The equipment that adorns – or litters – my place is not the shiniest, fanciest or newest, but for the most part, I’m able to do what I need to do with what I have. Now, that’s not to say that there isn’t a lot of cleaning up and throwing away that needs to take place. I cuss myself and my penchant for procrastination every day when I have to walk around or bang into some old piece of machinery or vehicle that serves no purpose other than to trash up the scenery and take up space that would otherwise serve a more useful purpose if it were simply devoid of an eyesore. But that’s probably a story for another day.
Age and paint notwithstanding, not all of my tractors, implements and vehicles are trash, and I’m served pretty well with what I have. I have a 2003 diesel pickup that’s nearing the 300,000 mile mark. For the most part, the old white Ford is in pretty good shape, all things considered, and it’s pretty much my go-to vehicle. That 300K milestone isn’t nearly as impressive as it may seem at first glance, because the engine is barely at 100,000 miles, and there are parts scattered all through the beast that have been replaced over the years. Most of it is the basic stuff you’d expect over the course of normal wear and tear – alternator, starter, fuel pump, glow plugs – but that doesn’t really lessen the frustration. Sometimes I think the old truck has a mind of its own, and it gets some sort of sadistic, inanimate pleasure from the aggravation it gives me as it steadily nickel and dimes me toward insanity.
A month or two ago, I decided to replace the brakes. True to form, I’d put it off longer than I should have. I know it’s not the most complicated job in the world of mechanics, and it’s a job I could probably manage to do myself, but I decided to take the more sensible, if more expensive, route and took the truck into Burley to a shop I trusted. A couple of days later, I got the call that the job was finished. I wasn’t really pleased with the bill, but still, I was happy to pay it when I thought about the aggravation and time it saved me. Playing mechanic is not my favorite pastime.
I brought the pickup home, happy and confident in the knowledge that I’d be able to drive off the mountain with a trailerload of horses behind me with only minor worries now that I’d wind up upside down at the bottom of the canyon.
Later that very same day, I finished the evening chores and hopped in Ol’ Whitey. I was planning on gathering a big bunch of cows the next morning so I could wean the calves. I figured I’d hook the trailer up the night before to get a jump on the busy day. I turned the key, heard the hum of the fuel pump and waited a few seconds for the glow plug indicator light on the dash to click off. I cranked the engine. Everything sounded as it should have for a couple of seconds. The engine turned over just fine, but even though she cranked, she didn’t start. I turned the key to the off position and repeated the process. Same result. I tried again a third time and a fourth time and a fifth time … (you get the idea). Still, the aggravating machine refused to start. Apparently I now had some sort of fuel injector problem. After about the 12th attempt, I muttered an oath that may or may not have included a couple of forbidden cuss words, stepped out of the cab and slammed the door shut. I decided I’d try my best mechanic move: I’d ignore it until morning and hope it would start at daybreak.
The next morning, I started my day with a huge dose of trepidation sprinkled with just a touch of optimism. I had a big day planned with a crew of relatives and day help lined up to help with my weaning project. I depended on several things that day. I depended on some trustworthy horses, the goodwill and help of several good people, and I depended on an undependable pickup. I finished the regular morning chores before the sun came up. Next, I whistled for the horses to come up into the catch pen from the field. I chummed them up with a bucket of oats, haltered the ones I needed and led them to the tack shed, all the while thinking of but ignoring the white Ford elephant at the top of my mind and sitting in the driveway, taunting me like a sixth grade bully and daring me to jump in and turn the key.
After I’d saddled my horse, I knew I could no longer avoid the inevitable. With a string of vile cuss words waiting at the tip of my tongue, I stepped up in the cab of the pickup, turned the key, waited for the hum and the glow plugs and then cranked the engine. Wouldn’t you know it! She fired up just like she was supposed to. We used the darn thing all day, starting it up on several occasions.
I thought my mysterious mechanic methods had worked. They did, but only temporarily. The next day, after unloading a load of calves at the feedlot, the beast refused to start again. I tried several times before I called my wife to come fetch me. Despondently, I thought I’d try one more time so I’d save my wife the trip. The 7.3 Powerstroke roared to life. I was still a little bit ticked off, but grateful nonetheless. For the next week or so, I continued that same unpredictable dance, never quite knowing if she’d start or not. But on every occasion, the moody Jezebel of a truck would eventually start. It only took one more try after the one more try.
It’s now been several weeks since weaning day. I don’t really trust the truck, but I’ve never been stranded for more than 15 minutes. I know it’s probably not the best policy, mechanically speaking, but I think it’s a good, perhaps oversimplified lesson in the long run. Maybe the most important thing is to just keep trying, even if you’re not sure of what you’re doing.
