Ferrari Heaven

There are times in life when all the suns and moons and stars line up just right and we find ourselves in our own version of heaven on earth.  Delivering Ferrari and other fine cars for Modern Classic Motors in Reno was about as good as it could have gotten for me at that point in my life.

I still remember the first time. I'd been hanging around Ferrari of San Francisco, supposedly working but since I never made a sale and therefore never got paid, I refer to it as hanging around.  One day my boss asked if I'd like to fly to Reno and pick up a car from MCM, drive it back to San Francisco.  I didn't have to think twice about that. Vern Keil, the Ferrari manager for MCM, met me at the airport, took me to the office downtown, then when we left for the warehouse to get the car he said "have you ever driven one of these things?"  I had, but it had been a long time and a different model. So he put me in the driver's seat and off we went.  The warehouse was a sight in itself -- a huge building filled with new Ferrari's.  I thought I'd died and gone to heaven right there.  Pretty soon, I was behind the wheel of a brand new 308 GT4 headed west.

As it turns out, that was a fateful day for me.  Vern told me they were building a new showroom and would be needing salespeople, asked if I was interested.  I didn't have to think twice about that, either, and when the showroom opened a few months later I was on the staff.  That's when it really got to be fun. There were opportunities galore to drive Ferrari, Rolls, BMW and all the rest of them.  I ferried a few more in and out of San Francisco (tales for another day) but really wanted a chance to deliver to dealers in Denver and Phoenix, whose owners preferred that the cars be driven to them rather than put on a transport.

Months passed, then our Denver dealer came to town and he, Vern and I went out to dinner. After some discussion, the dealer asked if I wanted to deliver a car he'd just sold.  Again, I didn't have to think twice.  "We'll pay your expenses," he told me, "and $100 for your trouble."  I looked at him funny.  "Trouble?" I asked.  He smiled, fully aware that I'd probably have paid him $100 for the privilege.  "We'll pay you $100," he said.  With the deal done I set off a few days later for Denver in a silver 308GTB.  "Take your time," he'd told me, "call us when you get to town."  Surprisingly, after I arrived they asked if I'd driven over to Aspen or taken other side trips.  Such a thing had never occurred to me, but they said I should have taken the time to see all these places.  They wanted me to enjoy the trip, have some fun.

I definitely had fun, although most of the first day was spent on two-lane highways full of RVs and trucks and few opportunities to pass.  When I could pass, I'd eventually have to stop for gas or food and then they'd all pass me again.  I got tired of the leapfrogging game and settled down just to drive, sandwiched between giant vehicles, frustrated.  I stopped at the Great Salt Lake and put my feet in the water just to say I'd done it, but other than that, the desert between Reno and Colorado didn't have much appeal for me.

The real fun came the second day.  I'd stayed overnight in Grand Junction and, as is my wont, left very early the next morning, around dawn.  As expected, the highway was mine alone at that hour and I was able to let the car loose, drive steadily at its easy-cruising speed of 90mph, and enjoy the scenery.  After I reached and crossed the Colorado River the scenery became truly spectacular.  On my left was the river, on my right a big stone cliff, no real shoulder on either side, not another car in sight.  The road was gently curvy -- enough curves for fun, but gentle enough that I could see the road ahead for a safe distance.  I was in heaven.

Then, all hell broke loose for a few long seconds.  Off in the distance I saw a pickup loaded with camper shells and towing a trailer filled with camper shells, sitting in a wide spot on the left, next to the river.  As I watched, it began to creep slowly toward the road and I remember thinking that surely he saw me -- sun shining on a silver car flashing towards him -- and surely, he wasn't going to pull onto the highway in front of me.  I let off the gas just in case.  In the seconds these thoughts took I was drawing closer to him and then, he began to clearly move onto the pavement.  I hit the brakes -- not in panic, but firmly, watching as the truck/trailer pulled at a snail's pace into my path and blocked both lanes of traffic, leaving me no place to go except the river or the rock wall.

The Ferrari stopped mere feet from impact -- no fuss, no squealing brakes, no fishtail or skidding, no bother.  "You want me to stop? OK, no problem."  From 90 mph to a dead stop in seconds.  I think that was when I first began to truly appreciate the Ferrari engineering.  Anybody can make a car that'll go fast.  Not everybody can make one that'll stop so effortlessly from such speeds.  The entire incident took much less time than it takes me to tell the story and I'm not even sure the driver of that truck ever knew I was there, at least  not until I passed him a few moments later, heart pounding, adrenaline flowing.

Soon enough the traffic was with me again and I was playing leapfrog.  This time, there was another player -- two guys in a red Porsche who were also playing leapfrog.  Eventually, we both stopped at the same gas station and they started chatting. They, too, were headed to Denver, mentioned that the road would widen to four-lane past Glenwood Springs and I could turn the car loose.  I questioned the issue of cops and tickets.  They told me to just shadow them, since they'd draw the cops if the occasion arose.  They also suggested that we meet for coffee in Dillon, and off we went.  I stayed close enough that I could see them, but not so close that we'd appear to be racing or together, and we all had a good bit of fun on that stretch of Colorado freeway.

This wasn't the most spectacular run of mountains, but it was the least crowded and therefore best place to park and get mountains behind me in a photo, atop Loveland Pass.

The Ferrari, unfortunately, wasn't happy with the altitude.  When we met in Dillon they suggested that instead of driving through the Eisenhower Tunnel, we take the scenic route over Loveland Pass so I could have a good look at the Rockies.  I hesitated because the car was running so rough, but they said they'd stay with me and be sure I'd have help if needed. They were right about the scenery --  utterly spectacular.  Little did I realize that I'd be following this same path on a bicycle a few years later.

The men offered directions to get me near the Ferrari dealer once I arrived in Denver.  We stayed together until our paths forked, said goodbye with a beep and a wave.  A quick stop at a phone booth (no cell phones back then) and soon I was enjoying a nice dinner with the dealer before hopping a plane home.

Later, I drove two more back-to-back to Phoenix, but that was mostly just flat desert and, for better or worse, nothing of real interest happened.  I do remember stopping at one gas station and having a guy ask, "did you win this thing in Vegas?", and at another, "Are you a movie star or something?"  Guess they didn't see too many of these things in the backwoods of Nevada back then.

Tales of Stratton Bald

The best beer I ever had came my way about three-quarters of the way up the 10-mile trail leading to the top of Stratton Bald one hot summer day when I was hauling a backpack up that beautiful, but long and uphill trail. 

The occasion was an overnight backpack that I was leading for the Georgia Appalachian Trail Club.  We were all seasoned hikers, as few novices attempt this trail, and had strung ourselves out over a good distance as we sweated bullets at our own pace in the sweltering heat.  I was with a small but lucky group who happened upon a few  bear hunters out scouting for the upcoming season. These burly mountain boys had backpacks, too, but theirs were filled with cold beer and ice, which they offered to share.  Oh my!  No beer, and possibly not anything else ever, period, has tasted so good.  I made myself save a few swallows for Bill, my co-leader, who I knew wasn't too far behind me.

When I stop to think about it, I've had more than a few fine moments on or about Stratton Bald, which lies in the Joyce Kilmer/Slickrock Wilderness of North Carolina, reaches an elevation of about 5400'.  I can specifically remember four separate backpacking trips, and there may have been more.  All I remember about the above trip was that cold, cold beer on the sweltering hot day.

The trail skirts groves of some of the largest virgin yellow poplar you'll ever see, deep in the heart of the Joyce Kilmer Wilderness far from the beaten tourist path.  It goes up, and  up, and up, but the reward is a large round-top mountain with meadows for camping, a trickle of water, expansive views. It was my favorite trail in my favorite place, and I've spent many hours backpacking every trail in this wilderness, most of them more than once. Those are all tales for another day. Today, my mind is on Stratton Bald.

I am not a cold weather backpacker, but sometimes Mother Nature offers up surprises.  On another occasion when Bill was along, the weather turned on us by the time we got to the top:  cold, windy and wet.  Our group was a small one, but all veteran hikers who had tarps and ropes and knew how to use them.  An intrepid group of men literally built us a room, complete with ceiling, large enough for all of us to crowd together around a campfire to prepare and eat our evening meals, then sit around simply enjoying the close camaraderie for a good long while into the night.  Lots of laughter rang from our warm spot into the cold wetness outside on that evening I'll never forget.

By morning, the top of the mountain was covered with snow, although I didn't know that until Bill walked up to my tent and hollered at me, to see if I was awake.  Thanks to a small vestibule in my tent that was perfect for using my little camp stove without getting into the elements, I was snuggled in my warm sleeping bag while water boiled for coffee and hot oatmeal and thawed the zipper that had frozen in place.  Our group quickly ate and packed up our gear and headed on down the trail over crunchy virgin snow that faded away as we walked down into warmer climes.

On yet another trip we had a maximum size group (the number of participants on club hikes is always limited in wilderness areas to lessen impact on the trail) and found a surprise awaiting us on top.  Charlie, one of our newer members, had been unable to get on the hike so walked in by himself on a different trail. As usual, we had our tents spread around the top of the mountain meadow according to our individual preferences, but gathered around a central spot for preparing our evening meal and group conversation.

After dinner I saw Charlie sitting alone just inside his tiny, one-person tent.  I stopped to visit and he moved over a bit so I could join him inside the doorway, out of the wind that had developed a cold bite. Soon enough more and more people stopped by to chat, and each time Charlie and I moved back a bit to give them room to sit inside. Remember, this was a tiny tent with just enough space for one person to stretch out comfortably. The front was high enough to sit up, but then the tent tapered so that the other end was just roomy enough for feet.

Every newcomer brought more laughter as we squeezed into the tiny, but warm, space.  All the laughter brought more people over to see what was happening and, eventually, we had everyone inside that tent, telling our individual repertoires of jokes and living our own joke in the moment.  Charlie and I ended up pushed against the smallest end of the tent, pressed against the nylon and half lying down, with other bodies piled up against us, tangled with our feet and legs.  Another unforgettable evening on Stratton Bald.

This is clearly not Stratton Bald!  Sadly, no photos remain of my trips to that spot.  This was my first backpack into this area, deep in the heart of the valley alongside upper Slickrock Creek.

Stratton Bald is at the high end of what is basically a rim bowl surrounding the waters of Slickrock Creek, which tumbles down its side and through thick vegetation before emptying into a distant lake.  I'd always wanted to backpack the entire rim trail so one summer I talked my friends Darlene and Duff into taking a few days off work and making that happen. Again, that is a story for another day, but when our route brought us to Stratton Bald we found the entire meadow covered with waist-high wild Sweet William, a riot of purple-pink blossoms that we forged through in wonderment. Absolutely beautiful and a one-time sight for me as I'd never been there at just the perfect, fleeting season for these flowers.

When I moved from Georgia in 1996, back to the west coast, I asked a couple of dear friends to join me in a downhill dayhike so I could say goodbye to this trail that I loved so much.  It's possible to drive almost to the top (hence the ice-cold beer in the hunter's backpack), and this is what we did.  We'd driven up the night before, slept in a cheap hotel so we could get an early start that April day.  We left John's truck at the bottom of the trail, then crowded into mine for the shuttle to the top.  Since I was planning a drive across country in less than a week, I had my cat with me so she'd grow accustomed to travel.  As we walked down the mountain the weather changed for the worse, grew rainy and cold and, although we didn't know it until later, tornadoes were in the area.

We hustled out fairly quickly to find red clay roads turned to mud and some sort of official roadblock at the base of the road leading back to my truck and my poor cat.  They were letting residents through and would have let us through, but John wasn't willing to try and take his truck up the road, saying he wouldn't make it.  Nothing I could say changed his mind.  I promised that my truck, similar in size and engine to his, would have made it, but he wouldn't budge.  "Okay", I said. "You guys go on back to town, I'm going to walk up and get my cat and I'll meet you later."  Duff, ever the gentleman, wouldn't let me go alone so together we started out up that long road to the top, in the mud.  I don't know how far we hiked before eventually one of the residents of the area with four-wheel-drive stopped and gave us a lift to the top.

As always, Stratton Bald threw me an unexpected punch as I said goodbye, but it was still a damned fine hike!