Scorched Summer: 8/6 Day in Ontario Part 1

I’ve really been dragging my feet in terms of putting this trip into words, because in some respect it felt like a momentous experience despite being compressed into a couple of short days, and making it happen was a culmination of a few goals I had been working toward for what seems like almost a decade. Up to this point, most drifting I had done in the past was fairly close to home, and I drove the car to and from the events, with tools and spares and whatever poor soul was willing to ride along with me all crammed into the RX-7. I’ve driven the 3 hours to and from Panthera several times, and though I’ve trailered the car to a couple events in Canada previously, it was always with a borrowed truck and a rented trailer.

Now, after 7 or 8 years of driving the car to the track and hoping it stays together well enough to get me home, I finally have my own trailer and tow vehicle. A big part of my love for drifting is the opportunity to drive at a variety of locations, and to meet a lot of great people from different communities along the way, and a reliable tow setup is a major leg up in that respect. Not only can you drive the track all day with no worries that a failed fuel pump or broken axle could leave you stranded 100s of miles from home, but your friends are exponentially more willing to come along on the trip if the vehicle they spend half a day riding in has some creature comforts; ie no ringing in your ears after an hour on the interstate, no melting the soles of your shoes because the floor has no insulation to shield from exhaust heat, no driving in the rain with the windows down because in your infinite wisdom you jettisoned the a/c system to save ~ 20 pounds that you can most definitely feel during acceleration.. priorities.

As is my nature regarding any large purchase, I had been feeling guilty about what I had spent on the trailer, and I wasn’t sure whether I’d get enough use out of it to justify the cost. In the spring, I used a fairly local event as a quick test run, and about 5 minutes into the drive home after the event, all that guilt basically fell away. I was able to drive the car hard all day and run the tires down to the cords without concern, I had more room for tools and spares, and at the end of the day, when it was 90 degrees in the sun and I was fully exhausted, I drove home with air conditioning and a stereo I could actually hear. With a successful short trip knocked out, I was keen to travel further and drive somewhere new.

A few years ago, my friend Guillaume from Quebec had encouraged me to come up to Toronto and drive with the guys from Drift Jam, at a kart track called Gamebridge north of the city. That event was a great experience; the track was tight and technical, the community was fun and welcoming (in my experiences driving in Canada this is always the case) and the event just had a joyful vibe, with music blasting in the pits and an announcer on the tower calling out drivers and cars to make it more fun for spectators. It really felt like someone scooped up a jumping house party and dropped it on a race track. Drift Jam had since expanded in terms of tracks available to them, and when I saw that they were doing events at Toronto Motorsports Park, which looked like a fast track with a lot of opportunities to work on exciting entries, I made plans to head for Ontario in August, for their 8/6 day event. Daxton, as ever my perennial wingman, agreed to come along, so the day before the event I ditched work at noon and headed north, where he fell in behind my trailer in his hybrid Lexus. (I still don’t know why he opted to drive separately, but I was glad for the company either way).

At about 300 miles, this would be the furthest trip I had done so far with my truck pulling the car, but once we were north of Pittsburgh the drive became mostly flat ground, and it was fairly easy going all the way to the border. On a whim, I had brought a pair of two-way radios to talk to Daxton during the drive, which would’ve been ideal when we crossed the border as my cell service was non-existent and I could no longer navigate. Unfortunately, I had inadvertently turned on some strobe light on my radio and killed the battery before we made the border. I had to let Daxton lead the way from there, and we communicated via flashing headlights and flailing of limbs.

We got to TMP by early evening, and though there was only one other drift car on site, the place was otherwise bustling with activity. An open lapping session was taking place on the road course, and at this point it became very obvious that Canada doesn’t share the same vigor for litigation that makes doing anything fun in the states such an ordeal. On track, a handful 90’s Civics and cheap track rats were sharing space with a new GT350 and a 911 GT3,(I think that’s what it was, but all the Porsche owners I’ve ever met were trying so desperately hard to purchase a personality that I never learned much about their cars.) and only about half the participants were wearing helmets, while most had friends riding shotgun.

The driver skill levels were as varied as the cars on track, and the difference in speed between the fastest and the slowest was stark, but the track staff seemed unconcerned and there were no major catastrophes, just a bunch of people thoroughly enjoying themselves. Meanwhile, on the drag strip I hadn’t even noticed when we pulled in, monster v8 cars were laying down 9 second passes, fast enough to justify the parachutes deployed after the finish line. Apparently this was just another Friday night in Cayuga.

After staking out a section of the pits where we would camp for the night, Daxton and I backtracked to nearby Dunville in his car to try and find dinner. Dunville was a pretty quiet town, and after striking out a couple times, I was beginning to lose hope that we’d find an open restaurant even though it was not yet 8 o clock. We found luck with a place on the river called Queens Merritt Room and grabbed seats at the bar near some locals. Before we had a chance to order a beer, a bat who had found its way in via holes in the brick walls cruised over our heads in a loop around the room. I thought this was pretty unusual, but the locals barely raised an eyebrow, and the bartender’s solution to our new guest was to just close the pocket doors halfway across the room so that he couldn’t bother the bar patrons. Canadian hospitality is a generosity extended to both man and beast.

For unknown reasons, Daxton has always had a knack for stumbling across interesting people in our travels, and this trip would be no exception. After asking our neighbor at the bar for a beer recommendation, he struck up a conversation, and when the stranger learned that we were American, we made fast friends. He was maybe mid-40s, but had spent his earlier years traveling American southwest. He made a living for several years riding broncos, and chasing rodeos from Texas to Arizona and up to Colorado, sleeping mostly in his truck or when it was too hot, underneath it - a real deal cowboy. We swapped stories of our own travels, and I definitely felt that we were kindred spirits at least in terms of the shared interest in finding out what’s around the next bend in the road. The feeling must have been mutual, because by the time he was finished buying us rounds of Rickard’s Red I was glad it would be Daxton who drove us back to the track.

Somewhere along the way, our new friend (I think his name was Brent but unfortunately between the Rickards and my dreadful aptitude for remembering names I can’t say for sure) left the rodeo circuit, and these days he was making a living cooking barbecue for weddings and special occasions, sometimes cooking for days or weeks ahead of time to serve 100s of people. It sounded like arduous but rewarding work, and up until recently was a joint venture with his wife, whom he had just lost to some illness. He said that lately in his mourning he had been realizing all the thousands of little things that she did every day that he had previously overlooked, and though the grief was written clearly on his face, he seemed also to be instilled with a new wisdom and appreciation that there are few things more valuable than a good woman willing to stand next to you and face the day.

Just as I was feeling a wave of empathy for what must be an insurmountable loss, he dropped a hopeful hint on our bartender about perhaps keeping him company for the evening, so maybe it’s true what they say about one door closing and another opening.. or at least maybe a big part of resilience is being able to look for those fleeting bright spots through the haze and the gloom, and to appreciate a break in the clouds, however brief it might be.

By now I was reluctant to leave, it was new territory to be sharing beers with a cowboy, and at this point some of the staff were really amused that we’d travel to another country and stop in their sleepy town just to drive on a racetrack they’d never bothered to visit. I think Brent (maybe) would’ve kept the drafts coming till the lights came on, but I was already at my limit if I was going to drive worth a damn the next day, so we shook hands and exchanged farewells before heading back to the track. By now, lots of other drivers had arrived and were setting up camp, and while Daxton sorted out his tent I walked around in the dark, checking out cars, talking to drivers and trying to figure out whether I recognized anyone from Gamebridge. I hadn’t brought a tent, and was planning to sleep across the back seat of the truck despite the seat being about a foot shorter than I am. Luckily, there was a nice constant breeze, and between the cool air and the draft beer in my blood stream, I passed out quickly, with a rolled up hoodie as a pillow and my ankles out the window like a hobo cartoon.

Spirit Machine

I’ve owned this car almost 16 years. I bought it the summer before my senior year of high school, a few hours after taking the ACT. It was my first car, and to buy it I spent nearly all the money I had been stashing away for 3 years from after-school and summer jobs. I had been looking at RX-7s since reading about the rotary when I was 14 or so, and having spent some time riding 2 stroke motocross bikes, the rotary seemed like a kindred spirit to those engines - it required lots of revs to make power, and it burned oil by design. On the dirt bikes, I enjoyed the challenge of really having to keep an engine singing to go fast, and I thought the rotary power in the RX-7 would be a similar experience. It was also simple and lightweight, which are two qualities I’ve always felt were crucial to making a car enjoyable to drive and own. At that time, the RX-7 really had its own mystique in my mind (honestly it still does), but even then I had no notion of where the car would take me, in both literal and figurative senses.

Photo Credit: Greg Vargo

For many years I simply drove the car on the street, but over time I began to see the car as not just an instrument to enjoy driving, but also as a blank canvas for expression, and since I never really got into drawing or painting, the RX-7 became my outlet. I kept lowering the car more and more(some would say beyond logic and reason), started building 14” wheels by the pair, had an artist friend custom paint my fixed bucket seat, and added various small details - all with the goal of sort of making the car a character or a personality in its own story, with lots of presence while rolling down the road. It has become this little lightweight street fighter, skating just above the road surface with raucous noise and fireballs from the exhaust. It’s definitely no longer a comfortable highway cruiser, but on the right road or track it always proves exciting to drive and feels quite a bit faster than the numbers (102 whp and 85 ft lbs) would lead anyone to believe. For about 9 years now I’ve also drifted the car, and the twitchy chassis and narrow powerband are challenging but rewarding in a way that never feels stale, so I’ve stuck with it long after many of my friends have moved on from the cars they originally built - to more capable or more powerful drift cars.

Photo Credit: Miranda Alley Photography

All those years ago I told myself I would sell the car if it ever lost the spirit that made it exciting to drive, but in its current iteration it feels most true to form and pure in purpose, even if a project car is never truly finished. Also, in some respect driving the car is like visiting an old friend, since it’s been in my life long before I had even met some of the people who are now closest to me. Partially because of this car, I’ve been introduced to people who have become my friends hopefully for life, some of which have traveled across national borders and hundreds of miles just to hang out for a long weekend. To some degree, driving the car is a bit like wearing your heart - or at least your interests on your sleeve, and the ones who get it tend to seek each other out. Even if the car doesn’t take on its own character, and in the end is just an assembled mass of steel and glass and the refinery processed remains of a triceratops, it has effectively brought people together who otherwise would remain strangers, and in doing so it proves greater than the sum of its carefully curated but possibly cross-threaded parts.

This year, I’d like to fix some little issues on the car: the ill-fitting front bumper, the beginnings of rust on the lower quarter panels or “pockets,” the crack midway down the exhaust system from the lack of ground clearance. Realistically though, I say I want to fix those things every year, and what really happens is that I just keep driving and enjoying the car, possibly going so far as to change the oil and bolt check the suspension. After 16 years I’m still keen for that first shakedown drive of spring, where to my delight and my neighbors’ dismay the little 12a under the hood announces that it’s still running strong, and another season of driving begins.

Not everyone understands my enthusiasm for this RX-7, and some of my friends even refuse to ride in it. But on those rare occasions when I pass a Rav4 on the highway, and see the little kid in the back seat with his face pressed against the glass, visibly thrilled to see this silver arrow flying low - I’m incited with a little hope that driveways in the future will continue to harbor old cars on jack stands, with owners who see not just a mode of transportation, but a creative entity with a life of its own. - DFA

Photo Credit: Daxton Scholl - Drift Pizza Media

Long Drive: Montana to West Virginia in a Forgotten Mitsubishi Part 3

Waking up in Murdo.

The following morning, we grabbed breakfast at a little diner across the street, then continued east on I-90, which would run us through the southern portion of Minnesota, then down into Madison, Wisconsin on our way to Chicago. This leg of the trip would be the first time I'd drive the Montero through a familiar region, as I had once taken the train through Montana, but on a much more northern route than that of our trip home.  This is also where I would allow Will to do a lot more of the driving, while I really took in the scenery, and dug into the features and characteristics of my new vehicle. Through the panoramic glass, Minnesota was a sea of grasslands, and since this was the first day of the trip with clear skies, the west seemed even more expansive. 

Open sky in Minnesota.

Somewhere in Minnesota, I lost hope of trying to nap in the back seat, and started leafing through documents in the glovebox to get some sense of the Montero's history. I found a few receipts showing that the engine had been replaced, and that it had spent some time in Southern California, but the real treasure tucked within the receipts was the original sales inspection sheet from when the truck was sold new at the dealer. The dealership was in Anchorage, Alaska, so the Montero had presumably been driven from Alaska down the pacific coast to California, then spent some time in Oregon and Montana before I bought it. At this point, I made a goal to drive it to the Atlantic coast, so that it would see two oceans under its own power. 

In La Crosse, Wisconsin, we crossed the Mississippi River, stopping briefly to see the river up close. During this stop, I peeled the church of Scientology badge off the rear door of the Montero; Cliff said this was a hanger-on from when his step-daughter owned the truck, and though I thought it was kind of amusing, I'm not much for stickers or decals. Plus, the last time I was in Wisconsin, my friends and I went drifting at a go kart track (affectionately known as the Rollercoaster of Love) that was originally funded by a religious cult. I didn’t want the badge to inspire some Sun Drop-binging, turbo-believer at the helm of a 6000 lb. Suburban to PIT maneuver the Montero into a ditch and send us to the upper room.

The Mighty Mississippi.

Shortly thereafter, we stopped in Madison for an early dinner, and listened intently while one of the bar patrons described the front yard ass kicking she recently unleashed on her boyfriend's ex, all whilst pregnant. Madison really has its own charm. Come for the deep-fried cheese curds, stay for the conversation.

A couple of hours later, we pulled up to the curb outside Will's cousin AJ's house. After giving us a bewildered look as to why we'd drive so far for an old Mitsubishi, AJ invited us in and poured us some bourbon. I'm no expert on high-end bourbon, but the stuff he poured was almost good enough to forgive his slight toward the My Bloody Valentine all-time killer album "Loveless". After telling me that the album “only has like, two good songs,” he launched into this endless sermon (with Will’s support) about how Smashing Pumpkins are the supreme band of our lifetimes and how they can't be classified by a single genre (Pumpkins fans always say this), and Billy Corgan's tears heal incontinence. In hindsight though, AJ was a great host, and by the time my glass was empty, you might have convinced me that, yes, Machina is the most underrated album of its era. At any rate, we had just covered almost 800 miles in a day, and I was asleep on the basement sofa before the lights were out. 

Somewhere in Indiana under the beating sun. Since the a/c was inoperable, I found reprieve with rest stop vending machine ice cream..

The final day of the trip would be the 450 miles from Chicago to my hometown. Though the morning started off with the infectious energy and excitement of the city (in my opinion the only metropolis in America that really evokes this feeling other than New York City), it was also a Monday, and our work responsibilities coincided with the first hot day of the trip. With his laptop on the dashboard, Will read reports from the coal mine, and we took turns fielding phone calls with the windows up so we could hear, taking care to keep each call short since the air conditioning was defective. That afternoon, I drove Will to his car parked at the Columbus, Ohio airport, and when he followed me back out onto the highway, he called to tell me we had just crossed the country with no brake lights. A couple of hours later, I pulled into my driveway. After four days, 2,200 miles, approximately 120 gallons of gasoline, several quarts of oil, and a self-destructive amount of gas station food, we were home, no roadside repairs necessary. 

At home in the driveway with my RX-7.

It's been a couple of years now, and I still really enjoy the Montero. It has become my go-to for long trips. It has served as a pit vehicle at racetracks. I've slept in the back seat next to the Chesapeake Bay. It’s been on a few off-road excursions, even getting stuck once or twice, only to be rescued by a high school kid with an ATV, some rope, and a grandiose mullet. I still haven't driven it to Moab, though, and my favorite trip with it so far is still the first drive home. -DFA

Old Fields

I came across this place by accident. I was lost on the way to Shenandoah Speedway, and because I was paying more attention to what song I wanted to listen to next, and less attention to the maps app on my phone, I made a few wrong turns. Over the guard rail and way below the highway I saw it, this expansive road course snaking it's way through West Virginia hills. Nearby were some shipping containers and what looked like cabins. There were no signs to advertise the location, so I just tried to memorize the road nearby - "Fish Pond." The following week when I got home I looked it up, a private training center used mostly by government agencies. It took me months to talk them into letting me bring some friends to drift their track, but the following spring there we were, Daxton, Mir and I ushering box turtles off the pavement and hoping the 15 or so drivers who had signed up would actually find this place and show up on time.

That first day was the wild west, with a little rain making the track slick, and the high speeds attainable even without a powerful car meant the stakes were high in some corners, where a miscalculation in line or grip could send a driver over the hillside into the trees. My expertise as an event host was also laughable, prior to this I had maybe 2 days of road course drifting experience, and my driver's meeting was basically a request that everyone keep their eyes up and try to be sensible. All of us were buzzing though, and with one event without incident in the books, some drivers were even talking about setting up cars specifically for this place.

Later that summer we brought even more drivers, too many for the impromptu afterparty at the local Mexican restaurant. When 40 drivers and their friends all showed up to eat in the same hour, in a town population of 2500, they didn't even have enough pitchers for water to handle the crowd. I even sent out little invitations via mail during the weeks leading up to the event, trying to convey just how special and rare this place was for us. Over time, as drivers including myself got more comfortable with the track, I saw some incredible moments: cars fully sideways at 80 miles per hour, four car tandems, impossible backward entries by a kid in a turbo Miata, while Daxton, Jordan and many other photographers braved the briars and ticks to capture it all. I even surprised myself with what I accomplished in my flyweight RX-7, the little 12a blaring full tilt over a blind crest before hucking it sideways into the hairpin, not much angle but lots of momentum.

Photo Credit: Daxton Scholl - Drift Pizza Media

As the place became better-known more organizers staged events there, and drivers from Michigan to Georgia got to experience a track that felt more like a closed-off mountain road with no police and no oncoming traffic. The excitement of the track created entire weekend social events. We had cookouts in the parking lot of rented townhouses nearby, or camped the night before on the skid pad near the track. One night I sat freezing in a one-person tent, listening to coyotes in the distance and hoping someone else would show up soon in the total darkness. Daxton was often heroic in these moments - he would show up early or even follow me down from Pittsburgh, he had a car that was actually comfortable to sit and wait in, and he brought numerous luxuries I could never think of, like food, water, and a phone charger.

Photo Credit: Daxton Scholl - Drift Pizza Media

In the back of my mind though, the place always felt finite, like one little misstep could shut the gates on us forever, especially since our events were pocket change compared to government contracts. Sure enough, the lawyers eventually descended upon our endeavors, as often happens to anything remotely exciting in this country. The track was no longer available unless organizers carried their own insurance, a tall ask for a track without a single barrier or fence. Though one organizer kept hosting events for another year or so, eventually it became unsustainable, and open track lapping was no longer a possiblity. Online, talk of driving there again would ebb and flow, and since I couldn't find an insurance company who would come within 1000 feet of what we wanted to do, I became more interested in returning as a driver rather than an organizer.

Hopefully the golden era of drifting in Old Fields is yet to come, and those summers I spent convincing friends who didn't even like cars to come and wave a caution flag won't be the last, and a train of S13s will sends echoes through the trees again. The future is uncertain, however, so I'm grateful for all the laps I got to turn at speed, all the drivers who gave me a chance to make a few events happen, and the friends from all over this side of the country that I made along the way, even the ones who like to manji the straights. - DFA

Photo Credit: Daxton Scholl - Drift Pizza Media

Long Drive: Montana to West Virginia in a Forgotten Mitsubishi Part 2

The ultra-flat dash was great for holding a modern smart phone for navigation and featured an inclinometer, useful for detecting whether you’ve rolled off a cliff..

I woke up at about 7 a.m. the next day, not entirely well-rested but also grateful that I wasn't killed in my sleep, and after a quick fuel stop we hit US 87 toward Billings, with the day's goal to make Badlands in time to see its buttes and pinnacles, and maybe walk a trail or two before dark. This stretch of Montana felt especially isolated, and I got the impression that the few people who did live out here preferred it this way, resigned to live under this quiet expanse of sky unbothered by the outside world, but in many ways also left to fend for themselves, as I hadn't seen a town with a hospital in hours. The few people we did meet were friendly. During a late morning fuel stop, I bought a pie and some pancake-like cookies from a man selling baked goods out of an old school bus, who was awfully cheerful despite standing in a parking lot in the drizzling rain to sell his wares.

So far, the Montero was handling the trip without issue, averaging about 18 mpg (it has never been that good since) and using about 1/2 a quart of oil per tank of fuel, thanks to the valve guides. Will had discovered that we needed to make it to the Badlands by 4 p.m., and we had a time zone working against us, so at his request I gently pushed us up to 90 mph and set the cruise. The truck felt stable at speed, though being shaped roughly like a kegerator, the wind noise at 90 mph was hilariously bad, loud enough to drown out the stereo. For the rest of the afternoon, we burned down the miles across scrub grass fields and plateaus, and past somber farms and vehicles and homes. For a few hours the only other souls we saw were a pack of stray dogs. With time working against us, we finally made it to the southeast corner of Montana, cutting through a small portion of Wyoming into South Dakota, and skirting the Black Hills past Sturgis before making the Badlands with half an hour to spare.

Entering Badlands National Park.

Having just seen Glacier the day before, I had relatively low expectations for the Badlands in comparison. Earlier that day I had been harassing Will about having to rush across the country just so he could look at the effects of some erosion (like I've never seen a creek before), but upon reaching the edge of these ravine and formations, I realized that this place is otherworldly. Looking back at the Montero parked before the striped pinnacles and spires, I thought briefly of the Mars rover Curiosity, and I felt slightly deflated in knowing that driving it across the buttes would probably land me in a federal pen. Will was very content to read the plaques describing the prehistoric formations, and though I was equally awestruck, I was also keen to stretch my legs. I persuaded my reluctant (but also always overly cautious) co-driver to walk one of the nearby trails despite a limited amount of light left for the day. At the entrance of the trail, Will said something about that trail being too long or not looping back to where we were parked, but I wasn't hearing any of it.

Will was only semi-interested in this trip till I promised to drive through two national parks, at which point he booked the flight immediately.

Walking amongst the ancient spires.

I thought the trail was great, a narrow path through long, tall prairie grass followed by a steep section down the clay-like pinnacles to the main road through the park, though sure enough at the end of the trail, we were two miles from the Montero. At first, I was unbothered by this. I still had plenty of energy to walk back, but about five minutes into the hike, we were both tired of the incessant flies biting us, and I suggested that we thumb it back to the Montero with a ride from some other visitors.

Will had rolled his ankle on the trail, so he was all for this idea, and after a couple of tries, I had gotten a father-son duo to stop in their 4Runner and consider driving me back up the hill. They didn't really have room in their vehicle and I had them almost talked into letting me just stand on the running board, when Will waved them off and said he found another ride. I turned around to see that he had stopped a Sprinter van, and the driver had agreed to run me back to my vehicle. Will practically shoved me into the passenger seat and told me he'd wait there till I drove back and picked him up, and it was at this point that I realized he had just signed me up for a ride in a windowless white van. Taking a quick look around, the van was filthy, some sort of mystery goo slathered across the dashboard, empty cups and containers across the floor, and behind me the interior of the van was absolute darkness, save for the driver's wife, whose eyes I could just make out toward the back of the vehicle. Now, for the second time on this trip, I briefly feared for my life. I made sure to keep one elbow out the window while chatting with the driver. Both he and his wife were supremely pleasant though, keen to see the country and curious as to the purpose of my trip. They dropped me off at the Montero, and I drove back down the hill to find Will looking a bit concerned. Wondering what would happen if I had not come back.

Winding through the Badlands after being safely returned to the Montero.

From the Badlands, we continued east another hour before calling it a night. Will, who wasn't up for another night sleeping in the front seat, booked a hotel room in Murdo, South Dakota, while we watched a thunderstorm play out on the horizon. In Murdo, the motel owner told us that the town was named after a cattle baron, who liked to graze his cattle in the area and decided there should be a town — so he had one built in two weeks, with materials brought in via railroad. We found a bar across the street and grabbed dinner, and we barely stayed awake for the walk back to the motel to call it a night. We had covered about 700 miles in day two of the trip, and the following morning our goal was to make it to Chicago by nightfall, where we had a place to stay with Will's cousin. So far, we had 900 miles behind us, with about 1,200 to go. -DFA

Iverseen Inn, Murdo, South Dakota.

Long Drive: Montana to West Virginia in a Forgotten Mitsubishi Part 1

The V6, 5 speed 1991 Montero, with at least some of its original 140 horsepower left under the hood..

A few summers ago, I was laying across the cargo floor of an old SUV parked next to a Wal-Mart in Billings, Montana, anxiously watching the truck driver parked next to us while he manically scratched his neck, then brushed his teeth, then drank from a Coke bottle, then repeated these steps over and over for about 15 minutes. My friend Will, who was trying to sleep in the front seat, watched wordlessly, a look of horror across his face. Earlier that day, we had flown from Columbus, Ohio to Kalispell, Montana, so I could buy a very high mileage 28-year-old Mitsubishi Montero for the considerable sum of $2,000, then attempt to drive it some 2,000 miles home to West Virginia in one piece. A couple months before this, I had decided that I wanted a cool, old SUV with which to explore trails and maybe camp out of, but probably just rent a cabin instead. I definitely couldn’t afford an FJ60 Land Cruiser, and my wrist isn’t strong enough for all the required waving to other Jeep owners if I were to buy a Wrangler, so I settled upon the Montero as an affordable but probably capable, and most importantly boxy-looking, solution. Plus, Mitsubishi had won the Dakar rally multiple times with the Pajero/Montero, so if it was good enough to cross a desert at 100 mph, it could certainly handle trucking me and a couple of friends down to Monongahela National Forest for a weekend. There was one other four-door Montero for sale a couple hours from home, but the woman selling it didn’t return my messages, and it didn’t have the cool blue interior like the truck in Montana, so we found ourselves standing on the sidewalk outside the Kalispell airport waiting for the previous owner, Cliff, to retrieve us.

Cliff picked us up in the Montero and tossed me the keys, so I drove the three of us to the closest DMV. The woman at the counter was so kind I thought she might offer to pay the title fee for me — in West Virginia, I don't think you're allowed to work at the DMV unless you display social skills similiar to that of a wet blanket. We were there to get a temp tag, assuming I was comfortable buying the truck after a once-over in the parking lot. The Montero was mostly original sans the wheel and tire combo, and it seemed solid. It had a little bit of shoddy body work on the rocker panels and a lot of dust in the interior, but the frame was in great shape, and the cassette deck still worked, so I was smitten.

Will and Cliff checking fluids before the long journey.

We drove Cliff back to his other truck, and he gave us a gallon of water to combat the tiny crack at the top of the Montero’s radiator while I topped off the oil, which I would later learn that the 6G72 V6 burns with glee via leaky valve guides. From Kalispell we immediately drove into Glacier National Park, and I began to remember just how expansive things are out west, even with overcast skies. We climbed through Glacier via the Going to the Sun Road, stopping at turn offs every so often where mountain tops met clouds. Winding back down the sun road, we left the park to head southeast, where I experienced the Montero at highway speeds for the first time. The V6 made about 140 hp in ‘91, and now its acceleration could best be described as, “we’ll get there.” For a vehicle designed for off-road duty, it also seemed to ride rather firm, and the massive rear sway bar looked strong enough to support a backyard tire swing. One of the most endearing and immediately apparent qualities of the vehicle is the visibility: The windshield is enormous and nearly vertical, and the A-pillars are only a couple of inches wide, so the view from the front seat is nearly panoramic. It's like driving in an IMAX theater.

Entering Glacier National Park

Crossing the Continental Divide. Since Montana uses gravel for winter traction, cracked windshields were a common sight, and the Montero’s was no exception. The suction-cup compass was only occasionally accurate.

Montana’s expanse is ocean-like. The 80-mph speed limits do little to make up for how much ground there is to cover. One ranch we passed was several miles long, and some cattle we saw in the distance ahead would take 20 min to reach. As expansive as Montana is, it is also lonely. Despite being on a major highway, we’d go miles without seeing another car, and we made it nearly to Great Falls before seeing a tractor trailer. Day one of the trip was rainy and overcast, and despite it being August, the temperature never reached 70. Though the driving positition is very upright, similar to sitting on a park bench, the Montero was fairly comfortable so far, and the factory driver-side "bouncy seat," which is mounted on an adjustable shock - added a little thrill to hitting large pavement undulations or expansion joints in the road, which would gently boost me up and away from the pedals, a bit like jumping in an elevator just before it begins to descend. The bouncy seat is theoretically supposed to take some of the ride harshness out of an off-road excursion, but like the inclinometer on the dash, it feels more novelty than innovation.

Up to speed across Montana’s vast country..

Around midnight, we made it to Great Falls, and we opted to sleep in the truck since the KOA campground was already closed for the night. We had covered about 200 miles so far, no worse for wear other than maybe some ringing in the ears. Earlier in the trip, I introduced Will to Black Moth Super Rainbow, which is best played loud. So, I parked the Montero next to some trucks on the edge of a Wal-Mart parking lot, brushed my teeth in the field beside us, and I was almost asleep in the back before Will alerted me of our trucker neighbor’s maniac nighttime routine. The following day our goal was to drive 600 miles to Badlands National Park before they closed the gates for the evening, assuming Rusty Nail let us live through the night. -DFA

Begin.

I’ve never been very good at sitting still. Whether I’m cleaning up after a drift event or a party I’ve organized, or I’m somewhere in the middle of an open-ended car project that was meant to be a simple “oh, I’ll just change the wheels and lower it,” but inevitably it’s turned into a “let’s paint the entire car and swap the transmission,” my ability to appreciate a moment or to be mentally present is basically nonexistent. I’m constantly thinking about how much better the car will be 6 months from now, when I’ve modified it a bit. I’m thinking about what it will be like when I’ve finally saved up enough money for the parts that will really bring it all together. I wonder how the next event I host could be improved, how it could really be something that my friends look back on with fond memories.

I’m usually terribly anxious unless I feel like I’m moving forward, and the only short reprieve from that nervous energy is the little reveries that follow an exhausting project or event, where the mind settles into this comfortable abstraction of ideas about what to do next.

Apropos of these habits, I hope that this serves as a place to eventually revisit some of the adventures and moments I’ve experienced along the way, and to acknowledge those who helped make any of this possible. -DFA