Saturday: Repo project for Dad. It was supposed to be Don's project, not mine. Dad called with a cab over camper in Kelso. Sounds like the start of bad scene already, doesn't it? Anyway, would Don run up and check a couple of addresses? Dad's nearest agent is south of Portland, about 100 miles away, we're only 50. So, sure why, not. It's from a credit union where I've had an account
since I was a baby. I was running Dad's office the year we pitched and won this account. Plus, it's Don's time, not mine. Sounds like a great plan. Don made the trip on his way back from his fantasy football draft, worked great since he was driving through Kelso on his way home anyway. It turned out to be right where it was supposed to be. Shocker. Dad was sure the thing was long gone. The house where he found it was burned out and covered by blue tarps. The previous owners have long since moved. I guess they didn't need the camper where they went.
Monday: Dad says, slap it on the back of a truck and haul it to our house, he'll figure out what to do with it once we've got it. Don can't find anyone with enough time or courage or both to run up so he borrowed a friends truck, bought some straps from the hardware store, and headed north. I know nothing about hauling a camper. Don knows nothing about hauling a camper. If dad knows anything about hauling a camper, he's not telling. As it would happen, just any ol' truck isn't going a do it. The camper is a monster. Takes an 8 foot long bed. The truck Don found is only 5-1/2. Back to square one.
Tuesday: No one has a truck with an 8 foot bed. Guess we'll have to rent one.
Wednesday: Enterprise rents pickups--but only short beds. Ryder doesn't rent pickups. Uhaul rents pick ups, and with 8 foot beds. Score! Here's the schedule: Drive Don to Uhaul, drop him off, return to Camas, get some work done, return to Uhaul with truck, all in time to get to Portland to see the
Bodies exhibit at OMSI and
meet a friend for a drink.
DREAMING.
Here's the reality: Drive Don to Uhaul (20 minutes from the house), wait around, leave, return to Camas, at the Camas exit realize all the tools are still in the back of the car, turn around, drive to Ridgefield (where Don's waiting for the tools), return to Camas, eat breakfast, take shower, settle in to work, phone rings. Ugh.
View Larger MapThe truck from Uhaul was really not big enough. It was long enough, but not hefty enough. Don says it feels like the truck is poping wheelies. The back of the camper strapes the ground going over bumps. No lights, no mirrors. Will I please drive to Kelso to follow him? So I drive to Kelso (50 miles), follow him back to Camas (50 miles at 38 mph!!!!! on the freeway), we fight with each other over the phone the whole way back because my psychic skills about giving him room to get over don't match his telepathy to me about when he needs to get over, nor our collective telepathy towards sending other cars out of our way (although our collective telepathy did make us invisible to the THREE police officers we passed enroute), he unloads the camper (before I can think to get a picture), and back to Uhaul we go. No OMSI, No drinks, and now we have a new lawn ornament for who knows how long. 213 miles later, we now know how to haul a camper, and maybe (just maybe) when to say no?
Saturday: Repo project for Dad. It was supposed to be Don's project, not mine. Dad called with a cab over camper in Kelso. Sounds like the start of bad scene already, doesn't it? Anyway, would Don run up and check a couple of addresses? Dad's nearest agent is south of Portland, about 100 miles away, we're only 50. So, sure why, not. It's from a credit union where I've had an account
since I was a baby. I was running Dad's office the year we pitched and won this account. Plus, it's Don's time, not mine. Sounds like a great plan. Don made the trip on his way back from his fantasy football draft, worked great since he was driving through Kelso on his way home anyway. It turned out to be right where it was supposed to be. Shocker. Dad was sure the thing was long gone. The house where he found it was burned out and covered by blue tarps. The previous owners have long since moved. I guess they didn't need the camper where they went.
Monday: Dad says, slap it on the back of a truck and haul it to our house, he'll figure out what to do with it once we've got it. Don can't find anyone with enough time or courage or both to run up so he borrowed a friends truck, bought some straps from the hardware store, and headed north. I know nothing about hauling a camper. Don knows nothing about hauling a camper. If dad knows anything about hauling a camper, he's not telling. As it would happen, just any ol' truck isn't going a do it. The camper is a monster. Takes an 8 foot long bed. The truck Don found is only 5-1/2. Back to square one.
Tuesday: No one has a truck with an 8 foot bed. Guess we'll have to rent one.
Wednesday: Enterprise rents pickups--but only short beds. Ryder doesn't rent pickups. Uhaul rents pick ups, and with 8 foot beds. Score! Here's the schedule: Drive Don to Uhaul, drop him off, return to Camas, get some work done, return to Uhaul with truck, all in time to get to Portland to see the Bodies exhibit at OMSI and meet a friend for a drink.
DREAMING.
Here's the reality: Drive Don to Uhaul (20 minutes from the house), wait around, leave, return to Camas, at the Camas exit realize all the tools are still in the back of the car, turn around, drive to Ridgefield (where Don's waiting for the tools), return to Camas, eat breakfast, take shower, settle in to work, phone rings. Ugh.
View Larger MapThe truck from Uhaul was really not big enough. It was long enough, but not hefty enough. Don says it feels like the truck is poping wheelies. The back of the camper strapes the ground going over bumps. No lights, no mirrors. Will I please drive to Kelso to follow him? So I drive to Kelso (50 miles), follow him back to Camas (50 miles at 38 mph!!!!! on the freeway), we fight with each other over the phone the whole way back because my psychic skills about giving him room to get over don't match his telepathy to me about when he needs to get over, nor our collective telepathy towards sending other cars out of our way (although our collective telepathy did make us invisible to the THREE police officers we passed enroute), he unloads the camper (before I can think to get a picture), and back to Uhaul we go. No OMSI, No drinks, and now we have a new lawn ornament for who knows how long. 213 miles later, we now know how to haul a camper, and maybe (just maybe) when to say no?
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