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About ten days ago (?) we had a little snow. Just a few inches, and it was quickly gone. The drought-parched soil soaked up the melt water so fast, it was like the slush was only visiting. While it was here, though, the Dakota got “stuck” backing up the hill. The rear tires simply couldn’t get enough traction, and look at them! Undeterred, I turned the tiny dashboard switch from “2WD” to “4HI” (4WD, high range), teased the gas a little, and damn if it didn’t climb right out of there. That 100 foot stretch was the total extent of all the four-wheel-drive driving I have ever done and I am sold.

This is no ordinary 17-year-old compact truck. Purchased originally via special order, it came from the factory without any extra chrome or decals. (I didn’t know one could do that.) Nothing external screams “4X4!” or fanboy slogans, yet it’s actually a Sport Plus optioned to the gills. It has the 16-inch alloy wheels, for example. When I peered underneath to check the spare, I was astonished to see the fifth wheel was a pristine alloy one as well and sported a brand new, unused tire of the same make and vintage as the others. I’ve never in my life bought five new tires, but the last owner did. Usually the spare on a used truck is a bald piece of crap mounted on a rusty old steel wheel that never matches anything.

Speaking of rust, I’ve found some more. For a truck that lived in northern Illinois, you’d surely think so. The chrome plating on the tailpipes has a few brown spots, for example, but nothing I can’t live with. So the adventure is going rather well. Now I have the means to haul stuff from the moldering ruin in the background. This potential is going to shift some factors in our favor. Even if I’m wrong, it still sounds wonderful and I don’t care.

Not really a stampede, but they were a-hustling. We came across a large herd, I’d say thirty or more, attempting to cross U.S. 285 just south of San Antonio Mountain in northern Taos County near the Colorado line. Fortunately we and a single pickup coming the other way—he stopped—were the only traffic at the time. A few of them made it to the other shoulder, but as I pulled the truck a little closer, they got spooked and turned around. The main herd had already reversed direction like the ones above. A good thing, too. I’d probably never seen this many, certainly not walking in a line, and a lot of them looked young to me. Now I’m opining on the ages of the goddamn antelope. Anyway, it was a magnificent show.

Ssomething made me want to head up north, so of course I had to take the Dodge. The high desert primeval. The landscape is so brutal there this time of year. Mountain ranges on every horizon, jagged peaks like bright white teeth. The Dakota’s 4.7L V-8 singing through the dual exhausts is comforting at speed in these environs. The automatic downshifts on the hills in cruise control to maintain speed and holds it well. Nice to have the power! Humming along in cruise control at 65 to 70, the 17-year-old Dakota feels tight and strong.

We had lunch inside the truck after taking a public access road [not the one above] some distance into the boonies. We’d stopped there before but hadn’t gone nearly so far. I’ve always wanted to see what was over a certain ridge, you see, and now I could. For the record, the east side of the ridge is the same as the west side of the ridge, but now I know and I am better for it.

On the way back we came across a herd of antelope. There had to be at least thirty of them in a long line, moving toward the highway. About a dozen made it onto the road, but by then our presence on the shoulder spooked the others. The ones in the road high-tailed it back the way they’d come to join them. We sat and watched them for a long, long time.

[See the next post for a photo.]

Charles Savage drove a mean ’58 Dodge convertible back in Abilene. Dark metallic blue it was, and had three carburetors. The honking big V-8 and dual glass-packs made a thick, explosive rumble like a pack of Harleys in a barn. His father owned a dealership, of course. About this same time, I used to ride a red Cushman scooter to school. Briggs & Stratton lawn mower motor, centrifugal clutch, one brake at the rear. This being Texas, you could get a license to ride a “motorcycle” with no more than five horsepower at age 12. The Cushman, for example, or a moped. At 13 you could get a learner’s permit to drive a car if you had a licensed driver with you, which meant your 14-year-old buddy, maybe Charles in a pinch. He never offered to let me drive his Dodge, but we did go to gas stations with another idiot to ask the attendant for a dime’s worth of gas. Being in a loud convertible made this more hilarious, no doubt, though I tended to slouch down out of sight, and no damn body got shot like we do now that we’re all great again.

When I saw the 2001 Dodge Dakota 4×4 on the Santa Fe Craigslist, my eyes jumped right to “bulletproof 4.7 V-8” in the opening description. This was big because it told me I was dealing with a brilliant mind. The rest of the ad confirmed he was a car guy and he knew his punctuation. He’d also just moved down here from Chicago. The truck had been part of his family its entire life. It had every heavy-duty option in the book, even a transmission cooler. Everything replaceable had been replaced. Shocks and brakes and tie rod ends. New tires. There wasn’t a single dent. The original dealer sticker was in the ad! I texted the link to my brother. He messaged back, “Nice truck there, and you can tell the guy isn’t a savage.” No shit. And then, “You need a decent truck if you’re ever gonna move.” I hadn’t really thought I’d ever jump, but there it was, ka-boom.

We drove to Santa Fe to have a look. I had the asking price in cash. The seller turned out to be a baritone saxophonist house-sitting at a mansion on a hill. Not bad, I thought, and meant to ask him where he’d bought his shoes. When he told me his father owned a muscle car restoration garage back home, I knew the wizard energy was working. He started up the 4.7 and apologized: “Some people think it’s too loud…” It wasn’t.

My honey said, “Just do it,” and I did.

I drove it up from Santa Fe without a license plate and no insurance. The truck tracks like an arrow. It rumbles like the ghost of giant Harleys in the barn and I’m on high alert.