Our ?Vacation from Hell? involves our 1962 orangish-tan Rambler station wagon, a Russian invasion of America, a busload of convicted criminals, and our Dad?s flattened foot.
Our ?hellful tale? began during a 1966 family vacation to the beautiful Russian River resort town of Gurneville, north of San Francisco, for a week stay at a lovely riverside cabin. One day, our Dad decided to take the family on a short day trip to visit historic Fort Ross, a one-time Russian outpost founded in 1812 on the nearby California coast. Fort Ross was easily accessible along the well-maintained, two-lane Highway 1. So, we loaded into our 1962 orangish-tan Rambler, and our Dad drove us up Highway 1 for a charming afternoon visit to Fort Ross, where we toured the Fort?s Russian orthodox chapel, officer?s quarters, stockade, and blockhouses. Tom and Ray, you should be thankful for the Russian?s sale of Fort Ross in 1841 to John Sutter (of Sutter?s Fort and Mill fame)…otherwise we?d be writing this ?hellful tale? to you in Russian.
As the afternoon came to a close, our Dad, the adventurous soul he was, said to the family now gathered at the Rambler, ?I saw a short-cut back to the cabin on the map, and, it will be quicker than Highway 1 and far more picturesque,? he said as he pointed to two roads he had discovered ? Fort Ross Road and Old Cazadero Road. Our Mom gave him her well-known and forever frequent look of ?not again,? for our Dad was prone to taking remote, out-of-the-way roads without considering whether they were meant for our Rambler. However, wanting to keep peace within the family, especially on vacation, she went along with our Dad?s plans.
So, our return adventure began. We left the beautiful California coast and started climbing up Fort Ross Road heading east for Old Cazadero Road. It was not more than a mile or two into our journey that we realized that these ?roads? were actually one-lane, switch-backing, barely-paved, one-time mountain logging routes…but that did not deter our Dad, for he was a ?Rambler-kind-of-guy? and he knew his beloved 1962 orangish-tan Rambler could get us back to our cabin.
After about 12 miles, the twisting and turning Fort Ross Road yielded Old Cazadero Road. We did not believe that a road could be narrower than Fort Ross Road until we turned south onto Old Cazadero Road?which might be better termed ?Old Cazadero Sheep Trail.? We had barely driven a few miles down Old Cazadero Road, when our Dad rounded a blind corner…only to come face-to-face, hood-to-hood, bumper-to-bumper, law-abider-to-criminal, unarmed-to-armed with a drab-green busload of about thirty convicts and their armed guards barreling towards our car with reckless abandon in the opposite direction, returning to their jail after a day of road clearing work.
Our Dad hit the brakes and veered our Rambler toward the mountainside of the road to his right, driving our Rambler into a muddy drainage ditch as the busload of criminals came to a screeching halt just inches from our car. Our Mom shrieked, our Dad almost swallowed his lit cigarette, ashes and all, and we kids in the backseat tumbled onto the car floor in front of us, as this was the ?pre-seat belt era? of American cars.
We all got out of the left-hand side of the car for our right-hand side doors would not open as they were wedged against the mountainside. The armed guards got out of the bus to see if we were okay, which we were ? though a bit shaken by the experience. Our Dad then got back in the car to see if he could back our Rambler out of the ditch…but the wheels spun and spun…with the Rambler not even budging. We were stuck.
The head guard, seeing the futile efforts of our Dad and feeling somewhat responsible for our predicament, then came up with a unique solution. He ordered the thirty convicts off the bus one-by-one, and told them to surround the Rambler as it lay in the ditch wedged against the mountainside. With the guards holding their guns to prevent any escapes, the head guard ordered the convicts to reach down to the underside of the Rambler, and on the count of three, to lift the Rambler out of the ditch. We brothers thought that this was pretty cool, seeing real convicts and real guards with real guns, and couldn?t wait to tell our friends back at home about our fun vacation. Our Mom and sister stood about as far away from those convicts as they possibly could. And our Dad nervously searched for another cigarette, knowing that his Rambler may be seriously damaged…and how could he convince his insurance man to believe that the damage had occurred when he saved his dear family from certain death by driving his 1962 orangish-tan Rambler into a mountainside to avoid killing thirty convicted criminals while on his way back from an isolated Russian outpost located here in the United States during the height of the ?cold war??
So, on ?three?, the thirty convicts lifted our Rambler up about a foot off the ground, out of the ditch, and back onto the road?and onto our Dad?s foot!
?It?s on my foot!? screamed our Dad. The convicts quickly, and without orders, lifted our Rambler off our Dad?s foot, and placed it securely onto the narrow pavement of Old Cazadero Road. Not concerned with our Dad?s foot, we brothers were in utter awe of the strength of these convicts.
The head guard ordered all the convicts back on the bus, one-by-one, with their guns at the ready, though one convict briefly hesitated as he eyed our 1962 orangish-tan Rambler with the keys in the ignition, perhaps considering the possibility of a daring car escape…with a Rambler. When all the convicts were safely and securely back on the bus, the guards waved goodbye, as did the convicts, and the drab-green bus slowly inched past our orangish-tan Rambler. We got in our Rambler and our Dad ever so slowly drove down Old Cazadero Road back to our cabin.
So this ?hellish? vacation day, at least for our Dad, came to an end. We could finally rest easy knowing that the Russian invaders had left California for good, that at least thirty more convicted criminals were on their way to jail, and that our Dad?s foot wasn?t broken. Thankfully, in the end, no one was hurt…except for our Dad?s flattened foot…and his bruised ego…
Donald and George Bentley