Travel adventures with Monty
Stories from the road
Day 1
Trapper McMonty
We left cold and windy Lake Tahoe mid-day with the usual one-hour delay but finally hit the road. More precisely, HW 50, is also known as the Loneliest Road in America.
Destination unknown.
Jim was driving, I was listening to my favorite living poet, Billy Collins. I tune into his weekly poetry readings whenever I can. Monty was snoring blissfully, his hundred-pound body wedged between the driver and passenger seat. Oh, the life of our golden retriever! He doesn’t mind riding in the van, in fact, he jumps in as soon as he sees any sort of activities related to another road trip, making sure we would not leave him behind. How could we? He is happy, as long as he is with us, and we are happy to bring him along wherever we go. He showers us with unconditional love as only a dog can.
Always.
There isn’t much to look at, following the old Pony Express route through the high, windswept desert plains of Nevada. Today the winds were exceptionally strong, threatening to push the van off the road.
Whenever I travel this route, I am struck with wonder of the resilience and endurance of the riders and their horses carrying mail, racing across this harsh and hostile environment. This wasn’t so long ago. Let me put it in perspective—I grew up in a small town in Slovenia, which was established in 13 Th. century. My grade school was built in 16 Th. century. Pony Express was operating from April 3, 1860, to October 26, 1861, just a tad over a year.
The young and wild history of this country amazes me. I love the wild open spaces of Nevada. They allow the heart and mind to wander.
We were approaching a small town of Austin. The mining town reached its peak during the gold and silver rush in 1860’s. A large sign welcomed us: Serbian Christmas! Austin by all definitions is a living ghost town. There is an old hotel/bar called International Hotel on the right side as you enter town from the West. It is owned by a crusty old Serbian man, Vic. And when I say crusty, believe me, I know. A few years back, Vic and I shared a drink of Slivovica, a fermented plum brandy that will burn a hole in your stomach. He told me all about his great and superior motherland Serbia, he unashamedly shared his strong political opinions and hate for the Muslims. I didn’t tell him my name or where I was from, but when I started speaking in his native language which I had to learn as a kid in school, including the Cyrillic alphabet, he looked up in amazement and promptly opened the bottle of his best slivovitz. The conversation stretched, but I mainly listened to Vick’s ranting. The crumbling historic building was wrapped in Trump signs and banners. I patiently listened, looking for a clue to escape. I knew, that having any kind of argument with this man would be pointless. Finally, my phone rang. My husband Jim was looking for me. It was time to bolt.
Today as we drove through, I was happy to notice that the large Trump signs were finally gone.
It was getting to be the time of the day when we needed to find a place to spend the night. I opened my iOverlander App on my iPhone. There were several possibilities ahead of us. The closest one was pointing to the hot springs, but they looked too far off the Highway. The road leading to the place was rough, and recent snow and rain promised ankle-deep mud. I was quite certain that Monty would have loved rolling in warm mud, but then he would not be allowed back in the van.
The town of Eureka had an RV camp, but it did not look inviting to us. We wanted to wild camp, that’s what Van-life is all about- right?
So, we took the right turn to a dirt road at Pinto Summit, just a few miles out of Eureka. I read the review on iOverlander about a beautiful Pyrenees Shepard dog walking his hundreds of sheep in the hills. I conjured a dreamy picture from my youth —hundreds of white sheep dotting green alpine hills like little snowflakes. As a young girl, growing up in the Julian Alps, I spent endless days scrambling up narrow mountain trails, dreaming of someday becoming a shepherd. Loving the solitude and the mountains, it was my one and only ambition.
As we were bumping up the road and looking for a suitable spot to camp, I was thinking of how I’d prepare us a well-deserved drink and dinner. We were tired and famished. High desert hills were overgrown with sagebrush and rolling fog cascading down from higher mountains above, providing a slightly eerie atmosphere. We finally found a flat-ish spot to camp for the night. I was relieved when Jim pulled over exclaiming: “Good enough!”Monty was more than happy to leap out of the van to take a leak and explore. Cold northerly winds were blowing from the surrounding snow-covered peaks, so I shut the sliding door of the van to stay warm. Jim was busy making sure the van was level, I was busy making our drinks.
And then—the most horrifying, agonizing scream by a dog in dying pain pierced through my entire body, paralyzing me. I scrambled to put on my shoes, screaming my dog’s name. One and only thought shot through my brain: Monty is dying! A pack of coyotes or perhaps even wolves are attacking him!
Jim was running toward Monty, I was running and screaming toward the two of them. Jim laid on top of his beloved dog, and as I was approaching, I saw something wrapped around his hind paw. At first, it looked like a thorny branch, so I was relieved until I realized an iron trap attached to a chain and post, was clamped around his paw. Monty was in agony and when I wrapped my arms around his head to hold him, he went ballistic. Jim was trying to pry the trap open, but it wouldn’t budge. He franticly searched through the van for tools. Monty was crying, thrashing, biting.
I was doing my best to calm him down. Every time Jim touched Monty’s leg, Monty would yelp in pain and try to bite me. I held him tight in my embrace, speaking into his ear: “Daddy will get it off, daddy will save you!” He looked at me with his moist, dark eyes pleadingly. I was wondering where and how we were going to find the vet back in Eureka at this late hour. I was certain we were losing our dog.
Jim, calm and composed, finally pried the trap open by pushing two spring-loaded tabs with his strong hands, the hands of a mighty man, the man on the mission to save his dog.
Monty was free.
I lay exhausted on the soggy, muddy ground, weeping with relief.
Miraculously Monty’s paw was still attached, not even bleeding. He ran away from us, jumped straight into the van, and wedged himself firmly between the seats, his whole body shivering. I was afraid to touch his paw, certain it was broken, but at least it wasn’t bleeding. Miraculously he seemed to be okay.
Jim climbed into the van and slammed the door: “Let’s get the hell out of here, this place is cursed!” he muttered under his breath.
It took me a long time to calm down, and yes, I made us a stiff drink. Monty ate his cookie willingly. That was a good sign. He rested his large head on his front paws with a deep sigh. All three of us were shaken to the bone. Jim and I drove in silence down the bumpy, dirt road back toward the Loneliest Road in America. When we reached it, we turned right and drove into the foggy night.
Destination unknown.
