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
