All About Wurzig

I am currently sitting in Lee Vining, California, having just listened to Terry Gross interview Jarret J. Krosoczka who’s book, Hey Kiddo, is nominated for the National Book Award.  His is a story of how he grew up barely knowing his heroin addicted mother.  This makes me very hesitant to write anything at all let alone about the mundane aspects of being on the road.  But when I was 13 I read a great quote, “Sex appeal is 50% what you have and 50% what others think you have.”  Maybe that will work for writing as well.

I am also going into this post knowing that some of you will read this and think, much like Mike at Niello Porsche, “This lady has zero mechanical know-how.”  But before I get to that, I have to clarify something from my previous post.

Apparently a couple of the readers (proof that there are more readers than just my mom!) took my wording in Devil May Care to indicate that I had someone specific in mind when I mentioned my surprise at being alone for this trip.  That is not the case.  Here’s the scoop:  Last May when I purchased Sea Salt (a 23’ Airstream Serenity) to be parked on my lot on Orcas Island (and never towed by me), I thought to myself, “Life is not unbalanced.  I imagine by the end of the summer I will meet someone who drives a Ford F150 and wants to pull a 23’ Airstream all winter long.”  That figment of my imagination was what I was thinking about when I referenced my surprise.  Usually in my life, with one extremely gaping exception, I get what I want.  As life would have it, I am clearly meant to be alone in my (much smaller than Sea Salt and therefore easily towable by me alone) Beagle.

So on to the story:  First of all I have to mention that, again through my meditation (and I promise not to belabor that point—everyone has something that works for them, meditation appears to be my thing), I have come to appreciate even brief human connections.  To truly connect with people; looking them in the eye, focusing on the conversation at hand whether it be ordering a cup of coffee or, as happened in Oregon, being chided by someone who looked to be 12 years old but was, in fact, a mechanic.

Let’s go back to Oregon:  I was leaving my two night stay at Humbug Mountain and heading south when I stopped to top up my tank and have some air put into Wurzig’s right rear tire.  I mentioned to the attendant that this was the second time in less than a week that I have had to put air in the tire and, being on the road, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it.

               “Get it fixed!” was his adolescent reply.

              

Seems obvious now.  But still I drove on.  When I pulled into Brookings and was almost immediately presented with a Less Schwab Tire Center, I took it as a sign.  They could see me that day but not immediately so I towed Beagle to the nearby Harris Beach State Park Campground and returned for my two hour wait.  But I am not complaining—they found a screw in the tire, fixed it, gave the dogs cookies and didn’t charge me for the service.  Plus, in the meantime, I discovered a wonderful bakery that also sold eggs from the free range chicken farm next door.  It was a win all around.

The next day we took off toward central California; the beaches were nice but the mountains were calling me.  This time of year when the leaves are turning and the snow has not yet begun to fall are precious, delicious mountain hiking days.  We headed toward the Shasta/Trinity area, taking Highway 299 across to Weaverville.  A delightful drive if you are ever in the area, the road winds along the Trinity River.  At one point it was so stunning I decided to pull off to the side and go sit by the bank.  I opened the back door, leashed up the dogs, and headed toward the river.  I was a few seconds into the walk when I realized Opus’ leash was, let’s say, limp at the end.  He wasn’t actually leashed up.  I could not see him anywhere and my heart sank.  His options were to cross Highway 299 and head into the hills or head down to the river.  

Long ago I learned the best way to catch a terrier is to run away from them, so I called, “Opus, this way!” unleashed River (who would rather die than be more than two feet away from me) and ran toward the river.  Within seconds Opus jetted right by both of us and waited for us at the shore (I snapped the picture above as we met him) where he was promptly, and truly, leashed.

But I digress from my Wurzig stories.  I decided to stay two nights in Weaverville and spent the next day hiking up Long Canyon which really should have been named Long Hill—five miles of almost constant incline.  A delightful day, I didn’t see anyone on the trail until I was heading down.  I love hiking but I am not sure which I love more, hiking or driving Wurzig—untethered from Beagle—up those mountain roads.  Both experiences are exhilarating in completely opposite ways.

Driving back into town, Wurzig presented me with a yellow warning light which read (and this is still in contention between the Porsche mechanic and myself), “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.”  No big deal, I am Porsche savvy, I know they eat up oil particularly when towing and particularly when driving them, ahem, passionately.  I sedately drove to O’Reilly Auto Parts, opened my manual and read what type of oil to purchase.  I bought four quarts.

Four?  Yep.  I know Wurzig holds an incredible amount of oil and took the message to mean that it needed almost 2.5 quarts.  So I figured I would put in two and have some on hand.  I put in two.  The needle didn’t move—never mind that I was reading the oil pressure gauge—and before you start on the dipstick jokes, there is no dipstick.  Apparently, when you own a 2017 Cayenne Turbo you are supposed to settle into your 10-way adjustable leather seat, turn on your Burmester sound system, push a few buttons and have the computer tell you your oil level.

But I had not known that yet.  So when I got back to the campground, I put in two more quarts of oil.  Oh yeah, are you now thinking that I have no mechanical know-how?  You would not be alone.  Let me jump from here right to my conversation the following day with Mike, from Porsche Sacramento:  I was driving down the soul crushing I-5 headed toward Porsche when he returned my call, speaking via Bluetooth (hands free, Mobom) while cruising along:

               “Hi, this is Kit”

               “Hi Kit, this is Mike from Niello Porsche returning your call.”

A quick note here:  Californians are wonderful.  Every time I return to this state I am amazed at their attitude, they assume you are coming into their life to bring fun and adventure and are up for anything.  Mike was no exception, his voice was friendly, happy, confident and about to become very concerned.

               “I understand you received a message about your oil?”

               “Yes.  Let me fill you in.  I have a 2017 Cayenne Turbo which I am using to pull a small Airstream and have been on the road for about a week.  Yesterday I had a yellow light come on my dash that said, “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.  Incidentally, does that mean it is down to 2.5 quarts or it needs 2.5 quarts?”

               “Actually, neither.  It probably didn’t say quarts at all”, He said with a smile in his voice.

               “I am pretty sure it did, but let’s move on.”  Slight chuckle on Mike’s part.  “So I put in two quarts and the needle barely moved.”

               “What needle?”

               “The one on the dash.”

               “That is the oil pressure indicator.”

               “Well, that’s illuminating.  I think this is a good time to tell you that I am actually quite intelligent despite what this sounds like.  I did read the manual about checking the oil…eventually.”

               “Glad to hear, what happened next?”, still happy, confident.

               “When I saw the needle didn’t move, I put in two more quarts.”

               “You put in a total of four quarts?” And here happy, confident voice turned into concerned voice.

              

               “Well, if you didn’t think that was a good idea, you really aren’t going to like what I did this morning.”

               “Please go on.”

               “Having read further into the manual last night I became concerned that I had put in too much oil.”  I paused slightly for him to clear his throat, and, I imagine, rub his hands across his eyes .  “So I took the car out on a test run this morning, as I didn’t want to hitch up my trailer and run into trouble while towing.”

               “Good idea.”

               “See?  I do have my moments.   I got the car nice and hot, tried to measure the oil via the on dash computer which I finally figured out how to activate, but it just said, ‘Cannot measure oil right now.’  Despite that, there didn’t seem to be any problem so I returned to camp, hitched up my trailer and started out across the mountains.  Just after leaving Redding, as I was looking forward to the scenery on Highway 44, a red light lit up my dash and it said, ‘Oil critical’, or something like that—the red icon startled me.  I pulled over, looked up the icon in the manual and it said to go directly to the nearest Porsche dealer.”

               “That sounds about right.  Please tell me you are not still on Highway 44.”

               “No, I am on the I-5.  But when I got that message I thought I must have an oil leak.  My choice of dealers was Reno, via the mountainous Highway 44 or you in Sacramento via the safer I-5.  I decided to first return to Redding, purchase more oil, put it in and head toward you, knowing you would find the leak.”

               “You put in more oil?”

               “Yes.”

               “Did you see any leaking out under the car?”

               “No.”

               “And yet you thought you had a leak?”

               “Yes.”

               “Where are you now?”

               “I am about 45 miles from Sacramento.”

               “Please come straight here.”

               “Well I am towing my trailer so I thought I would first find a campground and drop the trailer and then come to you.”

               “Kit, please come straight here.”

               At that, I became nervous.

               “You don’t think I have a leak, do you?”

               “No.  I think you put in too much oil and your oil pressure is way too high which caused the red light to come on.  Just continue driving, if you see black smoke coming out of your exhaust, take the next exit and call me, we will send someone to get you.  In the meantime, I am going to see if we can’t squeeze you in this afternoon.  I think you should be here about 3:30, yes?”

               “I think so.  But what about my trailer?”

               “We will find a place for it here on the lot, please just drive carefully and come directly here.”

Isn’t that delightful?  So there I was on the disgusting I-5, towing a trailer with HMS BEGL plates while driving past pasture fences festooned with signs declaring “I [Heart] Jesus” and “The Lord Our Savior Can Save You Too”.   I turned on gospel music and sang to the glory of Kit just to round everything out.

But we made it, I was never happier to pull into a Porsche service center.  I detached Beagle, they whisked Wurzig away and returned him with the appropriate amount of fresh oil and a sparkling clean exterior.  While waiting I was kept occupied giving tours of Beagle as is the case wherever we park for more than five minutes.

Needless to say, at the end of this day I was quite tired and stressed.  I drove a bit longer to a KOA in Placerville which was every bit as soul crushing as the I-5:  There is a free shuttle to the casino which should give you an idea of my fellow campers.  Although they were a welcoming, if inebriated group; a pack of ten or so applauded, actually applauded, and called out, “Awesome!” as I drove past them to my scummy pitch next to the highway.

It was a scotch night to be sure.  Dogs fed, scotch in hand, wondering if I had the energy to make an omelet for dinner, I decided to take a minute and plan my next day’s drive as I was sure as hell not staying there one more second than necessary.  As usual, I took out my phone to ask Google to navigate to the next stop; her usual reply is, “Sacramento (or wherever), sure!  Let’s go!”  But not that night:

               “OK, Google, navigate to Lee Vining, California.”

               “Lee Vining is 163 miles from here and may take you four hours, are you sure you want to go?”

I kid you not.   

My reply? 

               “I’m not fucking sure of anything.”

-K