Random Valley
By: Jennica Deely
Tags: Colorado, 1990s, Coming Of Age, Travel, Camping

Mack, Colorado wasn’t a town but a truck stop. A one (functioning) gas station truck stop. It had seen a slight boom in population in the 1940s-60s because of the uranium mining and bomb testing in the area, but by 1995 it was back to ranchers, shepherds, truckers, and drifters. The gas station on the left was closed — no explanation why — but the Sinclair on the right with the big green and white dinosaur sign had two pumps and a convenience store (with 3.2 beer) inside. Three-point-two beer — the watered-down, 3.2-percent alcohol, blue-law concoction that was only sold in grocery and convenience stores in Colorado. I didn’t give it much thought, but adults who knew better loved to moan about the ridiculous rule that kept liquor stores closed on Sundays but allowed the sale of this fake beer in grocery stores and gas stations.

All pride aside, in Mack, Colorado, this gas station and 3.2 beer was our only option.

The clerk standing behind the counter was reading a Star newspaper. Her bobbed auburn hair guarded her pock-marked face, and she sagged in an oversized green and white striped polo shirt. My mom, in short blue shorts, a stretchy black tank top, and red sport sandals, greeted her with a friendly hello. I followed behind, swimming in a pair of baggy black Umbros, a tent-sized Nature Conservancy tee shirt, and a pair of dingy, white canvas Vans.

The clerk looked up briefly before directing her attention back to her paper.

“Grab some lighter fluid, please” mom called out over her shoulder as sge beelined towards the aisle that carried the unmentionables — tampons, condoms, pregnancy tests, and painkillers. Scanning the shelves, she grabbed two blue and white boxes, and continued to the cooler to get the beer.

I shuffled my feet towards the stack of cans against the windowed wall, my toes pushing uncomfortably forward in my shoes, a half-size too small since my recent growth spurt. Armed with our supplies, we met back at the counter.

“Nineteen thirty-five” mumbled the clerk after ringing up the four items.

Mom pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it over. Without a word, the woman put the tampons into a brown bag and pushed it and the case of Bud over to my mom, along with her change. I grabbed the lantern fluid and turned, opening the heavy glass door to a rush of dry and dusty air.

We reached the exit for camp around 3:15pm. The tape needed to be flipped, so I hit eject and turned it over as we merged onto the dirt road. As the person in our family who, at my own election, “managed” the play list for all of our road and camping trips, I’d spent the full Sunday before with my Sony boombox speaker system (my thirteenth birthday present) recording from CDs, other tapes, and the radio. For this tape, a mix of Traveling Wilburys, The Talking Heads, and The Highwaymen was arranged on side B. Belting the lyrics to “Tweeter and the Monkey Man”, we rolled the windows down and turned up the volume.

About halfway back to camp, we spotted another vehicle heading towards us. A beat-up truck, late 70s/early 80s. Tan and dark brown with a busted headlight and two men sitting tall, silhouettes dark and wavy through the fractured windshield.

As they drew near, my mom’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, her gaze focused intently on the truck swerving in our direction. Then, a flash of action as she reached for the gearstick with her right hand, downshifted, and steered with her other hand as far to the right as the road would allow. Just as our hoods passed, the brown truck veered, and mom, in a panic, cranked the wheel even further right. In what felt like slow motion, our truck angled down, towards the shoulder and into the sand along the side of the road. With a solid thump, the tires sank fast.

We looked at each other, expressions of concern and confusion marking our faces, and without hesitation, mom restarted the truck and frantically attempted to drive us out of the sand. But the back tire just spun, no matter how hard she tried — reverse, forward, 4-wheel low, hi… The engine made a high whirring sound, and with nervous apprehension, mom turned the key.

From the rear view window I could see the brown truck had also stopped, and was now backing up.

Two gravelly and unanchored voices, incoherent even with our windows rolled down, grew louder. The sound of doors opening, a bottle hitting the floorboard and rolling, doors slamming shut. The men synchronized and stumbled toward my mom’s side of the truck.

“You stay in here” mom said to me through her teeth as she opened the truck door and stepped outside.

“Well damn. Are you having trouble keeping that big truck of yours on the road?” the taller of the two grinned as he walked up alongside.

“Not until now,” mom said with an unnatural lift to her voice and a shrug of her tense and straight shoulders. She quietly shut the door but leaned against the side.

“Here, let me try. I bet I can get you out darlin’” said the smaller man, stepping closer.

I hadn’t moved from my seat, but through the driver’s side window I could see that he was wearing a faded orange and brown flannel shirt and khaki bucket hat. His face was pallid and pinched and the hair that sprayed out from under the hat and sprouted on his chin and neck was dark blonde. The other man faced my mother. Though she was blocking most of my view, I could see that this guy, the skinnier and taller one, was wearing a green and white trucker hat, but with more facial hair the color of rusted steel.

They looked related, cousins, perhaps brothers, but the tall guy must have had a shorter haircut or hair loss because he had an oddly long neck and a very knobby Adam’s apple.

“Oh, thanks guys, but we’re alright” mom offered, keeping her back to me and leaning further into the door. “We’re pretty good at taking care of ourselves.”

“What are you doing out here all by yourselfs?” questioned the smaller guy. “You’re a ways away from Junction. Not much to do out here all alone.”

“Oh, on our way back to camp. My husband and his friends ran out of beer. They’re probably getting thirsty and I wouldn’t be surprised to see them any minute since we’re already later than we wanted to be.” she said in a clipped and pointed tone.

Both men exchanged looks and shifted their weight. The skinnier guy hitched up his grimy pants and slid his hands into his pockets, spitting a foamy wad of tobacco out the side of his mouth.

“Well, seriously. Let me give it a try,” the smaller guy prodded, but this time with a softer, friendlier, yet still uneven tone. He moved closer to my mom and put his hand on her shoulder. At this violation, I unclipped my seat belt, and slowly pushed the door open, inching my right foot outside.

“No really, you don’t need to bother. You should just keep going where you were going. We’ll be fine. I am sure my husband or one of his buddies will be by real soon,” I heard her say.

As I made my way around to the front of the truck I hesitated, feeling the heat radiating from the still-warm engine. How far had we come since the highway? I think we’d been driving for at least ten minutes — camp must only be another fifteen-to-twenty minutes away.

“Jenny?” my mom asked, her voice reaching with urgency.

The men continued to leer as I emerged from behind the hood and hurried to stand alongside her. They paced back and forth while hungrily maintaining focus on my mom, and then, with recognition, on me as well.

Reluctantly she handed the keys over to the guy with the fishing hat, “Well, give it a shot then.” She grabbed my forearm tightly, pressing her fingers into my skin and maintaining her grip.

Both of us moved to the center of the road as he pulled himself into the driver’s seat. The skinnier man, hands still deep in his pockets, leaned over and whispered something to my mom. She recoiled and turned her head. Unabashed, he walked to the rear of the truck to direct.

It started up easily and fell into reverse with a grinding lurch. Stunted episodes of tire spinning and sand spitting, a futile rocking back and forth ensued. Both men hurled garbled directions at one another.

“Forward. No. Left!”

“What? Jesus! I can’t understand you!”

“Crank it left!”

The truck stopped lurching and the engine calmed to quiet. Opening the door, the small guy stepped down, rolling his ankle as he hit the red dirt.

“Fuck!” he spat. Looking sheepishly at my mom and me, he slammed the door behind him, and called out to his partner. “Gary, you still got that tow strap?!”

“Dunno. I think so. Should be in the tool box” responded the skinny guy, apparently named Gary.

“Well go get it!”

Gary spit into the dirt again and ambled towards the brown truck.

“Listen guys, we’re fine,” my mom placated. “We can figure this out ourselves. We appreciate the help, but you really should get going.”

“Pete, it ain’t in there” shouted Gary, oblivious, now standing in the bed of the brown truck.

“What about rope, you got any rope?”

“What’re we gonna tie it to?” said Gary.

“I can think of something…er, someone I’d like to rope up” said Pete, winking at me for a brief second and then my mom. Looking with disgust at Gary, “you tie it to the other truck, dumbass” and back to us, “real genius, that one.”

“We out of beer Pete?… Oh hey, didn’t you girls say that’s why you’re here? I think we deserve some beer for doing all this hard work for you.”

Gary directed his attention back on my mom, eyeing her up and down with unguarded lechery.

“Alright. I need my keys back. Now,” mom said with strained authority. She strengthened her hold on me as I tensed up, ready to spring.

“Give me one of your beers and I’ll think about it. You look good now and you’ll look real good after a few more.”

I could feel the anxiety and anger rising within her. Her jaw tightened and she looked ready to kick and yell in frustration when, with a loud thump, Gary jumped down from the bed of the truck and yelled, “Oh, hey look! Here comes that little mountain biker guy!”

At the top of the next rise was the biker we’d passed earlier that day. He was still alone, and at the sight of our two trucks, stopped pedaling to survey the scene as if deciding whether or not to continue.

He started pedaling again, and head down, covered the last bit of distance in what was likely a minute-and-a-half, but felt like fifteen.

As the biker got closer, Gary and Pete snickered about his tight shorts, styrofoam helmet, and purple jacket, criticisms that did not lower in volume as he reached us.

“You stuck?” the mountain biker said, pulling up alongside.

Mom made a nasal sound and attempted a knowing glance to communicate the situation. The man walked his bike over to the side of the road near our truck and leaned it against some sage.

Murmuring in a low tone, the biker introduced himself to my mom and me.

“My name is Vance. I’ve got a friend picking me up at the highway intersection around 4 o’clock, but I’ll do what I can to help you until then. How long have you been here?”

“Too long.” I said, under my breath.

“Have you seen anyone else?”

“These creeps are the only ones” said my mom. “Thanks for stopping. We were getting worried…”

Vance smiled and turned. Surveying the scene and pacing from the back to front of our truck, he finally said “Hmm. Maybe we can put something in the rut to help the tire get traction,’ and then, directing his thoughts to the whole group, offered “I can cut some branches” pulling a small Swiss Army knife out of the breast pocket of his windbreaker. My mom and I stared at each other in disbelief.

“What is that thing? Looks like we’ve got a little Boy Scout here. Sheesh. What’s happening to this place? Pansy little guys in tight shorts and fancy bikes, good looking girls who won’t share their beer. Place is going to Hell fast.” Pete sneered, putting our truck keys into his back pocket. “Gary, go grab that axe in the tool box, and the rope, you forgot the rope.”

At this point, I noticed the gun rack with what looked like several shotguns mounted to the rear window of their truck.