We tried our luck this weekend atFlint Creek Campground, maybe two river miles below the Flint Creek dam (which impounds Georgetown Lake), in the Beaverhead-Deer Lodge National Forest.
Melissa drove.
I took half-baked gratuitously artsy shots from the passenger seat.
Around the bend and down the other side of the pass we went.
Eleven was the lucky number this time, a big, sprawling site backed up against a mountain and the trees, and facing the creek.
During our whole stay, including early in the morning, this talkative Stellar's Jay (Cyanocitta stelleri) was happy to remind us we were intruding.
Melissa bested her previous record for "least number of matches needed to start a fire", which was one, with this zero-match fire. The campsite's previous occupants had left it trashy and hot, hot enough that the kindling she piled on fired up without a match. Now let's see her beat this record by starting one with -1 matches. I'll bet she can't do it.
I found this food compellingly pleasing, in a visual-aesthetic way, so please excuse the next three pictures.
Putting together wraps, E's camping food of choice. Maybe her food of choice, period.
We set her tent up in case she needed alone time--sometimes she actually requests time to herself--but not for overnighting in.
We were just across the road from a shallow pond.Our campsites seem to always be such that our photos of them are in the direction of the Sun; hence the smoky picture. Also, it was a little smoky.
iPhoto's "enhance" feature helps, but the colors look kind of fake (and it feels like cheating).
E wanted to head up the steep trail behind our site but stopped short, noticing a small herd of mule deer heading our way.
There were five of them.
It's really hard to see--and photograph--them when they're not moving, so here's some cinema covering the event.
A parting shot of the deer.
This is the dreamcatcher E helped make, which she says keeps her from having bad dreams in Ludwig. Whatever works. It gets folded up and put in a specific place at the end of each trip. She slept well down there by herself, again. We're pretty lucky.
Someday I'll cannibalize another Westy for an additional strut to hold up that fold-out table, as long as we're gonna be setting the somewhat heavy stove up on it once in a while.
Boy, I just love throwing rocks. I can't explain it. My shoulder still hurts.
Tater Tot walking to inspect a seriously huge anthill at a nearby site.
The anthill. (Told you it was seriously huge.)
Tater Tot and Ludie, just before leaving.
That's the campsite down there, just a little right of center. Another success!
The trip started with me replacing a fuse so we'd have brake lights. It lasted for a few minutes before blowing. Its replacement lasted a few tenths of a second. Time to learn about electricity, I guess.
Ludwig climbed 2,000 feet up the road--which, curiously, got better as it went up--without trouble.
I pretended to be a bear creeping up on E. She told me I was doing it wrong, and this is what a bear looks like.
After lunch next to the union hall/library/secret clubhouse, we went exploring.
We went looking for but never found one of the things we saw labeled on a sign, the baseball field. This park is in desperate need of a map.
The last person to live in Granite (peak population ca. 1890: 3,000) was some lady named "Mae" who died in 1969. It's not clear from the signage whether she died while living in (what was left of) Granite. This was her house, a quaint 1br/0ba affair.
There used to be a hugemillhere. Like, city blocks huge. Built into the side of a mountain. Without any apparent mortar.
There's agigantic fire in Idahothat's been dumping smoke into SW Montana for months, but the view from the mill ruins was grand nonetheless.
Melissa wouldn't let me hang my hand out to make a video of the steepest part (likethis one, when we were plowing over a different chunk of Montana) on the way down. "The driver should be paying attention to the road," she said.
Note the deer ribcage.
Because Tater Tot had to do some things she initially didn't want to do, like leave the house, we stopped at a park in Philipsburg on the way home where she could run around and eat some Cheez-Its.
When it bothers to spin at all, Ludwig's starter makes a terrible cherking noise--kind of like the sound a robot chicken might make as you wrung its neck before you cooked it as dinner for your robot guests. It was time for a replacement.
This, friends, is a rebuilt Bosch starter purchased locally for less than $100. Amazing. I don't hold any illusions about the vaunted Bosch brand being much better than any other garbage nowadays, I hate to say. It'll probably be fine. I hereby promise not to strike it with a hammer (not while it's under warranty anyway).
All the work for this job is on the other side of the bus, so I don't know what I'm doing in these last two shots. Probably trying to take a nap.
The second I got under the bus to remove Ol' Cherky, I saw fresh fuel dripping from this hose above the transaxle.
About a foot and-a-half of it got replaced forthwith. Ludwig has a ridiculous fuel hose set-up, with one size hose coming out of the tank to a filter, then stepping a size up into the pump, then on the other side of the pump another filter to step the hose down to the original size again--all because the stupid pump doesn't have the right size nipples. So like a fine wine*, the gas is doubly filtered by the time it gets to the carbs. Keeping all this tomfoolery mounted to the transaxle makes the fuel pump less clattery than when it was bolted to the subframe. Damn, that racket used to drive me crazy.
Tater Tot stylishly rode by as I was reassembling all the air cleaner stuff; I had it off to get at the fuel line and the engine mounting bolt that does double duty as a starter mounting bolt. We know that bike is too small for her, but try telling her that. Also, try telling her that rain boots aren't the most practical footwear for all conditions.
The new starter just gave me a 'clack' when I turned the key so after, ah, collecting myself I tightened up the battery-to-body ground, the transaxle-to-subframe strap, and all the connectors at the starter. It chirped right up, and has started every time since, even after getting nice and hot on a drive (pictured above; note all the smoke) to Butte and back--something that would've almost guaranteed a push start with the old starter.
*Confession: I have no idea if good wine is actually double-filtered.
I stole this Bosch D-Jetronic and L-Jetronic fuel injection systems manual from Melcher several years ago (he got it with a basket case 914 he bought) and I'm sorry to say, if you're reading this Mark, that you're not getting it back.
Gertie is a D-Jetronic fuelie; the "D" stands for "Druck", which is German for "pressure". Various hard-to-find sensors measure the level of vacuum (hence "Druck") in different parts of the system, give that information to the brain which then decides how to deliver the fuel (in a sloppy nutshell). It was the first electronic fuel injection system ever put in a production car, the 1968 Volkswagen Type III, and by the early 1990s you couldn't buy a vehicle in this country that wasn't fuel injected--though more modern EFI differs significantly in practice, but not in principle, from D-Jet. Gertie has the "E" version from 1972.
Really, it's almost entirely over my head but as Gertie is now in her fifth decade of service, and as the number of people who really understand these old systems succumb to base actuarial facts (RIP Russ Wolfe), it's gonna be sink or swim for idiots like me. (No, I'd rather push her over a cliff than put aftermarket carbs on her in "favor" of the fuel injection, thanks.) This book hopefully will prove to be a partial life preserver.
When I took the test drive with Colin, my left hand instinctively grabbed the driver's door while making a right turn and I remembered the nagging problem of our door latch not always closing (and subsequently the driver's door flying open during right turns). Colin implied that it was a simple fix by taking off the door panel and oiling the moving parts. My mind oversimplified the repair as being the equivalent to regular sewing machine maintenance.
Like these vent windows (or smokers' windows, or whatever you want to call them). They are fantastic for interstate driving, fresh air in winter, defrosting the windshield, and blasting air in the car on super hot days. Trust me, the first thing to do when getting in the front seat of a VW (unless it's the middle of winter) is open the vent window.
This dash and steering wheel are the best. I'm convinced that the aesthetics of old VW interiors have a calming and positive effect on the brain. And it's so much nicer than a digital dash.
The anthill. (Told you it was seriously huge.)
