To borrow from one of our old mentors: “There are some of the brightest people among snowbirds — but on the other hand . . .”
Witness the phone call we received the other day: “Hate to bother you, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of gas.”
A “run out gas” situation in the Quartzsite area is one of two things: A quick trip across town — and how much town can there be in Quartzsite — or practically an expedition, complete with the need for Sherpas. This turned out to be the latter.
The “out of gas” party were two widowed Canadian women, traveling together in a Class C motorhome. They weren’t completely sure of their location, but it translated to Highway 95, south of Quartzsite, “Across the road from this building with a lot of flags on it.”
A lot of flags? South of Quartzsite? The only building we could imagine with a lot of flags on it was Stone Cabin, near the “pass” headed down into Yuma, about 30 miles south of the great QZ metropolis. When we needed another question answered, it would be simple, right? Just punch up the number they called from on your cell phone. We did that too. “Ah, I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’ll want to call them back here,” said a strange voice. “I just lent them my cell phone when I found them stranded by the side of the road. They’re a long ways back now.”
RVing without a cell phone? Who you kidding?
Russ found a sidekick with a yen for adventure and rounded up some gas cans. They headed south on 95, and sure enough, across the street from Stone Cabin, there were the stranded RVers. First order of business, “secure the scene,” as they say.
“OK, we may slop some gas, so please, turn off any of your appliances with pilot lights, or anything that might turn on, like your refrigerator, your hot water heater. We don’t want to blow anything up, right?” Sure enough, those fancy State of California approved gas cans, so well designed to curb air pollution from gas fumes are so clever. By the time you get the can hoisted high enough to cram it in a “side mount” filler neck, you’ve slopped a quart or better of gas down the side of the rig — hence contributing to the level of air pollution on the Arizona desert. But at least it’s not California air!
With a great deal of mumbling, we finally got the fuel in the tank, down the side of the rig, and on the ground. We capped the cans and put them back in the pickup. It was about that time Russ looked in the open door of the motorhome. Sitting on the dining table was a coffee pot — on top of a warmer, heated with a brightly burning candle. “Oh!,” said one of the rescued party, “Shall we put that out now?”
After ensuring the motorhome engine would fire up, we made discreet inquiries about how this whole misadventure came about. A slight tinge of embarrassment crept into the cheeks of one of the rescued ones. “Well, we pulled out of Yuma this morning, and sister asked how we were doing for fuel. And I said, ‘Remember, dear, we just filled it up the other day.’”
“Sister” chimed in, “And then she pointed to the fuel gauge and said, ‘See, it’s just a little below the full mark.’”
Turns out the “little below the full mark” was actually just a little above the empty mark. The confession: “I guess we forgot that when the kids came, we took them sightseeing in the motorhome. That was after we filled up!”
Yes, some of the brightest folks are snowbirds. But on the other hand . . .
