Disaster
Rumford, Maine is the quintessential small town, plucked off some Norman Rockwell canvas and dropped on the Androscoggin River, where it straddles a gorgeous multi-tiered waterfall. What locals refer to as "downtown" is in fact one street, with very little on it to remind a visitor that this is 2012 and not 1978, 1965, or 1950. Rumford's residents have been uniformly kind, trustworthy, and helpful, and have a lovely New England accent. Cars stop at the slightest suggestion that you intend to cross the street.
Unfortunately, we find ourselves here under very bad circumstances. Really, the last few days have been nothing short of miserable. We decided in Portland to scrap our plan to hike Crocker/South Crocker. We had two nights to spend between Portland and Quebec, and if we hiked all day one of the days, we wouldn't have much time to do anything but drive on the other two days. Our plan now was to camp the night of the 13th in the state park near Rangeley Lake, then make our way across the border to Parc National de Frontenac to stay on the 14th. We would then drive the last couple hours into Quebec on Friday, and meet with our CouchSurfing host. This agenda would give us time to swim wherever we liked and split our drives into segments of five hours or less daily.
Partway to Rangeley, I saw some falls. They were really nice, and there were rocks that cried out to be picnicked upon. I pulled onto a dirt road next to the falls, following a sign saying, "Campground," and started driving. Jenna told me it was a bad idea, but I've had a lot of experience driving on some hairy roads, and I cavalierly reminded her of such. But I'm very stupid. The road started climbing upward and got rockier, with puddles, and I realized that I didn't want to go any further. But the path was also narrow, and I had to keep driving to find a wide spot. I finally got turned around, geared down for the descent, and got to the bottom of the hill, which is when I noticed the temperature gauge climbing.
Neither Jenna nor I have had to deal with an overheating engine before. We popped the hood and added coolant and water into the reservoir labeled "Coolant," then opened the radiator cap. The fluid was still boiling over, so we locked that right back up, and walked over to the campground just down the road from the dirt turnoff. I called AAA and had them connect me to a garage for advice. The mechanic didn't have much to tell me, except that if the engine heated back up, the head was probably bad. The engine did heat back up almost immediately, so we walked back, called AAA again, and got a tow.
I knew that if the head gasket was warped or cracked, it could be a few thousand dollars to repair. We weren't prepared to pay that kind of money, leaving us with little to travel on. I didn't know what to do.
I'd managed to stay positive up to this point, but waiting for the tow truck, I felt low, angry at myself, and poisoned with self-pity. I had to face up to the worst aspects of myself. This breakdown felt unfair, yet it also seemed cosmically right. It made so much sense, that the life I'd been planning for years would end before it had begun because I had done something anyone with common sense would know is stupid. I wrote when we left Philadelphia that so far I've had no moment of clarity or revelation that I'm actually doing something exciting, on my own terms, as I've wanted to do for so long. Maybe I never had a moment of clarity because I'm not cut out for this. Doing exciting, risky things - taking even the mundane risks of a trip like this - is just beyond the reach of someone who's so tremendously unable to do anything right. Maybe I'm a monumental goober, only good at the things I've been taught to do, and when I stray from that path, I'm a helpless imbecile.
The wait was gut-wrenching and desolate. Jenna, for her part, was rightfully angry at me at first, but was mostly generous and supportive. The tow truck driver was a gentle salt-of-the-earth guy, whose easy demeanor did a lot to make both of us feel calmer, ourselves. He took us to Adley's Auto Sales and Service in Rumford, where we met Brad Adley, who told us we could stay in the van in the garage lot. We could even plug into their power supply. Brad is a really nice guy, and I felt immediately that we could trust him for an honest appraisal.
So it came to pass that the first night we spent in the van on this trip was at a garage. So it goes.
Work at the garage begins at 7 AM, so Jenna and I got up early and spent the day in Rumford, killing time. The weight of not knowing whether we could continue traveling lay very heavy on my mind, and I was still unhappy. We worked our way down through the woods to find the rocks by the falls, where we sat for a long time reading and having lunch. We swam above the dam, although some nosy local told us it's full of toxins from a paper mill upriver. There's a paper mill down river, too. We also found Rumford's health food store, which had an amazing selection of dry goods, idiosyncratically hand-packaged in used salsa and tomato sauce jars. Finally, we got a call from the garage: the water pump had failed, and the radiator had sprung a leak. The bill would come to a sum which, while hefty, was not prohibitive. The new radiator would be there the next morning, but we would have to spend another night in the garage parking lot.
We woke up early again this morning, hiked along an ATV trail which led us to a good overlook, and did some errands. Everything could have been much worse. The repair would be reasonable. We were extremely fortunate in being allowed to camp in the garage lot. We had even ended up stranded in a very pretty area. In the early afternoon, we were told that the van was ready, and we settled up the bill, thanked Brad profusely, and got on our way. I was keeping a very close eye on the temperature gauge. I couldn't relax. We drove for forty-five minutes, and I was still clenching the steering wheel.
I hadn't made it to Rangeley when the temperature gauge started to rise, in an inverse relation to my hopes and dreams. When it became clear that this wasn't something I could pretend wasn't happening, I pulled over. There was a hiss of coolant sizzling on the engine block. My stomach was in knots. Jenna, who had been holding everything together over the past 36 hours, broke down in anguish. I couldn't blame her. I felt emotionless and drained. We had no cell phone service, and were on a very empty, remote road. This was the true nadir. There weren't many outs. I put some water and Clif Bars into a backpack and we started walking back toward Rumford. We hadn't been walking for two minutes when we hitched an immensely fortuitous ride from a gentleman returning to Rumford. It was a real stroke of luck. He wanted to chat, but Jenna and I, zombie-like in the backseat, made poor conversation partners. Making smalltalk is miserable when what you want to do is curl up in the fetal position. This guy was very nice, though. He even insisted on driving us right to Adley's.
The towing crew went out - again, on AAA's dime. Jenna and I ate a fuck-it meal at the pizza place in Rumford, and bitterly walked to the library to cancel our CouchSurfing engagement - already once postponed - for Quebec. Jenna and I were both angry, lost, and concerned for the future. Were we just pissing money against the wall? How much more was this fix going to cost? Everything had seemed to work out for the best, and yet here we were in Rumford again, waiting for word from the mechanics. The town had lost its charms by this time. I wanted to drive to Quebec, or else put my efforts into selling the van and getting home. I wanted to know which choice I would have to make.
Adley's called us just before they closed and told me that the problem this time was nothing more than a hose clamp that had come loose, and the van was ready to go again. I didn't feel like we could risk driving out towards Rangeley again tonight. The road is too deserted, and even though I really think Adley's did a good job, and are trustworthy technicians, I can't make myself feel confident that the incident earlier today was just a fluke. Jenna and I drove to a campground in Mexico, Maine, not far from Rumford. That way, if the van leaks coolant again, it'll be during daytime hours. So far, the temperature has stayed where it's supposed to. I hope these repairs hold up. I don't know what this means for this trip. I guess we'll wait, which is something we've gotten pretty good at doing these last few days.
If all goes well, I'd like to drive to Frontenac and stay there tomorrow night. Somewhere in that area, we'll try to get in touch with Benoit, our would-be CouchSurfing host in Quebec, and see if he can put us up. I can't muster up much enthusiasm for any future plans yet.
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