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)