Ode to the clunker

That old Chevy truck that served so well in these mountains got "clunkered" this past Friday, heading to the scrap metal boneyards of U.S. consumerism. It had accumulated 230,765 miles of tortuous wear-and-tear on curvy mountain roads, a good bit of backcountry 4-wheeling where no truck should be taken, and a wonderful, well-Rabunized look and feel.

I will miss it. Welborn, the salesman who sold it to me in 1998, told me what I needed in the mountains was a short-bed truck with 4WD and the biggest motor I could afford. He was right. That was a 5.7 liter Vortec V-8 with lots of horses and a true thirst for regular unleaded gas (12 MPG in the city!) It was fast and pretty much indestructible, if unsustainable. I ripped the back bumper half-way off one day trying to vault a big stump; but it got dinged back in two days later when a yahoo from South Carolina -- in an even bigger, "dually" truck -- smashed into my backside on Route 28. The only major repair turned out to be need for a new clutch, which in 11 years, ain't bad.

It also hardly ever failed to attract the birds, like owls and hawks, that regularly make their appearance in these parts.

Now, I wonder if the "new clunker," a very down-sized, 4-cylinder truck with the shortest bed and the smallest motor I could find (but up to 27 MPG on the highways) is going to be up to the task. At first glance, I think it will do. Coming up the driveway in that new vehicle, we spied a furry image loping up the driveway. A truly fat and fast black bear cub! Then, Saturday, miraculus mirabili, my hawk swooped over the new truck to check us out. I take that as a good omen.