For Auto Repair It Was Shear Genius

DESERT ADVENTURE

Text by Elizabeth Zerkle

Illustrations by Joe Ferrara

SHE'S ALONE in the midst of nowhere, and her car breaks down. Now what?

One bright, clear morning not long ago, I drove out into the southeastern Arizona desert near my home in Bowie. As a practical matter knowing full well how pleasant little desert drives can suddenly turn into disasters I had equipped myself with a shovel, a water jug, pruning shears, and a rake.

After several hours, the dirt road I was following turned into something less than a bumpy rut. So I had to be extra careful to avoid any rocks that appeared too big for my 1967 Corvair to clear. Well, so far so good, I thought. I'd been in worse places. But, just ahead, lurking in the weeds growing between the tire tracks, hid the "killer rock" that was not going to make my day. The car caught the edge of it and dragged it along unnoticed by me until I realized the vehicle was not acting right: the steering was difficult, and the engine sounded like it was slowing down.

Just as I was going to stop to see what the trouble was, the car lurched to a halt. Putting the vehicle in reverse failed to help. There was nothing to do now but get out and try to determine what was wrong.

Lying flat on the ground, I looked under the car. At first I couldn't see a thing. Then I saw the rock. It was jammed tight under the frame. But I was prepared. I got out the shovel and with some knuckle-busting and arm-scraping dislodged the monster and tossed it out of the roadway. Feeling proud of my self-sufficiency, I got back into the car, ready to resume my journey.

With the key in the ignition, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator pedal and felt . . . nothing. It was flat on the floorboard. Not knowing the first thing about the mechanism, I began to get a little worried.

Out of the vehicle and face down on the ground once more, I peered under the car. What I saw made little sense to me at first. All I knew was that the metal rod now hanging down from the undercarriage, one end of which was touching the ground, had something to do with the function of the gas pedal.

I lay there for some time wondering

1995

what to do, while another part of my mind kept track of the passing minutes. It wouldn't do to be out here in the middle of nowhere in the dark.

Eventually I reached beneath the frame as far as I could stretch, grabbed the rod, and looked to see where it wanted to go. Sure enough, there was a round hole in a lever right where the rod ended. Problem was, the rod was about one-quarter inch thick while the hole in the lever was about an inch wide. For the life of me I couldn't see any way to secure the rod in the hole, so I just stuck it in and hoped it would stay put.

I got back into the car, started the engine, and was almost turned around when the rod came loose again. It was definitely going to be a long slow ride home if I had to stop and reset that rod every few feet. I should have been happy the situation hadn't gotten worse than it was. But then it did just that.

Out of the car once more, I lay down in the dirt and grabbed the rod. Only this time the entire gizmo came loose and dropped into my hand! Now I was getting scared. My stomach turned over a few times, and I felt my skin start to tingle. I had to get hold of myself. Finally, after a few well-phrased cuss words, I did.

When I stretched my arm under the car this time, I was able to stick my fingers in the hole the rod had fallen out of. I felt all around inside, but I couldn't detect anything to hook the rod to. Still pretty much at a loss as to what to do next, I just stuck the rod into the hole again and moved it around in every conceivable position: up, down, around, and back and forth. Nothing worked. Finally I just quit.

Sitting with my back against the old car, and keeping track of the descending sun, I talked to myself like the proverbial Dutch uncle. "I'm not going to let this thing beat me, by God!" I screamed. The only way to get me out of this fix now was to figure some way to rig something that would let me control the gas feed. "But could I?" I wondered.

Getting up and dusting myself off, I opened the trunk to see if there was anything in there that could help me.

Nothing.

Then I checked the backseat and the floor. Also nothing.

"Was I missing something somewhere?"

I mused, looking out across the desert. Was there something out there I could use?

I knew the Indians and pioneers had used certain plants to make twine. But I wasn't up to experimenting with yucca fibers. Not now! That's when I noticed a gourdlike plant with long runners. They were delicate looking and fragile, but I thought I could braid the runners together.

It took a while, and the end result looked pretty weak, but it was worth a try.

Down on the ground again, I stuck one end of my homemade rope through the hole in the lever where the rod had first fallen out, tied a knot, and strung it out as far toward the driver's side door as it would reach. Then I clambered back into the driver's seat, leaving the door open, took a deep breath, and once more started the engine. At the same time, I grabbed my rope and gave it a little tug.

It worked!

The car was actually moving, and, even though I couldn't see the road because I was leaning over so far to hold onto my rope, I was able to get turned around at last and headed in the right direction. Then my rope fell apart.

But no matter, having discovered the secret to making the car go, I looked at all the stuff in the car through new eyes.

About the only other thing I thought had potential was a plastic grocery bag. Filled with excitement, I took the bag and pushed the bottom of it through the hole in the lever. Then I made a tear at a right angle across the bottom, forming a pocket out of the lower corner. Into the pocket, I stuck a rock small enough to fit easily but too large to pull through the hole in the lever. Satisfied with this arrangement, I grabbed the handles of the bag and pulled it until the rock was tight against the lever. Now I needed a handle of sorts, so I hooked the teeth of the rake into the han-dles of the bag, ran the rake handle underneath the car, and angled it toward the driver's side door. It was plenty long. But I was barely able to see over the dashboard because of having to lean down so far to hold the rake handle. Had anyone been coming the other way, it would have looked as though the car were driving itself. There were a few other problems with operating the rig this way: my knuckles were scraping the ground, and the rake was banging on rocks, trying to jerk out of my hand. Of course I also ran over the rake once or twice, and the tool fell out of the plastic bag, too. But that problem was easily fixed. I just turned the rake over so the tines were pointing down. This kept the rake from falling out of the handles of the bag. It was a slow and tedious operation. But I was moving. Which meant I hoped that I wouldn't be spending a long night out here with the coyotes. When I got to a place where the road angled slightly downward, I disconnected the rake, put the car in gear, and just let it chug along. There were a few small knobs where the car almost came to a halt. But I discovered that by grabbing the steering wheel and pushing my body forward at the crucial moment, I could thrust the car over the top with sheer willpower. Light began to fade into one of those incredible Arizona sunsets as I chugged along at a snail's pace. This left me with plenty of time to think of ways of improving my invention. It came to me then that my purse strap would probably make a better "rod" than my rake handle.

Just as I reached the top of another hill, I stopped the car, cut the strap off my purse with the pruning shears, and tied it to the plastic handles on the grocery bag. This last feat of ingenuity worked perfectly. I was on my way once more, not only at some speed, but now I could also see where I was going.

I made the last few miles in good time and reached home safely just as the sun sank into blood-red clouds at the edge of the horizon. I couldn't wait to tell someone about my desert adventure. But who would believe me?

Arizona native Elizabeth Zerkle was born in Douglas in 1941. She married Jack Zerkle in 1958, and they had 14 children.

Tucson-based Joe Ferrara likes to go four-wheeling in the desert, and, fortunately, he's never gotten stuck there.