RIP the Black Beast

281,633 miles, nine years, six or seven trips to Portland, as well as LA, Bakersfield, Fresno, SF, Oakland, Reno and daily drives to work and back.

Multiple excursions off road at Scratch and Spit, one giant dent from a rocky Nevada hill climb gone wrong, miles and miles of dusty, rocky roads, but always the Beast brought us back.

The epic trip to Reno and back over two passes one Thanksgiving, returning via Highway 88 over Carson Pass, at night, in blowing snow, frozen roads, at no more than 25 mph tops, with the low temp registering at 7 degrees Fahrenheit, all in 4 wheel drive, yet managing a safe delivery to our gate at home without a detour into any ditch or over any of the yawning cliffs that line that lonely route.

My extreme tolerance for cracks in the windshield, chips and stars because for sure I knew that as soon as I paid for new glass another rock would fly up and chip it again, probably within a day or two.  Finally, the one big windshield crack started connecting with a big star, and I simply had to fork out the cash, or risk a catastrophic and sudden collapse.  Just before the end, I counted one big frown shaped crack that spanned the entire length of the windshield, and seven chips and stars. 

The quirky idiosyncrasies it developed over time that I either learned to tolerate or found that even the dealer couldn't fix.  My favorite was the need to jiggle the wand that controlled the turn signals nearly every day to get it to work.  Everything that the wand controlled - the turn signals, the high beams, the windshield wipers - were dead until I jiggled it for a bit, then the wipers would make one pass on their own, and then inexplicably everything worked just fine until I turned the truck off again.   I'd have to repeat this nearly every time upon restarting.  The dealer was never able to figure that one out, and since I had a fix that took only a few seconds, I lived with that for years.

I'll miss its ability to slow crawl over some incredible rocky stretches of bad road in eastern California and Nevada.  All I needed to do was put it in four wheel drive, go really slow and carefully place my tires, and I could creep that machine over some truly bad roads.  It never got stuck, although there were a few places that took two or three tries to get over without damage.  Because of this I never stressed about getting in or out.   It always was up for the challenge.

Happily putting noisy Nevada Racing Stripes down the side of the truck while deep in the Nevada basin and range country, by forcing the truck down dirt tracks severely overgrown with sage brush. Think a hundred fingernails on a chalkboard. 

Collecting drifts of yellow and orange aspen leaves inside the cab from driving through miles of aspen country during the fall with the windows down.  I learned I loved the smell of wet desert ground and wet sage brush after a desert rain, which explains the windows being down.

The tool box I inherited from my Dad, with all his tools and some of mine that I stashed in the camper shell and hauled everywhere I went, so I'd be prepared for anything.  Same with the enormous crow bar that I picked up in my youth driving tomato trucks, and which has been in every machine I've owned, and on every single trip for three decades.  Because of all that good karma, and truthfully, a lot of timely maintenance, I never needed the help of these old friends in a pinch.  But I knew they were there, backing me up faithfully.

The antique police siren that my pack rat uncle brought up to me one year, which he got at a yard sale, and which no doubt was originally on the light bar of a 50's era cop car.  The LT and I installed that under the hood of the Beast, so that when you lifted the hood it would rise up out of the way, and which we controlled with a toggle switch from inside the cab.  Imagine the fun.

The Ah-oo-gah horn we also put in behind the grill, and controlled with another toggle switch.  Once all five of us - the whole fam - had packed into the beast and driven up to Theresa's Italian Restaurant in Jackson.  We feasted royally on fine Italian food, and then the LT wanted to drive it home.  On the way down one of the country roads we passed two stripling youth of about 14, walking along the road and probably contemplating some youthful mischief.  Just as we passed, the LT flicked the toggle, the Ah-oo-gah horn blared, and the young punks both jumped straight up in shocked surprise.  We laughed for miles.  Good times.

The last picture of a smoothly functioning beast, appropriately on Monitor Pass high in the Sierra Nevada, on a bright spring day.

Towing the teardrop.

Flying drones from the top of the world.

The Beast's natural habitat, the aspen country just before the snow flies and winter sets in.  Heck, that's my natural habitat as well.

A young LT learns off road driving in the beast.

When it was new and before the camper shell.

Approaching Carson Pass from the east with a load of youth.

My favorite trips with the Beast were the multiple times it took me and  the LT and his buddies shooting up in the mountains.  The Beast got us in and out with all our gear every time.

A healthy activity for young men.

 The other day it began making a noise from the engine, and it rapidly worsened.  I took it in, and it's a major repair, estimated at 7 to 10k.  They tell me they'll need to keep it for many weeks.   I doubt any part of this truck, or any truck for that matter, is engineered to last much longer than 200 thousand miles, and I'm at 281 with this one.  And nine years old.

At this many miles and given it's age, it's time to move on, and spend that money on a down payment for the next Beast, I think.  It's been years since I've had a car payment, and I'm not looking forward to that.  I visited the local GM dealer, who has a really nice bait truck out front, something any red blooded man would lust for.  72 thousand dollars.  Good Lord, can they sell even one at that price?

Maybe instead something more reasonable, something like this?  Son of the Beast?