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If the first try failed I would, on the next ones, carefully avoid
my earlier tire tracks. Used snow instantly took on the glaze of a
skating rink and offered no bite at all. And that would foil what I had
determined by experience to be the most successful formula:
third-gear high-range, heavy beginning throttle. As altitude was
gained I’d gradually ease off the gas to avoid any risk of breaking
loose. Traction must never be broken. Ideally that last right turn
toward the house was done in a near coast. Exhale.
I had, however, discovered if on that final third of the hill I
sensed that both power and traction were running low, and clearly I
wanted to avoid sliding backwards (a ditch that once caught out even
Swedish rally champion, Erik Carlsson and his Saab lined one side
of my track, a growth of small birch the other) I could grab the hand
brake, twirl the steering and miraculously switch ends in the space
of the Rover’s footprint. It had to be done rapidly and timed right –
just at the secession of upward motion – grab, twirl, and suddenly
the nose would be pointing downhill. That offered some semblance
of a controlled descent; far better than a brakes-on backward slide.
One night I was approaching home during a snowfall. For some
reason I had a car-load of strangers, three friends of friends from
down country, one a Californian I think. Oh no, the plow had not
come. But I yakked on as I went into Climb Formula and began my
run for the top. Maybe it was the extra weight but we were only about
twenty feet short of the top when I knew we were not going to make
it. Instinctively I grabbed and twirled, still talking, and headed back
down hill. Then I sensed held breaths and looked around at mouths
gaping to chest level. I suppose I should have alerted them. Maybe it
was the headlights cutting a bright slash across the trees as we
pirouetted to aim back the way we had come.
On the Run Two we made it (in silence) - I picked up some roughness
at the road’s edge - but my passengers didn’t resume breathing
until we were inside and had a fire going.
When I couldn’t make the hill I left the Rover in the field next to
whatever other car I had then – a Mini (first a Cooper then a Moke)
or the pretty Lancia. They were my clear-road dinghies that took
me to New York or Montreal. The Land Rover was not an ideal
distance driver.
Nor was it really a good cold-weather vehicle. I mean the
roof-over-roof design was called a “Safari roof.” Glean any
temperature hints from that? And the body was aluminum and lots of
glass. Great “R’ factors there. That and Vermont winters were a lot
for an English heater to cope with.
O.K., so the engine always started even in the deepest chill. That
accomplishment was assisted by a plug-in dipstick heater that kept
the motor oil somewhat more fluid than Jello. But the secret really
was that handy gadget stored behind the front seats - a hand crank.
Once I left the Land Rover at the Amtrak station in Waterbury and
took a train to New York shortly after that service was inaugurated.
Returning, we Vermont passengers all de-trained in the night
breathing misty clouds like cartoon conversations. Fresh snow
sparkled in the splash of the station lights. It crunched underfoot.
Breathing was like inhaling razor blades. Even before I left the
thermometer had not topped zero for weeks and while I was gone
it had found fifty below.
As I brushed the dry light snow away from all the windows,
I could hear the fruitless UR-UR-Ur-urrrr of engines trying to turn
over and fading to silence. Smugly I freed my crank, inserted it
through the keyhole at the front of the Rover, felt it seat and leaned
into turning it. And I turned it and turned it more, feeling the
resistance. I could sense the pistons moving in the cylinders, the
crank churning the oil, stirring it to fluidity. My intention was not to
start the engine with the crank. I had heard tales of cranks kicking
back and breaking arms. I only wanted to ease the task of the starter.
I got in, turned the key. And all heads snapped toward my roaring,
white cloud breathing school-bus yellow beast. The Land Rover was
the only thing rolling that night.
But I hated it most mornings. The doors were often frozen shut.
A hairdryer on a long cord could clear the key hole and ease the way
to pull the door open on creaking hinges. Starting was easy enough
but the seat was gelid, the steering wheel a gingerly two-finger
matter. I would be well to my destination before the heater breathed
something recognizable as warmth. Much later genuine sheepskin
seat covers and a shaggy sheepskin cover for the steering wheel
solved some chilling problems but before then I thought I had
stumbled across a great idea. I saw an ad in a camping magazine for
a catalytic heater to keep a tent if not toasty at least tolerable. Safe,
simple. I ordered one. If it worked for a tent why not a Land Rover?
I read the instructions, and felt the glow of its warm little heart as I
set it on the floor in the rear between the facing seats.
The next morning my anticipation was as high as on a childhood
Christmas. I dashed out to the Rover to experience what I hoped
would be a – a – oh, crikey! I discovered, what is that phrase
“Unintended consequences?”
I had not known that moisture is inherent in the use of this sort
of heater. Moisture on cold surfaces freezes. Every surface inside the
Land Rover was cold, ergo that morning every surface was solid with
cold white ice. The windows on the inside were opaque with a
quarter inch of the stuff. The seats were hard pillows of white ice; the
steering wheel was thickened with white ice, the dash board was
invisible beneath white ice. Even the head liner was cold and white.
Slowly, sadly I removed the failed heater, acquired a light
hammer and chisel and began to free my Land Rover from the cold,
deep grip of a miserably failed idea. Probably didn’t take more than
an hour or two.
When I first got my yellow beast I had christened it with a
“vanity” license plate: “DOG.” Then I could announce to
appropriate groans that I had a Rover named Dog. I still have the
plate. The Land Rover itself was irretrievably yielding to the heavy salt
of Vermont’s winter highways. Yes, the body was aluminum and
immune from that corrosion, but that part of the vehicle that wasn’t
aluminum seemed doubly vulnerable. I could watch the salted
highway slip by beneath my feet. When I noticed that the steering box
was about to depart its moorings I sold my Land Rover for parts.
I bought a Subaru BRAT for my 4x4 get-up-the-hill transport;
a better heater but less than half the drama- and none of the history.
P
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