Happy Birthday (part 2)

Gertrude Butterblume is forty today, and doesn't look a day over 39. Happy birthday, Gertie! 

Other October 27th birthdays:
Theodore Roosevelt
Dylan Thomas
Sylvia Plath (not sure how to take that one)
Simon LeBon
Felix Bwalya (Zambian boxer; same exact birthday)
Kelly Osborne

Happy Birthday (part 1)

Ludwig's thirty-seventh year certainly wasn't his best, but here's to a much better thirty-eighth!

(Happy birthday also to EP!)

Morning Fuel Pump Replacement

Tater Tot offered her keen supervisory skills to the installation of Gertrude's rebuilt fuel pump. The rebuilder (Jim A. of Madison Wisconsin; thanks Jim A. of Madison Wisconsin) said it was full of mud (dirt+gas)! The dirt incursion has since been rectified.

Top: the previous fuel pump mount (yes, really; not my doing). Bottom: the fuel pump with the proper mounts.

I really smacked my head on that far jackstand. Twice.

And it's done! Not too bad really, unless you're like me and miss steps all over the place (see also: door latch replacement, forthcoming), necessitating doing everything at least twice.

ACVWs of Helena

¡Ay, ay,ay! No es bueno. It's in really nice shape though.

I think this Beetle is wearing a bright, eager, yet dignified expression.

Comba: An Interlude

We had several trips ("junkets", pj would say) lined up for the first few weeks of October. There was Great Falls for a couple days, then an overnighter in Helena, off to Great Falls the next morning for a few days, and then Helena again this week for a couple days. Almost 900 miles in the works: would Gertie be up for it?

No, she would not.

 I was walking home the very afternoon we were set to leave on the first leg and smelled fuel. We don't live near a gas station and I'm paranoid, so at several yards back I looked at Gertie. There was a puddle of gas underneath her front end and bending over I could watch the drips. "Excellent, a(nother) bad fuel line. I'll replace it and we'll be off." The gas appeared to be running down the pump so I squeezed the lines off one by one to determine the culprit. Huhn: no change. The leak wasn't in a line, it was at the pump. This is less good, as fuelie Type III fuel pumps aren't exactly the most plentiful objects in the world. I removed the pump--which was leaking around the electrical plugin--and made a couple token calls to local parts places to see if by some miracle one had been languishing on their shelves since 1978 or so. No dice. Quick research on the samba told me a 1985-1991 Ford Ranger fuel pump is a suitable alternative. Several were available locally for about $100. Unfortunately, less-quick research on the samba told me that the details for this conversion are, for a mouse like me, of the cat-warning-bell type; Step 1: get a bell. Step 2: put bell on cat. Putting the bell on the cat in this case involves replumbing/eliminating some fuel lines, and reworking of wiring. No thanks; I'd rather not spend a hundred bucks making a Ford fuel pump unreturnable and still not having a running car.
While I whined/swore, Melissa lined up a 200whocares Cheverolet Cavalier for us and we left later that afternoon. Esmé doesn't like to ride in a vehicle without a name and lacking the intestinal fortitude to name a drivable dishwasher modern car myself, I asked her to name it. "Comba", pronounced "COHMB-ah" took us on those 900 miles over the last few weeks. Here are the pictures.

 I-15 North of Helena--Prickly Pear Canyon

This is the Missouri, wending through a very different landscape than the one in which we Nebraskans are used to seeing it.

  A mess of volcanic dikes.

Square Butte

And then, all of a sudden, it's over. Plains all the way to the Arctic Ocean.

When we came back home after the last trip, there was Gertrude's fuel pump on our porch, fresh from rebuilding in Wisconsin (thanks again, Jim A!), waiting to be installed. Very subtle, universe. Very subtle.

(the route)

Autumn Approaching

The Tater Tot fell asleep again just a few minutes from home, so we decided to waste some time by taking a side trip into the Atlantic watershed--Gertrude's first with us.

 We went up the Big Hole River again (we were there once before in Ludwig, on the last trip with his old engine). It was really starting to look and feel like fall. 

 E woke up just as we crossed the Big Hole River into Beaverhead (I'm not making these names up) County. We were at the very lower stretches of the Big Hole valley, reportedly one of the most magnificent valleys in Montana if not the entire West. We'll make the whole trip sometime, I promise. We inspected a recently-skinned coyote, threw some rocks in the river, and turned around.

 The Anaconda-Pintlars

 More of the Anaconda-Pintlars

 It gets really scrubby over 6000 feet

Coming back into the Pacific drainage South of Anaconda, we passed through prime elk habitat. This is handsome, high, sparse country. I'm looking forward to taking the family back into it for more detailed inspection in the future.

(forgot to look at the odometer, but here's the map)