The next morning we visited Dennis Franklin, an old pal of Pw's, whose family has operated Franklin Tire in Yuma since 1966. We were welcomed with an open bay as Dennis' crew went to work getting the Jeep's original two-piece axles back in shape. And because it always goes right on a D.E.D. Tour, Dennis introduced us to Jet Sales, a fantastic treasure-trove of army surplus and the highest possible quality of junk that can only come from a place that's been collecting for 50 years. Water poured from the sky, barely slowing us from inspecting the treasures, but damping the ritual sniffing of the WWII canvas.
We succeeded in prying ourselves away from the surplus and beat feet to the nearest possible dirt road outta town and managed another 50 miles off pavement. Then it was onto California Highway 111 near Glamis, and I was plunging ever nearer to the portion of the trip where the work stress comes back as the city looms closer. It was Tuesday night. I needed to be at work editing the monolithic Hot Rod magazine the next day. Yet ceaseless rain finally got the best of us-there was more water on the inside of the windshield than out, and it looked like we were pushing the limits of cheatin' death. We stumbled into the Ski Bar for a life-giving Corona in the bleak trailer resort of Bombay Beach on the Salton Sea, and it was obvious we were staying for the night. I made Rick promise an early rising, and I'd be at work bleary-eyed by noon.
Pw won't admit it even now, but it's my adamant belief that the next morning brought a calculated move on his part: when exploring beachline of the Salton, we got stuck in mud. Plausibly, he blamed the cursed automatic, yet I knew it was a ploy to keep me from work another day, and one that played out gloriously as we padded back to Bombay Beach and woke up the Fire Department, who sent us to the lady who owned the four-room hotel, who called Art-just "Art"-to fetch us out of the predicament with a backhoe. We promised to hose all the mud off the 60 feet of chain it would take to rescue us, and spent that time and well longer hanging out with a guy we'd never known before or since. War stories, dune-buggy admiration, local politics, and just plain good people who understand the flatfender life.
It was the kind of America you see on a proper road trip, and the reason they just never get old. But for now, it was finally off to the concrete ribbon, as we'd lived to D.E.D. another day.