Have Camera, Must Travel

By Donald Hunter

Based on a true story and set in the 1970’s a promising young cameraman lands a dream job leading to travel and adventure. Entering this seemingly perfect world he is faced with some realities. The struggle between living the dream and dealing with what is actually real continue to haunt Jason Cooper throughout. Relationships, lovers, and adventure swirl through Jason’s life until he finds the answer... or does he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532081224

Donald Hunter

As a newspaper photographer turned cinematographer Don spent more than 40 years filming hundreds of documentaries across Canada and around the world including Sesame Street, Children of the World and The Nature of Things. Then turning to dramatic productions he filmed dozens of TV series including The Beachcombers, 21 Jump Street, and MacGyver.

Book preview

HAVE

CAMERA,

MUST

TRAVEL

DONALD HUNTER

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HAVE CAMERA, MUST TRAVEL

Copyright © 2016 Donald Hunter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8123-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8121-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8122-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913039

iUniverse rev. date:  06/02/2022

CONTENTS

Prologue: Hockey Night

Part One

Chapter One   The Last Straw

Chapter Two   Media Man

Chapter Three   War Games

Chapter Four   Jet Set

Chapter Five   My Gosh, Oshkosh

Chapter Six   On A Mission

Chapter Seven   On The Road Again

Chapter Eight   Northern Power

Part Two

Chapter Nine   My Friends and I

Chapter Ten   In My Blood

Chapter Eleven   Shooting Stars

Chapter Twelve   Forgiven

Chapter Thirteen   On Top of the World

Chapter Fourteen   The Sands of Time

Chapter Fifteen   Asian Affairs

Chapter Sixteen   When the Phone Rings

For my wife

Laurie Giles

who encouraged me to

write this book.

Dedicated to my brother

the late

Robert (Bob) Hunter

Edited by

Louise Dupuis-Dubois

PROLOGUE

HOCKEY NIGHT

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A ssigned to film highlights of a World Hockey League game for the Public Broadcasting Network’s television station in Winnipeg, I arrived earlier than usual, so decided to take a seat in the aging rink’s Jet Lounge.

Badly executed and larger than life images of local hockey heroes were painted directly over otherwise yellow concrete walls. Plastic plates loaded with cheese and crackers were served with the first drink order. A cellophane wrapper covered the cheese plate. It was hard to imagine the food under the wrap was edible. For reasons perhaps only understood by politicians and lawyers, 1960’s Manitoba laws only allowed beer parlors to serve drinks without food. Somehow the Jet Lounge did not qualify as a beer parlour.

By game time I was more than slightly intoxicated. Arriving at the Jet Lounge two hours before the puck dropped instead of going for a meal had not been the best plan. I needed a secluded place where I wouldn’t have to speak to anyone while shooting footage for the late night sportscast.

PBN’s Prime Time Hockey only broadcast National Hockey League games. While I could only imagine it was some kind of contract issue, the result was it left the upstart World Hockey League and its fans in Winnipeg, Quebec City, Edmonton, even the likes of Houston, Texas out in the cold with little network hockey coverage. Other than a few select games the PBN Sports Department with their highlight package was the only way the Winnipeg Jets of the WHL could be seen on TV.

This was a crucial game with playoff positions on the line. Former Detroit Red Wings superstar Gordie Howe now played for the visiting WHL Houston Texans. Bobby Hull, also a superstar formerly with the Chicago Black Hawks now played for the Winnipeg Jets. The two were household names from years in the NHL and both were near the end of their careers. It was interesting that both had jumped ship to the upstart league. I couldn’t imagine either needed the money, thinking it more likely both wanted the spotlight one last time. I was doing my part to give it to them.

While my season pass was good for ice level positions and the higher up press box it also included reserved parking right beside the building. This last perk was not only prestigious but even more coveted as the temperature outside the rink was often a windy thirty below zero during the hockey season.

The rink side camera positions were swarming with newspaper photographers including one sent all the way from Texas. To avoid these guys I headed upstairs to the press box where the broadcasters were positioned. It was too crowded to set up my tripod and camera. As I stood at the top of the stairs looking around the fifteen thousand seat arena I noticed the rafters. Previously I had never had a reason to venture up there. Walkways hung high above everyone and everything allowing service crews access to the massive game clock and sound system. I was pretty sure my media pass would allow me access. I rode an unattended freight elevator to the next level. Ahead of me was a metal ladder with a sign hanging on it that read No Entry. No one was around... not even security.

Now in the rafters of the not so grand old building with fans and players far below I looked down at a giant portrait of Queen Elizabeth, a hockey fan to be sure. The climb had somewhat sobered me. I settled the tripod on the narrow metal catwalk suspended from the arena roof before reaching down for the camera and only then realizing the catwalk was mesh, a see-through metal mesh that exposed the rink far below. Suddenly I felt dizzy. Knowing I still had to connect the power cable to the camera, normally a tricky piece of business that took concentration, I had to overcome the dizziness. The sooner I got the job done the sooner I could get off the catwalk. I decided to film only the first few minutes of the game from this position and then get back to where I belonged and be ready for the second period. As I hoisted the camera up onto the tripod I heard a great roar from the crowd, Bobby Hull had come on the ice against Gordie Howe. I tilted the lens downward. Finding number nine, I zoomed in on Bobby Hull. The zoom kept going as the heavy metal camera left the tripod’s panning head and tumbled out into space straight towards Hull. Hockey players move fast, but there was a face-off taking place and therefore the players weren’t moving at all. The camera was targeted on world famous and loved by all, Bobby Hull. The power cord reached its five foot limit and the camera bounced back at least a foot before settling into a spin high above the ice. No one seemed to notice, but then why would anyone be looking up when Bobby Hull and Gordie Howe were on the ice?

I had reacted too fast to the golden moment and had not set the lock that held the camera to the tripod. Gingerly, inch by inch, using the power cord, I pulled the heavy metal 16mm Arriflex back to the safety of the catwalk. How the connection to the power cord had managed to hold the seven pound camera was beyond physics and my imagination. I didn’t care; all I knew was the Arri was now back in my hands.

Shocked and shaken I inched my way back to one of the usual press and TV positions at ice level. I was beyond sober. I filmed without saying a word to anyone. The games’ most memorable moment and what could have become tragically historic had been witnessed by no one other than myself.

PART

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ONE

CHAPTER ONE

THE LAST STRAW

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T he throaty muffler of my ‘65 MGB was the only sound that could be heard in the early morning hours as I turned off Pembina Highway into the heavily treed upper middle class neighbourhood of Wildwood Park. I had made this approach many times before, often just before dawn. I gave the speedy British roadster one last rev and then slipped it out of gear before killing the engine. With the top down I could hear the sound of the tires flapping against the cracks in the pavement. The car glided the required two blocks before I swung left without touching the brake onto Manchester Boulevard. Not a house light was on; the neighbours were all blissfully sleeping. I made a final hard right turn into the front driveway and came to a sudden halt. Oops! Of course her car was in the driveway. I had given it a tap. I waited, no lights came on, I hoped she was still sound asleep.

Come morning I would go to work again with no intention of returning home until the middle of the night, knowing deep down it was only a matter of time before this silent approach would fail me.

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The bedside phone rang, I sat up startled! What time was it? What have I done now? I picked up the phone, it was Sheila... she was at her mother’s. It was already eleven in the morning.

Look out the window why don’t you? She said in an icy tone.

Oh God! What’s up? I replied not sure I remembered exactly everything about arriving home.

Reluctantly I went over to the window of our second floor bedroom that overlooked the front drive. There sat my beloved MGB, top down, driver’s door open and bumpers locked with Sheila’s ‘62 Karman Ghia. Not a pretty picture. The MG had hit the Ghia just hard enough to lift its rear bumper and slide under hooking the two cars together.

I had managed to come upstairs and crawl into bed before passing out. In the morning there was no waking me. Sheila had enough of me and my late night exploits. She packed up our baby, called a cab and went to her mother’s house.

The neighbours watched from the safety of their living room windows as a frustrated and angry six-foot two, one hundred and eighty pound individual jumped up and down on the bumpers trying to unlock his cars.

I showed up for work a half day late. There, they were more understanding. The News Room guys knew all about yesterday’s shuffleboard tournament and had not planned to call on me to film anything.

The News had become Manitoba Today; a program that had circumnavigated the traditional News format that PBN had lived with since it went on the air in the fifties. The new way of doing things brought in contract news readers who were not members of the News Guild. There was little the Guild could do, the times were changing and the PBN was in a fight with the unions.

Many of the newsroom’s Guild members had witnessed the tournament. Oliver Hansler and Craig Hall, both non-union contract news readers, had come to the Union Centre, a popular PBN hang-out, not only to challenge at the extremely popular bar-room game of shuffleboard but more likely to stroke their noticeably immense egos.

I had just dispatched an upstart young camera assistant who felt he could play any game. It was so one sided it drew attention. The strapping young man had just started at the PBN in Film Production and being good at sports decided he would take a shot at winning this strictly for fun although prestigious tournament. In the singles game where I was matched against him I had such a lead I decided to be the funny guy and threw my last couple of shots with my nose pushed against the rocks. His back was up. The usual crowd knew I had spent many nights in small town pubs around rural Manitoba and had mastered this game. Joey Demko was young enough and cocky enough to think he could beat anyone. He played hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer. He was a jock. There were no other jocks present. In the crowd of writers, beer guts, old men and the likes of me, I was his target.

Demko didn’t quit, he was working his way back through the challenge board system. Endless pints of beer and hours later Joey was back to the shuffleboard table where I was still holding court.

Someone in the crowd yelled out from the back of the room, I’ll put twenty bucks on Cooper.

This quieted the place a bit because no one had been gambling on the games until now. I said to all present that I didn’t like the games turning into a gambling situation other than the traditional price of lighting the electronic scoreboard with twenty five cent coins and buying the winner the beer special of the day. For the fun of it, I agreed to play if I could spot young Joey twenty points in the twenty-one point game.

Everyone laughed! A few friendly wagers, mostly beers, were made and the game began. Joey was nervous and dropped four points on the first end. He panicked early playing under the quickly pressurized circumstance and dropped another six points in the second end. The scoreboard suddenly read twenty to ten.

Now the gathering got into it. The twenty point spot wasn’t impossible anymore. A rattled Demko threw all his rocks off the end of the board as I picked up another four. The electronic scoreboard was now reading twenty to fourteen. The place got very loud, they were betting beers on every end now. Despite all the fun and laughter two people, Hansler and Hall, were taking the game more seriously.

With only seven points between me and victory Joey was coming apart, he had no confidence left as he pulled up short of the hog line with his next three rocks. Meanwhile I drew for another four points. Because I had scored in every end the rules required that I continue to shoot first while giving Joey the hammer. I threw my last rock into the three zone for the potential of seven points.

The seemingly impossible twenty-one points in a row sat there but didn’t count quite yet. Joey had last rock. If he outdrew me and scored, he’d win. If he managed to knock either of mine off the board I’d still be short of the big win, at least for another end. If he missed entirely I would not only win the game but also have overcome the seemingly impossible twenty point spot.

The crowd was on their feet. An intensely serious Craig Hall stood up and asked for quiet. The suddenly quiet room probably didn’t help Demko’s cause. He threw his last rock hard sailing it toward my furthest rock sitting open and hanging slightly off the end of the board. The missile missed its mark and fell with at thud into the gutter at the end of the long table. I pressed the buttons and watched twenty-one light up above the board.

While the bets for beers were being settled I went over and put my arm over the big guy’s shoulder and bought him a beer while telling people what a good sport he was.

It was then that Hansler and Hall made their move. In the room packed with News Guild members, the less than loved pair asked if we could switch to a doubles game and offered to be the first to challenge.

Hall stepped up to me. That was very impressive; however we would like to give you some real competition while playing doubles.

Oliver was rolling up his sleeves. I’ll play against you Jason while Craig takes on your partner, whoever he is?

I accepted the challenge and called for young Demko to be my partner. The place broke up. Oliver and Craig had everyone’s attention now. They were in the spotlight, just where they wanted to be.

I pulled Demko aside and quietly told him to never try to score. Don’t leave him much; just keep it as clean as you can. One or two is okay, they score a little and they lose the hammer giving me last rock against Oliver every time. I’ll score two or three each end and we win easy.

Joey agreed to the game plan. Now more confident he settled in, never scored and only once gave up more than two points. I scored a series of threes and fours only once managing just two. We embarrassed them twenty-one to twelve to the delight of the biased crowd.

I hadn’t lost a shuffleboard game that I had wanted to win for more than a year now. I was a master of the popular beer hall game. Unfortunately that seemed to be all that I had mastered. The most important things in life were going south. Our marriage situation was critical now. My wife and baby were living with my mother-in-law.

I had drawn an out-of-town assignment for the next few days, so I decided to call Sheila. We agreed that when I got back we would go to a marriage counsellor. Things had to be worked out, but I was relieved to be getting away for a spell. This assignment had come at just the right time.

Fred Collins and I pulled into Kenora about five in the afternoon in my shiny new Chevy News Cruiser. To me Collins was an old pro! He had been a newspaper reporter before making the leap to television as many, including myself, had done. However his years and experience outweighed me by decades.

It was good PR to send the flashy rolling billboard News Cruiser around to the towns throughout our broadcast area. As we travelled here and there I was introduced one by one to Fred’s connections. At the end of the day, and no less than five towns later, we sat in the hotel bar enjoying drinks on the house thanks to Barry, Fred’s contact in Kenora. He was also the owner of the Lakeside Hotel.

That evening we were covering a Chamber of Commerce dinner with just enough local news value that an old pro like Fred could squeeze a forty five second story out of it. We had plans of doing five or six such stories over the next few days. With little real news to report the trip was more a case of showing the flag in our Northern Ontario broadcast region.

Queen’s Park in far off Toronto was where their MLA sat, but the PBN showed them news out of nearby Winnipeg. Kenora, Fort Frances and the other most western Ontario communities had to watch the Manitoba Legislature at work. PBN’s idea of National Broadcasting was a hard sell here even if we were the only TV signal that could be received.

The dinner was okay but the speakers were boring. Fred asked me to shoot the traditional cover footage while he wrote a voice over. He didn’t feel any need to be seen on the air reporting on this lame duck.

At long last the event was mercifully over. I had to wait around in order to remove my taped down lighting cables. It wasn’t professional to have people tripping over the cables so I always spent a lot of time and energy making sure every inch of the extension cords were taped solidly to the floor wherever we went. The hotel was now preparing the conference room for a Lions Club breakfast first thing in the morning and I was asked to wait out in the hall while a game plan was discussed. I couldn’t imagine what could be so closed door about rearranging tables but it didn’t really matter what I thought, I was going to wait along with a number of the hotel staff. Bored, I leaned against the wall near the closed double doors along with the others. Across the hallway from me only a few feet away, leaning against the other wall was a pretty waitress with long straight black hair wearing a blue uniform. The short skirted uniform didn’t suit all the staff, but it suited her. I couldn’t help but notice and she couldn’t help but notice that I noticed.

She wasn’t shy; she looked right at me and asked, So why are you here?

Just covered the Chamber of Commerce meeting for PBN-TV. I need to get back in to pack up my lighting cables and then I’m going for a beer. Why don’t you join me?

I won’t be off work for another hour after we get in there. Where you going? I could join you later? And so it went.

Past midnight the band belted out its last tune and the traditional flashing of the bright house lights announced last call as my new friend and I left the pub with arms wrapped around each other laughing and giggling about everything and anything. Two individuals who hadn’t enjoyed anyone’s companionship as much in a long time had just had a blast bouncing around to Rollin’ on the River and other great tunes of the times.

We snuggled into the driver’s side corner of the News Cruiser and drove slowly back to her apartment in old central Kenora. Penny was a struggling single mom sharing the flat with another woman. The three of them managed together in a one bedroom second floor apartment. Penny’s roommate and her boyfriend were on the living room floor, in the dark, having sex when we arrived. They stayed under a sheet but didn’t really stop what they were doing as I was escorted past the tangle of sheets and legs into the bedroom where the baby lay sleeping. Penny quickly showed off her little girl and then without hesitation dropped the short blue one piece hotel uniform to the floor. I rid myself of my shirt and jeans and joined her on the bed.

It was bound to happen, my guilt ridden thoughts threatened to ruin the moment but I decided I was going to end my monogamous life right now. I fumbled for the bra strap. I really needed this wanting woman. She was so passionate I had forgotten what it was like to have sex with foreplay, desire and the feeling of her needing me as much as I needed her.

Realizing that I was never going to figure out the clasp on the bra strap Penny sat up and removed it herself. The baby wasn’t very old and the full breasts still showed signs of mothering. Now beyond foreplay, I gently started to pull down on her panties when Penny pushed my hand away.

Not without a condom.

I don’t have any, I gasped. I’m married, I haven’t been screwing around, this is a first, believe me.

It’s too risky, I don’t need another baby, she whispered putting her finger over my lips.

Right you are, there are condoms at my hotel in the washroom. I’ll go. I won’t be long. Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone.

Penny rolled over on the bed with her panties half way up her firm round cheeks and pleaded, please come back!

There was no chance on earth I’d not be back. I needed her so badly it was killing me. I quietly made my way out past the now still couple on the floor and down the creaky old stairs before scampering to my News Cruiser. It was now past one in the morning as I drove carefully through the quiet streets of Kenora. A Police Cruiser going the other way passed by me. His brake lights went on briefly, but he carried on. I didn’t want any delays, I continued with reasonable caution. Nothing would stop me from having my way with that woman tonight.

Arriving at the hotel I used my pass key to enter the locked up old two-story building. It contained maybe thirty rooms plus the bar, a dining room and an apartment where owner-operator Barry lived with his wife and teenage son. The men’s room was in the bar. The bar was also locked. I had to get in there. Earlier in the day Barry had said to me, If there is anything I can do for you?

I knocked firmly on his apartment door. Barry opened it within a minute. He had probably heard me unlocking his hotel.

Wrapped in a well worn housecoat Barry greeted me with nothing more than, What?

I need to get into the washroom.

You have a can in your room.

I need to get to the condom machine.

Christ sake, you woke me for this?

Hey, what should I do? You said earlier today, if I needed anything. Well, I do... I need a condom.

Okay, Okay, wait here for me. Barry came back with a large ring of keys. Looking more like a jailer than an inn-keeper he marched us to the bar. He turned on a single light allowing me to find my way.

As I put my coins in the machine he stood in the doorway giving advice. Good thing you’re being careful, there’s a lot of sexually transmitted crap around. But don’t forget she’s probably got a brother or cousin, maybe even a boyfriend. If they find out they’ll come looking for you. I don’t need any trouble, it’s bad for business.

I apologized for waking him and left quickly not wanting to hear anything more.

Penny was awake. She had watched my News Cruiser pull up in front of the house. Now she lay naked on the bed. Moonlight and a cool breeze came through the open window. There was no hesitation as Penny became only my second lover as I broke the traditional wedding vows I had made five years earlier.

The baby cried at six in the morning. It was hard to say goodbye as I watched the still naked and shapely Penny bending over the crib while reaching for her infant daughter. Penny’s attention was now on the baby while I had to start thinking about work. I kissed her gently and promised to call while jotting down her phone number. This may well have been the last straw; I had to wonder what use a marriage counsellor would be now.

CHAPTER TWO

MEDIA MAN

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O ne evening I was enjoying the company of the newsroom gang at the usual table in Harry’s Club Morocco when Eric Erickson unexpectedly showed up. Seldom seen around the newsroom, Eric was the cameraman who worked exclusively with the PBN’s Prairie Region reporter Jordan Holmes. The two came and went as assigned by the network’s office in Toronto, although Eric and I enjoyed chatting on the rare occasion that he came to the newsroom. This evening a bearded and somewhat overweight Eric ordered a double rum and coke as he sat down next to me... his cameraman comrade. Before we knew it the Evening News was long over and the usual gang had come and gone. Only Eric and I remained. We had been reminiscing about our high speed driving experiences, usually related with getting the film to the lab on time.

I told Eric of my Chevy News Cruiser run after filming the all too late recovery operation of a tragic drowning. An entire family of seven in Northern Ontario had died as the result of a houseboat flipping over in a sudden gale. When I had finished filming and was ready to drive back to Winnipeg I realized I had only three hours before the deadline to make the Evening News. I was about two hundred and fifty miles away; I had to average eighty three miles per hour.

Eric told me about the Shell 4000 Rally he had driven in. I was all ears. I loved rallies; I had driven my MGB in a Winnipeg Sports Car Club rally that involved other clubs across the west and as far away as Edmonton. With my navigator Billy, an engineering student and good old buddy from high school, we managed an incredible fourth place finish. When the rally was over the MG was pretty banged up, but it was worth it. To hear of Eric’s Shell 4000 experience was really something. I suggested we should enter a rally together. We could use my MGB, but I wouldn’t let anyone else drive my baby, especially in what amounted to a race. The real question was who would navigate? We were both drivers in our previous experiences. Navigating was another story and really what rallies were all about! The navigator not only had to know his math, but also how to use the specially designed instruments that could be installed in cars or in our case at least be able to work a slide rule. Neither Eric or I were likely candidates for the task.

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There were nearly fifty cars lined up to head out onto the back-roads of Manitoba for the all-night high speed drive. The rally would start at exactly eight when the sun was low in the western sky, shining right into our windshield. The event would wind up with a big outdoor breakfast at a shopping mall parking lot twelve hours later at eight in the morning. Pictures of the smiling winners holding up their trophies would be in the newspapers. We’d be instant heroes at the office seen standing beside our mud covered cruiser. I had managed to talk the PBN into letting us drive the blue and white Chevy News Cruiser in the rally, somehow having convinced the Sports Department that this would be great publicity for PBN in the Prairie Region. With our combined experience we were sure to finish in the money. We could not fail. Eric was going to drive. This was a V8 and in my previous rallies, but for one, I had driven an MGB or a Volkswagen Bug, both four cylinder cars. Eric had driven a Dodge Challenger with a 440 cubic inch V8 at great speed through deserts and mountains in the United States. My God, I was so impressed.

Our turn at the starting line was only a few cars away. I could see spectators were paying notice to us because our car stood out as an oddity in the line. While there were automotive product placement decals on most cars, ours was none other than a big rolling billboard for PBN and its Winnipeg TV News show. If only the removal of the hub caps, checking of the tire pressure, securing a fire extinguisher and applying big round black on white number 23 decals on the sedan’s front doors had transformed the News Cruiser into a rally machine, that was okay by us!

I had called Billy. His advice was simple. Piece of cake, just need a slide rule, a stop watch, clipboard, and remember to reset the trip odometer before each leg.

Then he laughed. You’re going in a big American sedan again? Remember my ‘56 Plymouth?

The tires had ripped off one at a time. We had been ready with two spares on rims. Not enough! Our wives had to drive out and rescue us.

The rules of the rally I understood. The slide rule I didn’t, but I was sure that if we just went like hell and made all the right turns we’d be okay. In every rally I’d driven we were always trying to make up time. So the plan would be simple... pedal to the metal and hope to come close to the posted times.

With the odometer zeroed our turn at the start position arrived. The flag dropped, I clicked the stop watch and Eric hit the gas pedal. A rear drive wheel spun making a loud squeal while leaving behind a smelly and embarrassing long black skid mark. This wasn’t a drag race so I feared right then and there, just maybe, Eric didn’t have a clue about rally driving.

We were heading west into the setting sun on the perimeter highway around Winnipeg within a few minutes. It was a four lane divided highway and easy sailing. We were just following the contestants that had started ahead of us. I was beginning to relax again.

Rallies are divided into legs; each offering a new beginning, a new competition. It was going to be a long and eventful night. I thought it best to forget the less than professional start, just enjoy the experience and not get overly competitive. I knew deep down we were here for the fun and the publicity, anything more was dreaming.

Despite my earlier concerns I noticed Eric seemed attentive to his driving and was definitely taking the experience seriously. He wore a ball cap, leather driving gloves and sporty dark glasses filtering the setting sun from his eyes. He also wore a great looking souvenir jacket from the Shell Rally. Of course he was for real, what was I thinking? Maybe he just wasn’t used to the Chevy’s pathetic two speed automatic transmission, after all what rally car would be equipped like that? It should have had at least a four speed stick shift!

As the sun set the rally cars ahead of us were leaving the highway for a dirt road setting off a trail of golden dust behind them. The sight of it was both beautiful and exciting, like a scene from an African safari film. They all headed down the same road but my calculations indicated we should turn earlier.

There was a dirt cross road coming up fast... Hard left here Eric, I yelled.

He turned. The big car leaned and the tires squealed as we began to spin out. But no, Eric braked hard while steering into the spin and hit the gas at just right time. We were thundering down the country road of my choice in a cloud of dust. Hey, he could drive and maybe I could navigate too! Now this was exciting... we were really into it!

What’s’ up... why are they all over there? Eric yelled over the racket as we bounced along the dirt road with stones flying up into our wheel wells.

They’re idiots, they’re only following the car in front of them, I yelled back as the clumsy sedan charged forward off pavement and out of its realm.

I began to question our decision. Oops, my decision! Who was wrong, all of them or only me? Oddly the other rally cars seemed to be no more than a city block away. I began to think maybe we should just keep parallel with them until we hit the next crossroad and then head over and rejoin the line... hopefully unnoticed.

As it got darker, the dirt road was becoming increasingly harder to navigate without the usual solid painted edges. We were also outrunning our headlights. My MGB had after-market lamps for high speed but the Chevy had only the standard hi-beams like every other car on the road. Suddenly the brakes went on hard! Eric saw it only a second before I did, a dark black line cutting across our path. It was a ditch! The big Chevy sedan skid straight forward for only a few seconds before it plummeted into the trench. A farmer had cut a drainage trench across his private and otherwise abandoned road. Seat belts probably prevented us from being thrown through the windshield. The Rally Gods spared us from serious injury, maybe deciding we were too pathetic to mangle, but they didn’t spare the blue and white News Cruiser.

For a few moments we sat deadly still, hanging forward against our seat belts. Then we saw the steam pouring out from under the hood. We quickly released the buckles, flung open the doors and scrambled up out of the ditch. We had to get away from the car. It had that she’s going to blow look. After a few moments in the fresh air the shock began to wear off. The car was four feet nose down in a ten foot wide ditch. The radiator had burst and steam was rising dramatically in the fading light. The front of the car including the headlights was smashed and covered in mud.

We didn’t say much to each other except the traditional words that follow a screw up. You okay?

Yeah I’m okay, how about you, you okay?

Yeah, I’m okay too!

We could no longer see the golden dust cloud made by the other cars. They had virtually disappeared into the sunset. The only lights we could see were coming from a distant farm house, maybe a mile away. We had no choice but to hike towards it down the increasingly dark dirt road. We climbed back into the ditch and retrieved the mandatory flashlight and flare kit from the car. Eric ceremoniously stuck a flare in the mud behind the car and pulled the tab. Our world turned red and the land around us disappeared into total darkness.

With the blue and white PBN News Cruiser’s trunk sticking up from a hole in the ground I suddenly felt very stupid. I hadn’t handled this whole thing very well. We should have followed the other cars for the fun of it, being satisfied with the publicity and remembered as good sports. Trying to win or even place in that car was really just plain disrespectful to the other competitors.

I was consumed by my negative thoughts as I began to lead the way down the dirt road away from the car and towards the distant house. Both of us were rather sedate now. I was thankful Eric had not said a word about my mistake; it was clearly the navigator’s error that sent us down the wrong road.

Suddenly we could see the lights of a vehicle moving towards us from the direction of the farmhouse. It seemed the flare had caught the attention of the property owner. A pick-up truck came to a halt just yards in front of us before momentarily disappearing into an eerie cloud of dust that caught up with the truck. As the light evening breeze cleared the air a tall lanky fellow about my age stood before us.

You boys okay?

I replied, We’re good thanks, however our car is banged up in a ditch back there.

We’d better take a look. he said while gesturing towards his truck.

Zack introduced himself as he drove slowly towards the flare. After a brief look at the situation he said, We’ll have to wait ‘til morning to deal with this.

Minutes later we were in his truck again as he threw it in reverse and drove effortlessly backwards along the two rut road all the way to the farmhouse. Maybe that’s just what farmers do, or perhaps he was making a statement about driving skills.

We were offered a seat at Zack’s large kitchen table in the grand old farm house that easily could have been home to a family of ten. Our host was pure farmer on first impressions. He wore denim jeans, a somewhat stained but mostly white T-shirt, a John Deer