Tribal Road 2

Deep in the southern end of the Res over on the other side of the river is TR2.  None of the old roads had names, they were just  numbered as they were cut.  Not paved mind you, cut.  I can clearly recall the giant tree at the corner of TR22 and TR2 where we'd make the right hand turn and start heading south towards whatever the dispatcher told us was waiting.

I've been thinking of that turn more and more lately and I'm not sure why.

I haven't made that sharp right in almost 20 years but I can almost smell it when I close my eyes.  At night the road was almost impossible to see unless you knew where it was.  Most of the roads weren't marked and those that were were easy enough to see.

TR2 was a tricky turn.

In those days I was 19 and riding alone in a 1976 International 10 speed double clutch 1000 gallon water tender (Yes, we called her Tanker 1).  I didn't run medical calls but did have to head down there for ditch fires, car fires and other various things a water truck can be used for.

I recall one night heading for a report of a gas leak on TR2.  Funny thing about house numbers down there back then, if you moved you took it with you, mail box and all.  It was not uncommon to go from house 1,2, 56, 4423, 8, 16...it got confusing.  We knew where the regulars were but I remember feeling lost.

And not just lost in location but completely unsure how I was going to handle a gas leak alone.  The cab of the tender had the radio, lightbar control unit and siren all mounted to the plastic dash.  It was clear from the large array of holes around it that it has been remounted time and time again.  I never wondered why, but on this night I found out.

As I was moving down TR22 the entire mounted set came crashing down to the floor of the cab.  My lights were still on, but I had no siren control, no radio and no way to turn the lights off.  And now I can't remember which house I'm looking for.  Just as I reach for the radio mic to test it I see the familiar giant tree just in reach of the headlights on the 1976 International.

I'm not going to make the turn.

My 19 year old brain was accessing all former driving experience for options.  Either I can slam the brakes and all 1000 gallons on this gravel road will go sliding Gods know where, or I can slow down, look for a turn out farther down TR22 and make my way back.

Of course I slammed on the brakes, I was 19 and had no idea how that vehicle would react.

Not well.

I lost control turning right and then into the slide like I was in a car commercial except the fine print at the bottom of the screen didn't read 'professional driver, closed course' it said 'A fireman was killed last night...'

The left rear duals left the gravel and I'm headed towards the ditch sideways, red and blue lights flashing out in the middle of nowhere New Mexico.

I never came to a full stop, but did somehow manage to get the front tires back on to TR2 enough to avoid the ditch.  My pulse was over 140 for what seemed like hours after that but I still had the gas leak to find, the radio to fix and this damned siren shut off.   The radio and siren control are on the floor, nothing but wires sticking through the swiss cheese dashboard, but the lightbar continues to turn.

I never did find the house that night.  I drove up and down TR2 waiting for someone to come running out to meet me, I wasn't easy to miss.

When I returned from my response I backed into the old mechanic's shop that passed for a fire station and made some repairs to get the radio working.  Turns out it was a false alarm, no problem after all.

From that night forward I think about Murphy and his law riding shotgun on Tanker 1 that night doing his darndest to get me in trouble.  I got distracted and it nearly cost me.

My thoughts go back to TR2 and that night often recently and I wonder if I'm about to make a big turn and am so distracted I haven't noticed a familiar landmark that can point me in the right direction.