1. The Volkswagen

Editor's Note:


In 1982, four of us decided to drive to Alaska and explore the mountains of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.  For two years, I had been intensely studying the mountains of Alaska, accumulating necessary gear and supplies, honing climbing skills, and planning this trip.  Mike Scott had been complicit in this effort, but his father had become ill just before our departure.  He hoped to meet us in Fairbanks in two or three weeks.  


The team consisted of Tom Sharp, Greg Smith, Doug Taylor, and me.  Greg volunteered his family's Volkswagen camper van for the trip.  We would drive from Tennessee to Fairbanks, with an initial stop in Denver to pick up some gear from my friend Jack Grace.  Altogether, we expected to be gone about two months.  

 

Our plans fell apart almost immediately, and it would be another full year before I reached the Arctic.  We did, however, manage a memorable backpacking/climbing trip in the Wind River Range.

 

Here's our story, my memory aided by Tom’s journal, my journal, and my photographs.  My journal starts at the trailhead; Tom's at the beginning of our road trip in Tullahoma.


-- Joe Hagan  

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Tuesday, July 6, 1982;  Tullahoma, Tennessee

Tom's journal:

This sight of Greg from the knees down is expected to be a frequent one.  Doug is taking pictures, documenting the death of an orange VW at the tender hands of its owner. 

Today, the van is in Shelbyville getting a new clutch.  We hope to leave tomorrow.  We’ll probably make it to the county line before another opportunity to see Greg’s knees.


L-R:  My cousin Dee, Dad, Mom, Tom, Mike, Doug, Greg, and me


Alaska or Bust?

Thursday, July 8, 1982

Tom's journal: 

We finally made it out of Tullahoma shortly after dark Wednesday.  We got to West Memphis and discovered oil all over the place, lining every surface within the engine compartment, leaking out around the edges and spotting our "Alaska or Bust" sign that Mrs. Hagan taped to the back.

We stopped at a VW dealer in Fort Smith, Arkansas.  The man there said the problem is a missing hose.  He was kind enough not to mention the real, more obvious problem:  four morally degenerate humans and one physically degenerate machine shouldn't expect anything to go as planned.  We've offered to trade the van for a new one, even-up, no players to be named later.  He said he'd think about it.

Doug has labored long and hard to get the stereo working.  Greg has worked equally long and hard at the same task.  As long as they keep at it, we're doomed to the cacophonous symphony of this battered German road monster.

We all hated to leave Mike behind.  Hopefully he'll be able to see his way clear to Fairbanks. We’re getting 22-24 miles to the gallon, which is tolerable.  Gas is about $1.19 per gallon as a rule. 

For the last few miles, we’ve been stopping every few minutes to let the smoke clear and engine cool before striking out again.

It’s 5:30 pm CDT.  We’re on I-40, somewhere in Oklahoma, 23 miles south of Muscogee.  We are parked on the side of the Interstate, letting the motor cool.  Doug, Joe and I look forlornly at one another.  Greg’s feet and knees protrude from beneath the van.  The realization that the van is dying is upon us all.  Everything has to change.  Two years of planning down the tubes.

"Do you realize we're sitting here with 400 pounds of  wool pants, socks, mittens, shirts, hats, long polypropylene underwear, ice axes, crampons, and glacier glasses.  And it’s 100 degrees outside?" Joe asked.  

"Does anyone know a snow dance?"

We laughed until we got silly. What else could we do?


Bust

After a good long sit on the interstate, we started pushing - pushing! - the van up the road.  Two guys from Prineville, Oregon driving a blue 1969 Chevrolet stopped and gave us a tow into Muscogee.  We used my rope, which is about 30 feet long.  It went from one side of the Chevy to the middle of the van and back to the other side of the Chevy, making a triangle and leaving about 10 feet between the two vehicles.  It was great help, but a fairly hairy ride.  

One thing at a time.  We’ve decided to try to limp this orange piece of shit into Muscogee and sell it, if possible. Proceeds will go towards transportation to Denver.  

[Editor's Note:

Tom didn't mention it in his journal, but it was obvious to all of us, less than 24 hours after leaving home, that Alaska was already out of reach.  But we had time, a whole lot of equipment, and a friend in Denver.  We would find something interesting to do.] 


The way to Muscogee

Friday, July 9, 1982

Tom's journal:

We spent last night in #9 of the Catalina Motel here in Muscogee.  

It's midday.  Greg is off trying to trade the van, which has a completely ruined engine, for something that goes forward upon command.  Joe is sitting against the motel wall eating biscuits  and drinking beer.  Doug is perusing the program for a sky-diving competition this weekend.  Denver is still 750 miles away, and we've already been through two and a half states and one Volkswagen.  


A portion of our gear outside the Catalina Motel in Muscogee

Joe, Doug and I have been unceremoniously booted from #9 by the two Asian Indians who run this $26-a-night hovel.  We rounded the corner at the end of the motel, which is where several tons of gear now sit.  Thirty yards away is a grimy dumpster with "City of Muscogee" stenciled on the side.  All three of us, independently and without conference, took pictures.  


City of Muscogee

None of us has shaved since we left, and my hair is pretty long, at least for these parts.  We get some hard looks.


Tom and his journal 

Greg called to tell us he's on the verge of trading for a Subaru.  We're now attempting to teach 400 pounds of camping, climbing, and hiking gear to walk.  Or hitchhike.

It seems Greg may be awhile, so we've moved to the lobby of the Best Western next door.  It's a much plusher place, but it's a real shame about this wallpaper and carpet.  Whew.

In the Taco Hut at lunch, Doug was suddenly overcome with fear.  "Do you realize we're about to take a 750 mile trip in a small enclosed car and we're eating Mexican food?"
"Self defense," Joe told him.  "This is an arms race."

Greg returned from the car lot to ask us to do several things we'd already done.  He left again.  Then came back again, this time with a big blue wrecker, which the driver promptly proceeded to hitch to the still half-loaded van.  We hastily removed the rest of the gear, which made a pile you could hide several large people behind.  All this in the hot Oklahoma sun in the Catalina Motel parking lot.


The VW prepares to leave us

Tom waves good bye to the Volkwagen

So far, we've packed up three 27" x 18" x 14" cardboard boxes which we plan to ship to Denver.  That leaves us with only about seven acres of gear and four people to fit in an as-yet-unseen Subaru.

Seen.  It is a Subaru, all right.  Red, or thereabouts, with after-market contours on both sides, including four doors.  The trunk will not take a 27" x 18" x 14" box, though we tried several times.  Frustration does strange things to people.

We ferried the gear to the UPS station, loaded up in our new vehicle, and headed west, cautiously hopeful.






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