Haulin' U-Haul, or, the Laughlin Ride

Loading our first U-Haul trailer.

We first drove from Whidbey Island to Tucson in November of 2006. We took the obvious route. Head south to Los Angeles then make a left. We bought the San Simeon house, then did another trip in January pulling a U-Haul trailer. We were snowbirds, hauling stuff south and north seasonally, mostly south, until we realized that it wasn't fun owning and living in two homes. We graduated from U-Haul trailers to U-Haul trucks.

Over many migrations, we explored most every route between Whidbey and Tucson. I-5 variations included McKenzie Highway in Oregon to I-84 then I-15; Los Angeles; Bakersfield-Tehachapi-Needles, and even Yosemite.  I-15 routes pass through Pendleton and nasty traffic Boise and nasty traffic Salt Lake City, or south through Nevada on the Great Basin Highway.  Once you get towards Arizona, there are a variety of routes to get by nasty traffic and Tea Party Peenix: Cedar City or nasty traffic Las Vegas, Kenab or Kaibob, Parker or Blythe, Flagstaff or Wickenburg.  One time we even went via Denver and Santa Fe, but that's another story.

Our favorite route, winter weather permitting, is through the Great Basin Highway, Highway 93 in Nevada.  It's a good, two-lane (one each way) road with hardly any traffic.  Just head east from Bellevue on I-90, then to Yakima, Pendleton, nasty traffic Boise and turn south at Twin Falls, Idaho.  Highway 93 goes through Wells and Ely.  South of Ely, you can turn east to Cedar City, then further east to catch US 89 south.  If you haven't driven US 89 in Utah, you need to.

This was the route I chose for my solo drive in our first U-Haul truck rental, stuffed to the roof, pulling a trailer loaded with Agamemnon Jetson, our bronze-colored Honda Fit. Except instead of the scenic routes though Cedar City, I elected the more straightforward freeway route through nasty Las Vegas.

Funny thing about U-Haul trucks. You can't see anything backing up. Funny thing about hauling trailers. they don't back up straight. Funny thing about driving a U-Haul truck pulling a car on a trailer. You never see the trailer. You simply assume it's still following, car still on it.  Shari's back didn't need the jostling, and the plan was to drive the one way then fly back. So I was alone. No shotgun rider to tell me if it's safe to go in reverse.

Reverse was not an option. How to drive over 1600 miles without using the reverse gear was the challenge. Let's just say the fear of having to back up gave the drive a foundation of stress bordering on terror.

It started in Freeland at sunrise with a vain attempt to catch an early ferry and beat the nasty Lynwood-Bellevue rush hour traffic. Vain because as I was getting used to the feel of the truck, down and up the hill before Maxwelton Road, the car behind me flashed its headlights.  Had something fallen off?  No.  She said that she saw sparks flying from the trailer's wheels. A tire had blown and it was running on the rims.

And, as most South Whidbey residents well know, wireless phone reception is often non-existent.  I had to drive the rig on the shoulder and the trailer wheel rim down Maxwelton, Sandy Point, Wilkinson and Surface Roads, periodically stopping to telephone Shari ("Can you hear me now?") so she could call U-Haul. I ended up Les Schwab's at Ken's Corner where I waited some 45 minutes for opening time.  They replaced the tire, but I lost some two hours.

Ah, the open road.  No music.  Road and engine noise were deafening. Window rolled down.  Overnight and food bags falling forward from the passenger seat. Double Starbucks in tall cans.

Then there was nasty traffic Las Vegas.  City traffic darting in and out of lanes. Lanes merging, splitting, must-exit turning. Tommy on high alert, acid building in his stomach and, like "Radar Love", "Hands wet on the wheel." I found a slow driving Mexican in a beat-up pick-up truck driving in the right lane. I followed him religiously. But then he took an exit, and the elevated freeway turned into a roller coaster.

Have you ever driven the freeway in nasty traffic Las Vegas? Over the course of desert heat, it's become undulated, which can be soothing in a passenger car. But I'm in a truck loaded with tables, chairs, bedroom sets, washer, dryer, china, lamps, a 200 lb. mosaic, and all kinds of heavy and light miscellaneous furniture projectiles. The bumps were deep and relentless. I had images of opening the roll-up door and seeing domestic debris evenly spread over the insides. I had images of Agamemnon Jetson sitting alone somewhere in a right side freeway lane, puzzled commuters swerving to avoid it.  Oh well.  I had to keep going.  I didn't dare look.  The damage was already done.

Only one wrong turn onto another freeway, cured by a suburban off ramp with overpass and on ramp, then I'm on US 95 south of Las Vegas, headed towards Searchlight. Running on fumes. My plan had been to gas up at a truck stop before Vegas, but it was so crowded I gave up in disgust. After Vegas, the gas gauge creeped dangerously close to empty, and I still had some fifty miles to get to Searchlight. (This is Nevada. Ain't nuttin' in between.)

The Great Basin Highway

Does anyone know how much gas a U-Haul truck pulling a vehicle trailer burns?  A lot.  Something like five to six miles to the gallon.  Stopping at gas stations was an every two hundred mile chore.  And the gas stations had to have good pull-through access.  Which brings me to the next horror.

The clues were on the other side of the freeway, headed towards Vegas. Motor bike after motor bike, all of them Harley choppers.  Small groups and trains of scores of them. Motorcycle touring is popular in the Southwest. We have sunshine. And it was Friday afternoon. Onward I drove, slowly up hills, coasting down the other side, cursing at the empty distances, tapping the gas gauge. By the time I got to the top of the hill that's Searchlight, the road was infested with motorcycles, as was the only gas station. I didn't have a choice. I had to drive into the two-wheeler traffic jam.

There must have been two or three hundred. Some were lined up three or four deep at the pumps. Most were parked in deep, long lines that blocked a straight return to the highway. Bikers were gathered and chatting with each other and several police officers. Scores were inside the convenience eating fast food, or lined up to buy something or the other. This was something organized, and although I wanted to scream bloody murder, I realized I would be in deep kimchee if I started yelling at hundreds of bikers and two squad cars full of police.

Unloading at San Simeon

I waited in line as motorcyclists ever so slowly topped off. None was in a rush. They were having fun. But how long can it take to fill a motorcycle gas tank? Plenty long if the machine doesn't accept your credit card. Which is what happened to me. So another line inside to get approval. "How much?" she asked. I said fifty dollars, but when the pump stopped at five, I realized she heard five dollars. The number fifty was too inconceivable when everyone else was topping motorcycle gas tanks.

Rather than go through the cashier line a second time, I saw a break, a sort of clear path to drive around in back. Inshallah, God willing, I could turn sharply enough to avoid knocking over motorbikes and get back on the highway. God was willing. I found more gas in Bullhead City.

Ever heard of the Laughlin Ride? It's one of the largest motorcycle rallies in the West, some 35,000 choppers. That's what I drove through in Searchlight.

Mercifully, I made it to our dead-end street in Tucson without ever going backwards. First I unloaded Agamemnon, then I dropped the trailer off at U-Haul. Only after returning to the house did I open up the roll-up door to see what the Vegas roller coaster had wrought. Stunningly, everything was still stacked and tied down the way it was when I shut it in Freeland a couple of mornings earlier.

Which just goes to show. There's no value in worrying.