From Deep Despair to Happy Dance

Jennifer and I were in a pickle… not the kosher kind with bits of garlic in the jar that makes a person want to eat five. NO! We were in the kind of pickle that leaves you feeling surrounded by pickle juice.

If you’ve been following our story, you know how imperative it was we move our camp to where the dogs reside. And it has to be done…

…before the snow flies!

Ticking time bombs have a way of going off on you when you least expect it.

Let’s recap what Jennifer spoke of regarding our progress. Up to now we:

1)   Had the dogs move from their winter camp into state-of-the-art completely covered kennel coops (circa April 2023).

2)   I disassembled the deck (circa later that September).

3)   I attempted to start the motor coach with Jennifer spraying a truckload of ether into the air intake (circa the entire fall season).

All caught up?

Yes, the pickle juice was pouring in from all sides.

Last year we had the same ticking time bomb. But as the first real snowstorm traditionally never infringes on our autumn season until the second week of December, we both got caught with our drawers to the floor when the snow came well before Thanksgiving. The doggies were still in their transitional shelters and we had nowhere else to put them. So, we made do.

It was not fun.

We’re approaching that same week in November, but haven’t experienced anything more than a dusting. I was in the Pit of Despair these past few weeks as I knew Old Man Winter was kissing at our heels (he does that sometimes). He was letting us know that he might just bring a touch of permanent snow early again.

And we were stuck between two places. Our annex shed building thing-a-ma-jig that houses our woodstove (free heat through the winter) was WAAAAAYYY OVER THERE while we were still sitting WAAAAAYYY OVER HERE.

The motor coach had two major issues. First (silly me), I left it to sit for three years without starting it. Not a smart plan. Second, if the coach does not run, it has this tendency to lock into an auto park mode and cannot be towed. The owner’s manual even says so.

And owner’s manuals tend to do that as well—they tell you NOT to tow it as it will damage the transmission while NOT telling you how to bypass this problem. Auto park, apparently, was someone’s idiotic idea back in the 90s as modern motor coaches are not equipped like this.

(Off in the distance, I hear Old Man Winter’s smirk. Unbeknownst to most of us, he gets a kick out of other people’s miseries).

That left us with just three considerations. Find a way to tow it (not going to happen, the thing won’t budge—we tried that four different approaches); figure a way to get it started (time to buy stock in starter fluid); or drag the annex shed back to where we sit, mud and egg all over our faces, and endure Old Man Winter’s incessant and endless guffaws for the next three months.

Pickle juice has now risen above our ankles.

You can imagine the despair I was feeling at this point in our story. I had nothing else to do but pray. Funny how that works—and God has a way of answering us and thwarting annoying entities like Old Man Winter. His message to me was perseverance.

I didn’t know what that meant, but that’s the message I got.

On the very same day I was gearing up to drag the annex shed back to Boondock III, a local friend called. She suggested we talk to someone in the RV industry who had come through for her in the past. So, I did.

He couldn’t help me.

But he suggested I call this other person. So, I did.

He couldn’t help me.

But he suggested I call this other person. So, I did.

And he couldn’t help me.

But the suggestion he gave me showed me a website in which a reviewer had tried them… (this was a one-star review BTW). The reviewer said they don’t work on motorhomes. In the same review, he mentioned this other company. So, I did.

The other company referred me to their traveling mechanic. So, I did that too. But, coming from WAY OUT in Idaho (a two-hour drive, at the very least), would have cost us nearly a thousand dollars just for him to take a look. BUT!...

He was a good egg and stayed on the phone with me for nearly an hour—FREE OF CHARGE. Out of some nine “certified diesel mechanics” I spoke with, he was the only one who had an answer. He informed me that these first generation,12 valve, 5.9 liter Cummins diesel engines have what’s called a fuel lift pump.“The most common problem with poor starting are these lift pumps.” He was 80% positive I needed to prime the pump by engaging a lever.

A YouTube video even mentioned tying the lever in place, so I did that. Still, I heard Old Man Winter’s guffaws progress into a shameless BWAHA-HA!

Perseverance…

I thanked the mechanic for his time, watched a couple more videos on the subject, and LO AND BEHOLD, there’s the lift pump! No, I did not locate it by peeking under the hood and finding it blaring trumpets from the top of the engine. I had to crawl underneath to find it.

Perseverance…

I left the battery on a charger for a full day (it was a solar charger so only worked during daylight hours). Though still extremely skeptical this would work, I felt the pickle juice receding off the end of my toes… for now.

I hooked up the battery.

I instructed Jennifer under no circumstances is she to spray any more ether starter fluid (got to watch her like a hawk!). Could end up blowing up the engine. Jenn has a secret, shameful history of being a pyromaniac. I had to wrestle the spray can from her cold, hard hands.

I sat behind the driver’s seat. I turned on the ignition as instructed. The glow plugs were long past their minimum prerequisite. I cranked the ignition…

Perseverance…

The engine made NO INDICATION it would even think about starting. I let it sit allowing the battery to recharge. I cranked the engine a second time…

Old Man Winter let out his entire cacophony of laughter as the engine acted like a teenager, still in bed, on a late Saturday morning.

Perseverance…

Then on about the eighth try, a puff of white smoke came out of the engine’s tailpipe.

Let that sink in a moment. If you didn’t catch that, I’ll say it again. A puff of white smoke came out of the engine’s tailpipe. This is a good sign both fuel and air are running through the engine.

I let the battery and starter rest a ninth time before trying again. More white smoke followed by a hint of a grumble. I let the battery and starter rest a tenth time.

More white smoke. More grumbles. Old Man Winter became silent for the first time that day.

Then it happened. The engine roared to life!

Like a dog excited by a leash in her master’s hand, I rocketed out of the driver’s seat and into Jennifer’s arms. I don’t know if there was ever a time in my life where I did a happy dance. I heard about them. Saw Manager Tommy Lasorda do one back when the Dodgers won the World Series in 1988. But up until that day, had never engaged in such a silly practice.

Our heads nearly bumped the ceiling with a happy dance Arthur Murray would have been proud of!

After unhitching every outside line from the motor coach, this first generation, 12-valve, 5.9 liter Cummins diesel engine pushed the RV as if it wanted to go on a road trip. She was strong and smooth and ambled with grace over to the new location.

I watched as the pickle juice flowed down the slope into the Columbia River and Old Man Winter sloughed away behind the Huckleberry Mountains to the east. Someone unknown to me had defused the ticking time bomb.

Small miracles can really happen.

To see the process of moving in real time, see Monday’s video. I won’t tell you how we managed moving the annex shed without a running tractor, but there may be clues in the video.

I’m not planning to reveal how we did it. I can only tell you, Jed Clampett would be proud. Here’s the link:  A Miracle on Moving Day! https://youtu.be/loJur9AqB2w

PS: Will you be able to save her

and discover what she’s found?

LaBrea is coming!

Blessings,
Jay Stoeckl, Allied Moving Service Head Manager