By: Holland McGraw

The road reached on and Boo was breathing in the cool night air of California’s central valley. The instrument panel light for the speedometer and fuel indicator did not work, so I had to use a flashlight to check my gauges. With that said I couldn’t complain. Boo was driving without problems, which made me think it was the hot air passing through his air-cooled engine or fuel restriction when going up an incline that was causing him to die.

I pulled into a gas station on the desolate stretch of highway and filled up. When I went inside to get a drink the young attendant complimented Boo.

“That’s a clean bug.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“What year is it?”

“A ’72.”

The VW Beetle is a car that I have thought little of over the years, but it has slowly grown on me. When I was young and in high school, VW beetles were not all that uncommon. It wasn’t until recently that I began to appreciate their aesthetic appearance. The most interesting thing about this is that the car itself did not change, but everything around it has, making it look more attractive to me.

I drove through the night and stopped in the town of Corning, California at 3:00AM and rented a hotel room. In the lobby the weatherman was on. He was standing in front of a giant screen telling a story about the coming record-breaking heat wave with exaggerated arm movements. As I watched the chief meteorologist make pooling and sweeping motions with his hands and arms like a sorcerer casting spells, I came to the realization that I was in the middle of the perfect storm; an air-cooled VW beetle driving over the Siskiyou Mountains in 100 plus degree weather.

I only slept for two hours and woke around 5:00 to get an early start while it was cool out. I told Alisha to sleep in and assured her she would catch-up to me later in the day.

Walking out to Boo the sky was brilliant colors just prior to the sun making its appearance in the east. The air was a type of dry warm that hinted at the coming heat of the day.

I started Boo up and drove north. Driving through Redding, California, home of, Merle Haggard, a connection that is over a thousand miles apart and linked with a song and a thread.

The song, “Okie from Muskogee,” a city in Oklahoma where I washed dishes and cooked among other things in my late teens and early twenties. The thread, a “Sick’ em” t-shirt I sold to Merle’s bus driver at a venue he was playing.

Out of Redding and over the bridges of Lake Shasta was hair-raising as there wasn’t a shoulder to turn onto in the event of an emergency. As I ascended and descend through the mountain pass of the California, Oregon border Boo’s pedal began to give way. As he limped up the mountains with a speed that dwindled to 15 miles per hour just making the peak, only to stall on the descent from exhaustion.

Coasting down the mountain slope I would revive Boo with the twist of a key and pump of the pedal, just in time to tackle the next incline with all of the momentum and horsepower that he could muster.

We tangoed with the mountains for over an hour going back and forth, but finally, on a steep descent with access to a rest area, Boo died and could not be revived. We coasted into the rest area that lay at the bottom of a ravine. I called Alisha and gave her my location.

The early morning heat was upon us. When Alisha pulled up we decided to wait at the park. I was unsure as to the cause of Boo’s mechanical problems, but confident he would start again after a rest.

We laid out a blanket under a shade tree that was three feet from Boo’s stall. As we lay in the grass a man pulled in with his family to picnic. He walked up and told me a story in a calm, monotone voice.

“Wow…I used to have a bug just like that, but it was red. I was living in Texas and one day I was driving around…and it caught on fire. I didn’t have a fire extinguisher, but this guy in a truck pulled over and got an extinguisher from the back of his truck. He put the fire out and told me I had to buy him a new extinguisher, but I didn’t have any money. I was a broke teenager. Boy, that guy was angry.”

“Is it common for VW beetles to catch on fire?” I asked.

“Well, it does happen, I don’t know how often, but it does happen.”

I was debating as to whether or not I should have Boo picked up and towed to a garage or if I should keep playing the game of chance. While resting in the grass I’d occasionally walk over to Boo and see if I could get his engine to turnover. With every failed attempt at starting I began to lose hope, but just when I thought all was lost…he started with the turn of a key rattling and shaking.

We took off struggling over the steep mountain pass and Boo died as we entered the Rogue Valley. We coasted onto an off ramp and pulled over on the outskirts of Ashland, Oregon. Trees surrounded me, yet the heat of the sun broke through frying everything that was not shaded by the trees.

I opened my phone to call Alisha, but I didn’t have a signal. I walked around off the road and into ankle deep foliage until I stood at the edge of a cliff and got a signal.

“Hey, where are you guys?”

“We’re in line at an espresso stand getting something cold to drink.”

Alisha went on to explain that the cars AC was nullified by the heat of the day and the dogs were panting and in danger of overheating, all the while I was melting on the side of the road.

I gave her my location and asked her to find a local mechanic because my signal was either weak or nonexistent.

Alisha found a shop located at the far North end of town in an old gas station that was frozen in time. They sold gas but also fixed cars in a building that had 1960’s accents. Arriving with the tow truck I was informed by a heavy set man in a sweat soaked transparent t-shirt over the buzzing of a steel fan and whizzing from an impact wrench that it would be at least an hour wait time.

Tow trucks were bringing cars in one after another like medics carrying soldiers in from the battlefield. Mechanics stained in oil and drenched from the heat popped hoods, adjusted hoses, topped off radiators, gauged tires and diagnosed problems. Hours after I had arrived a mechanic called my name and brought me to the side of the shop under a makeshift shelter. He popped Boo’s hood and had me turn the ignition while he gave him a squirt of carb cleaner. With one simple turn of the key Boo came to life.

I jumped out and ran around to the engine,

“Could you tell what was wrong?”

“No, everything seems to be working fine,” he replied.

“It seems I have the most trouble when I’m driving up hills. I think it has something to do with the fuel being restricted.”

“Well, the hoses look fine. Sometimes the fuel hoses swell over the years, but yours look good and there is fuel in the filter.”

He continued to poke around and said, “The trouble is it’s hard to diagnose a mechanical problem when the car is running.” He looked at me and said, “We’re going to have to keep it over night to see what’s wrong.”

The thought of staying overnight and possibly longer was soul crushing, I had this strong internal urge to push forward and get home, like a settler from the past traveling on the Oregon Trail. I thanked him, but replied,

“I need to go.”

He refused to charge me because he wasn’t able to pinpoint and fix the problem, but I insisted he take $20.00 for his time and effort. With the shake of a hand and push of the pedal we were gone.

Cutting through the Rogue Valley the sun was setting. As we began to climb Boo stalled. I coasted into Grants Pass feeling defeated; life changes aren’t always a smooth or simple transition. Alisha and I got a motel room and found a local mechanic who would look at Boo the next day.

That night I walked to a gas station from my hotel room and bought two beers, a Miller High Life and a Sierra Nevada. I believe that contrast makes life worth living. How can you appreciate the good things in life when you’ve never had anything bad? Parched from the heat of the day the High Life was fulfilling. My body reacted to it like a dry sponge to water and though it is not good beer, for me it evokes feelings of nostalgia. To understand this read my blog, High Life. The Sierra Nevada, now drinking that was a thing of beauty, like an amazing sunset or fireworks on the Forth of July.

The next morning I contacted my auto service and they sent a tow truck out to pick up Boo. The driver was a heavyset man in his 50’s or 60’s. When loading Boo he had to open the driver side door to steer him onto the back of the truck.

Driving through Grants Pass I complimented the town on its beauty. We took a left turn and Boo’s door swung open. The driver quickly jumped out at the red light and secured the door.

“Gees, I sure am sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” I replied.

“This really is a beautiful town, have you always lived here?”

“For the last 20 years.” He replied.

“Has there been much change in the town since the recession?”

He went into a rant, “The problem isn’t the recession, the problem is people don’t want to start at the bottom and work their way up. Everybody thinks they deserve what people like me have got. Do you know what my first wage was?”

“No.”

“TWO DOLLARS AND TEN CENTS!”

Proving a point with a wage earned decades prior told me little about ones willingness to work or their hardships due to the wage. So I asked a question that would put his wage into context.

“How much did a Coke cost back then?”

His eyes widened and he straightened his back. I could see his brain reaching franticly for an imaginary number.

“Seventy Five Cents,” he replied in a smug tone as if it was a fact.

I smiled.

“You know, I’ve got this thing for bottles and history. I like to research the different beverage companies and collect artifacts from there past. I don’t get paid to do it; it’s just a strange hobby of mine. I recently learned that the standard price of a Coke was .05 cents for 70 years. They say that the last Coke that sold for a nickel was in 1959. It’s hard for me to believe that Coca Cola would go from charging a competitive price for 70 years to charging .75 cents when your two dollar and10-cent hourly wage was at least the minimum.”

“Well, you know I’ve always liked Pepsi, so I may have confused Coke with Pepsi.”

“Really, .75 cents for a Pepsi. Then a Coke would have probably been more than .75 cents because Pepsi has a history of being less expensive than Coke. Pepsi is one of the first companies to market a product to lower income Americans. They advertised Pepsi as the Big Nickel telling how they would get twice as much for a nickel compared to other beverages.”

We didn’t talk the rest of the trip. When we arrived at the mechanic’s house the driver joyfully jumped out of the rig and enthusiastically unloaded Boo.

The garage door was open and the owner walked out to greet me. I explained the problems I had been having. He sat down in the driver seat, turned the key and Boo came to life shaking and rattling.

I threw up my arms in defeat and said, “I don’t know what to say,”

“I’m going to take it for a ride,” said the mechanic.

Fifteen minutes later he was back and said, “It drove great, I’ll bring it inside the garage and check a few things.” He had two guys working in his home garage that he’d turned into a shop.

“So you’re up from California, huh. I used to live down there, had a large shop in Bakersfield.”

He pointed to some articles that had been taped to the wall. They were written about him for various VW and hotrod magazines in the ’80’s and ’90’s.

“I drove up here to visit some relatives in a baja bug and broke down twice. The first time I needed an alternator and the second time it was my carburetor. Once I saw this place, I knew it’s where I wanted to be. I went back, sold my shop, packed my tools and started one in town.

The recession took my shop, so I moved it into my garage and now we’re working out of it.”

I replied, “My wife and I run our photography business out of our house. The overhead of commercial property seems impossible.”

“Yeah, lately we’ve been building engines for customers and shipping them to Australia and other states in the U.S.”

“So, what are you doing up here?” he asked.

“I picked this bug up in San Diego while I was working and am driving back to Seattle.”

“Why didn’t you just rent a truck and tow it back?”

“Geese, where’s your sense of adventure. Not to mention I’d miss out meeting fine folks like you.”

He and one of his young mechanics started laughing. The young mechanic told me,

“I’ll be up in Seattle next summer. I’m in a band and we have a gig up there. We might need pictures, do you have a card so I can get a hold of you?”

“Sure.”

I reached down in the passenger seat and picked up a business card that was lying on top of my book, “Modern Fossils.”

“What’s that?” asked the assistant.

“It’s a book I wrote that explains changes in our society through glass bottles and conceptual art, you want it?”

“Sure,” he exclaimed.”

I handed him the book and he quickly flipped through the pages, “Of course the pictures are good?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“The owner of the shop pushed himself out from under Boo slapped his hands together to knock the dust and dirt off and gave me the total.”

I shook hands, said thank you, and gave him an extra 20.00 dollars. “This is for you guys to get a beer together after work.”

They were all jazzed about the prospects of beer after work, in the assistant’s words, ”20.00 dollars, that’s good beer!”

“Yes, that is good beer,” I replied. I pulled out of the driveway and cut through the mountain pass. After about two hours of driving Boo’s pedal began to flutter. We headed off the main highway and onto a side road heading north.

To my amazement the road ended at a river and we had to take a ferry to cross. A service that seemed both primitive and surreal with steel cable that acted as a guide from bank to bank. It had to be one of the last of its kind in the U.S. Crossing the river made feel as if I were a modern day Huck Finn on an unplanned and strange adventure with his wife and dogs.

Off the raft and driving North Boo died on the outskirts of a small college town just south of Portland. We coasted into a neighborhood and stopped along a curb and under the shade of a tree. I popped the hood and the engine looked as it always had.

Across the street a man walked out of his house looked at me, cocked his head and walked back inside the house. Boo and I were in an old 1950’s track development one house after the other, but unlike California’s post war homes these had a yard with trees, green foliage and that North West charm. In the front yard was a 1970’s VW camper bus that sat underneath the shade of a tree.

The man walked out of his house again and stopped where the grass meet the curb.

“Hey, how’s it going,” he yelled from across the street. He was a heavyset man and stood about 6’ 1”.

“Been better,” I replied.

“I’m having trouble with my bug.”

“Oh, well my buddy Psycho, he lives in that bus under the tree there, he’ll probably take a look at it. He can fix anything.”

“That sounds great,” I said.

About five minutes later a guy who stood about 5’ 8” with short spiked black hair came out in the front yard with a plate of food and sat next to the bus in a lawn chair and started eating.

Alisha pulled up next to me and I told her about the prospects of having someone look at Boo, but felt confident he would start up again either way.

The man eating his food stood up and walked to where the grass meet the curb and said, “I’ll have a look at your bug as soon as I’m finished eating.”

Ten minutes later, Psycho had his hands in Boo’s engine telling me to turn it over; all the while his buddy who owned the house periodically came out to talk with us. It became apparent that Psycho’s friend was intoxicated as his words; behavior and body language became increasingly distorted with every visit from the house.

“Oh…puppies! I love doggies,” he exclaimed.

He went over to Alisha’s car and began petting Dottie, Coco and Rocket through the window.

“Hey if you guys can’t get it started you can bunk at my place…hahaha.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want to impose on you. If Boo doesn’t start we’ll get a hotel room for the night,” I assured him.

His odd behavior created an uncomfortable tension and his friends name, “Psycho,” made everything all the more strange in the 1950’s picture perfect neighborhood that now had a Steven King like twist.

I looked down at Psycho shaking his head. He pulled out a plastic flask filled with a liquid of some sort and took a swig. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he was drinking an herbal tea of some sort, but people don’t swig tea.

“He gets like that and I can’t control him.” Said Psycho.

“I’ve tried everything, I’ve even videotaped him so he can see how he acts, but nothing works.”

We were about an hour south of Portland, making us four hours from home. I told Alisha that she should go home and I’d call her when I was on the road, there was no need for her to stay any longer.

She agreed and left for home. When I returned to Boo, Psycho told me to turn the key and step on the gas. Boo came to life.

Psycho walked over to the window.

“We can’t work on your car here, my friends a mess and he’s just going to get worse. My mom’s house is just up the road. I have some tools up there where I can check your car out.”

We drove about four blocks and parked outside an older white house that was built some time in the 1920’s or 30’s. As he began taking apart Boo’s carburetor he told me his story. He joined the Army and was stationed in the Midwest where he married and had children. After the Army he worked as a VW mechanic and eventually bought his own shop.

“Yeah, I got into Volkswagens because I believe in them. These cars can run forever if they’re treated rite and cared for. A lot of times mechanical problems can be fixed without buying a new part, they’re made to run.”

“In the end it was this church, we went to this church,” He started shaking his head. “They started telling us how to live…this and that; it all just fell apart, now I’m back where I started, home.”

“I got to ask, how did you get the name, Psycho?”

“Psycho, it’s my stage name.” He’d been working as a TV show extra during the day and moonlighting as an exotic dancer at night.

I looked down and Psycho had disassembled my carburetor and laid it out on a rag.

“See that, that’s enough to give you problems,” He found some carbon in one of the steal fittings, cleaned it out and slapped it back together. I thanked him and reached for my wallet pulling out $40.00. Psycho shook his head and said, “I’m good, you don’t need to pay, hell, I don’t know that I even fixed anything.”

“Well, you may not have fixed it, but you’ve spent over two hours working on my car, I really appreciate it.”

Then Psycho said something I will never forget.

“People should help each other.”

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I said.

“I’m not a rich man, I don’t have a lot of money, but you’re living in your friends front yard and I think this money could help you out. It’s not like I’m giving you a gift because you just spent more than two hours trying to help a total stranger with engine trouble.”

With the exchange of money sealed with a handshake I headed North in the setting sun with visions of a happy homecoming to my wife, dogs and a moon that greets me as it rises over a hill in the East.

To be continued….

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 2) appeared first on Modern Fossils.

By: Holland McGraw

Americans are mad about automobiles. Many believe the car they drive is a reflection of them selves, others see it as a means of transportation. One day, I was watching cars from the inside of a bus and noticed jacked up Monster Trucks made to explore desolate places and sports cars designed to travel at high speeds, stuck in traffic. Automakers have fooled people into working for machines through illusions of grandeur and success when all the while it is the machine that is supposed to work for people.

Henry Ford is known as the man who popularized the automobile by making it affordable for the common man to purchase. He added neither frills nor illusions of individuality with the Model T stating, “Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants so long as it is black.” It was the Dodge brothers who made the American car a status symbol. They built cars that were souped-up and slick, with a little of this and a little of that, at twice the cost of Ford’s Model T.

Fast forward more than a hundred years and you get a modern car that practically drives itself with radio’s, TV’s, computers and maintenance costs that will keep you working the rest of your days.

Refusing to modernize I traveled back in time and purchased a 1972 VW Beetle while in California on a 2014 photo tour with my wife Alisha and three dogs. An automobile built to be affordable, yet simple enough for the driver to be the mechanic. This was the beginning of my transformation to both driver and mechanic. As a measure of good luck I named my bug Boo; a nickname I used to call my Boxer who recently passed.

As I began my drive back to Seattle I immediately realized the complexities of driving an older vehicle on a modern road. It’s not that the roads are any different, if anything they have gotten better. The problem is that the superior performance of modern vehicles give drivers the ability to accelerate, stop, and maneuver while talking on the phone, drinking a coffee in one hand and steering with the other; all at a speed of 80 miles per hour.

Boo the Beetle tends to shake and rattle as if he is about to get a treat when the speedometer hits 65. I came to the realization that the Volkswagen beetle is a car that takes two hands two feet and all of your senses to drive amongst the swarms of shiny plastic cars that franticly swerve, stop and accelerate on a dime.

Driving back to Seattle, Washington from San Diego I stopped to say goodby to my sister and her family in Orange County. After a short visit they followed me out. As I started up Boo, he quickly puttered out not once, but four times. I looked up over the steering wheel at my sister holding the hands of her two children; she raised her eyebrows and flashed worried crooked smile. On the 5the turn Boo came to life rattling and shaking.

“It was just a little flooded?”

I yelled out the window…

and just like that we were gone.

Driving North through LA on the ever changing 405 freeway I couldn’t help but think about the construction workers who have spent a lifetime working on a highway that never seems to be finished. My father first drove I-405 in 1963 when it was a brand-new and simple 4 lane highway. Today the Los Angeles I 405 expands and contracts between 4 and 6 lanes, but I have no doubt that this concrete monster will continue to grow well into the future.

The 405 turned into the I-5 and it was around the second Los Angeles aqueduct, where a large pipe runs down the side of a mountain that I felt Boo begin to falter under the gas peddle. Fearing the inevitable I steered Boo out of traffic and onto the side of the road where he died.

Looking up at the aqueduct I couldn’t help but think of the stories, scandals and wealth that revolved around the water that rushes down from the Owens Valley Reservoir to feed the ever-growing city of Los Angeles. The movie China Town staring Jack Nicholson is a great movie about water and the history of Los Angeles.

I called Alisha who was just ahead of me and let her know where I was; I could only hear every third word she said over the LA traffic.

“HELLO…HELLO…BOO BROKE DOWN.”

“WHAT?”

“BOO BROKE DOWN.”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, WHERE ARE YOU?”

“CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?”

“WHAT?”

“I’M ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD ACROSS FROM THE LA AQUEDUCT.”

“WHERE?”

“NEXT TO THE GIANT MOUNTAIN WHERE THE BIG PIPE COMES DOWN.”

OKAY.

“I’LL CALL YOU WHEN I GET OFF THE HIGHWAY.”

“WHAT?”

I opened Boo’s hood and nosied around in the engine compartment like a detective searching for a clue, but didn’t see any clear signs of a problem. I did notice the fuel filter didn’t have any fuel in it…hmm maybe the engine was being starved of fuel. But what did I know and to make things worse Volkswagen Beetles don’t come with heat gauges, so there is no definite way to tell if Boo is stalling because it’s over heating.

Not long after I coasted off the highway a designated city tow truck tasked with the job of towing cars off the highway in order to keep the traffic moving stopped and asked me what the problem was.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR CAR?”

“I DON’T KNOW, I WAS DRIVING ALONG AND IT JUST STALLED ON ME?”

“WHAT?”

“IT WONT START?”

“OKAY, I’LL TOW YOU TO THE NEAREST SERVICE STATION.”

“OKAY.”

After hooking Boo up the driver jumped inside the cab.

“Nice bug, what year is it?”

“Thanks, it’s a 72.”

“I used to have one like that when I lived in Mexico.”

“Was it made in Mexico?”

“I can’t remember, but it looked just like that.”

The driver unloaded Boo and I at the nearest gas station. About 5 minutes after I had been dropped off, Boo miraculously came back to life at the turn of a key. I called Alisha to let her know that everything was working fine, then hopped back on the highway and headed north on the I-5 where I began my ascent into the Tehachapi Mountains. As Boo climbed, his peddle began to falter. I nursed him along as we went forward and fell back between the cars and commercial trucks. My anxiety soared as I steered the wheel, worked the pedals, shifted gears and jockeyed signals in an ever delicate manner to ensure we didn’t come to a stop.

After climbing the mountains steep slope Boo once again died at the top of California’s notorious grapevine. I called Alisha who had been driving ahead and told her where I was. It was really beautiful at the top, I couldn’t think of a nicer place to break down.

The highway was in a ravine between these two large golden hills that were dotted with green arid shrubs and trees. Having crossed an invisible line that is considered the start of Northern California I was now in what I have always seen as Steinbeck country. I can’t help but visualize the characters from his books walking over the golden hills that sparkle in the warm sunlight, or resting in the shade of an elm tree.

I called road service and they sent a tow truck to pick me up. I also found a mechanics shop in Bakersfield over the phone who was hesitant to look at Boo due to the technology differences between a 72 Beetle and a modern car.

“Hello, I have a ’72 beetle that has broken down and I need you to take a look at it.”

The mechanic replied, “Gees, we normally don’t work on those.”

“Really, well, can you recommend a place in town?”

“No, unfortunately I don’t know of any.”

Feeling trapped I asked, “Well can’t you at least take a look at it, I mean you guys are highly recommended on the AAA website.”

“Well, I guess we can check it out,” said the mechanic, “but we’ll be closed by the time you get down here. Just park it outside our fence and I’ll look at it in the morning.“

The tow truck driver was a nice young man. Prior to driving a tow truck he was a photographer for a studio at the mall in Bakersfield.

“You’re a photographer,” I exclaimed. “My wife and I are photographers, we’re just heading home from our West Coast Tour. “

“Yeah, I used to photograph kids and families. Our packages were ridiculous. I was working on commission and the way our packages were setup, it was difficult for me to make a living. When the recession hit the studio went under and now I’m doing this.”

I could here in his voice that he was frustrated about how things had turned out. He’d given his all to something that hadn’t given back.

“Sorry to hear that. Photography is a tough business. My wife and I work constantly just to make ends meet. It’s frustrating; most people don’t see the costs and time involved. But you know if you really like photography you could still do it. You could start a small business on the side and do a few photo shoots here and there…or just photograph for yourself. You drive around to different places all day, put your camera in your cab. I bet you could capture some really cool stuff on the road.“

“Yeah, my girlfriend and I have been talking about doing something like that. We live just up that road on the other side of the hill.” He stretched out his arm and pointed with his index finger to an area that was visually stunning. Covered with long golden wheat like grass on top of round hills that were dotted with trees and shrubs.

We continued talking on the descent into Bakersfield as the sun began to set. The mechanics shop was located in an area that I’d describe as sketchy, but figured I’d ask the tow truck drivers opinion since I wasn’t from the area.

“So what kind of an neighborhood is this?”

“Mmmm…not a good one,” he replied.

The auto repair shop gate was locked, so Boo was unloaded to the adjacent parking lot of a stab and grab type market. Opening the cab door of the truck was like opening an oven door. I jumped out into the heat and looked around. The driver lowered Boo and drove away. There was an uncomfortable feeling as people pulled into the parking lot and stared at Boo and I. I walked over to Alisha’s car and told her,

“You guys can get a hotel room tonight, I’m going to sleep in the car. I don’t think Boo will be here in the morning if we leave him.”

Alisha had a worried look on her face. “Well, wait a second,” I told her, “let me see if I can get him to start.”

I turned the key and got nothing. I cranked it again and again and again and again…then like magic…Boo turned over. I looked at Alisha with a huge grin as he shaked and rattled.

“Lets get back on the road, I’ll follow you,” I yelled.

Within minutes we were back on the road driving north. As the golden sun was falling below the earth we cut through California’s central valley that is surrounded by giant brown hills that look like baked loaves of bread and a billion stars that speckle the night sky.

To be continued…

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 1) appeared first on Modern Fossils.