached it safely but once again a new peak appeared in the distance where we hoped the highway would be. We were 13 miles past empty and we could not believe it. Dad was laughing continuously at this point. Mostly at the situation, but certainly at me as well. It was like he was reading an adventure story and was giddy to see how it turned out.
As we approached the third peak, the tears of laughter were in both our eyes. He was leaning forward in his seat to get a better view over this latest hill while I was coaxing the gas pedal for all she had. The dash said we were 21 miles past empty as we reached the true zenith of our climb. Off in the distance we could see the highway and, yes, a gas station. It was all downhill from there but in the seat next to me I think I sensed disappointment that the adventure was over.
We cruised into the gas station 24 miles past empty. I always wondered how Dad stayed so calm during odd adventures and risky situations, but now only I wonder how far past empty he must have gone in his day to get that way. He certainly could tell some interesting stories, but, ultimately, I do think it was his perspective on situations that matter the most.
G. K. Chesterton once wrote "An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered." May we always consider rightly. ~
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