The Nomad Moon Rides Again

Ten days after winter solstice, I packed up the Nomad Moon and hightailed it away from the dark and rainy Oregon coast. Like a pioneer in search of a better life, I drove my covered wagon into the valley of the promised land. After picking up Savanna in Portland, we headed south on New Year’s Eve, a day I usually vow never to drive anywhere. In spite of  ominous disaster scenarios of drunk drivers plowing into us, or freezing rain or snow on the windy mountain passes of the southern Oregon Siskiyous, we made it to our first campground in Ashland. There we settled in for the night over dinner and a bottle of champagne, and though we didn’t make it to midnight, we did celebrate our many blessings. Namely, Savanna’s graduation from nursing school and passing the boards, my recovery from hip replacement, the life changing trip to Kenya and so much more.

So armed with all the confidence that none of my fears came to pass, we relaxed, thinking Day 2 would be an easy 4-5 hour drive to Vacaville, CA. We got a later start than I’d hoped but the drive was uneventful till we approached the area near the farm where we were planning to camp. Stupid old GPS, whom I’d dubbed Cindy (after a former boss) started barking out orders to take a certain road—which did not deserve the name “road”. I’m normally reluctant to go down dirt roads with my fru-fru van because it has an abnormally low clearance on the bottom due to the generator that hangs underneath. Really, this bougie van seems more suited for city driving, which is ridiculous because it’s a camper van and who camps in the city bedsides people who could never afford to buy such an expensive rig!

Anyway, Savanna was driving and I warned her that Cindy was misinformed about the dirt road but she made the fatal mistake of arguing with her mother. The road was a muddy mess and pretty soon the ill-fated Nomad Moon was fishtailing all over the road. On the right side of the road was a field and on the left side, a ditch with water. Keeping the van on the straight and narrow was like driving on an icy pond. We had the idea to get out and put a couple of mats behind the wheels (after discussing whether or not the van might have had front or rear wheel drive). After rocking the van back and forth and trying to take it into the field, which we thought might be less muddy, we gave up. It was going to be dark soon, and each time we got out to administer first aid to the ailing van our shoes would pick up a couple of pounds of thick clay-like mud. We called Good Sam (the triple A of RVs) and sat tight waiting for rescue. The poor Nomad Moon looked like the Titanic, listing to the side, its wheels sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. 

After many phone calls to the roadside assistance company, we resigned ourselves to probably spending the night in the chilly van. I was afraid to turn on the heater for fear of starting a fire in the field and we couldn’t really cook anything hot because the van was like a tilted funhouse (except it wasn’t really fun). The Good Sam people eventually sent out a couple of tow trucks, whose drivers scratched their heads and said their trucks would only get stuck in the mud too if they attempted to rescue us. They gave up on us and called the state troopers. But not before the roadside assistance people called back to say they wouldn’t cover the rescue unless we paid $600 up front. I said never mind, California state troopers are on it. The young officer did not abandon us, but sat in his patrol car with us for over an hour till a tractor arrived to pull us out. And so, 6 hours later with a wave and Namasté of gratitude, Savanna and I left that disaster scene, muddy, but otherwise unscathed. We weren’t fined or arrested, and the officer never even asked to see my license. Ah, California state taxes at work…We slithered off to a cheap motel for some well deserved shut-eye.