Clang clang, bang, crunch, snap. A seat gets unbolted. Roof rack bars get attached. An alternator gets alternated. It seems more is being disassembled than assembled; all in the quiet comfort of a sleepy alley in upscale Santa Monica. You see this is where a lot of action is taking place. A lot. Blue Nelson, the tour organizer, is helping and heis groaning. Helping, because less than 12 hours from now, the famed Death Valley Tour will meet at the historic starting gate of the famous Route 66, the Santa Monica Pier. Groaning, because his hopes were that a bit more kicking back socializing and little less kicking floor jacks would be in order. However in a flurry of grease-monkey activity, at agreeably too late of an hour to be making such a racket, more than half a dozen eager W 123 owners are finalizing work on their wagons; yes, more repairing than packing. Geoff Elsmore calls for a huddle. “Let’s try to work as quietly as possible, I live here, and I like it here.” Got it Geoff. So, when we speak in hushed tones, it adds to the punchy dystopia. We exaggeratively whisper our communications, search via strobing headlamps for tools, coolers and camping gear, then spread out to accomplish our various pre-tour tasks, nearly all in silence. It was like watching a bustling DIY TV show, but with the sound turned off.
While prepping for the drive, several wagon-less folks needed to be united with their wagons, and on, no less the busy eve of the event. Blue had spent the last year acquiring wagons, many from the depths of despair via forest abandonment, desert dweller’s desertion, or from a hipp hippie commune, to personally get running and refurbish a tidy grouping of loaner W 123s to be used by the wagon-less friends he had invited on the tour. Now was the time to get the selected drivers to their wagons. Kurt Wilson had driven a lovely French Spec 230 T down from Monterey with Kent Weinstein following in his silver-blue Turbo wagon, complete with a rooftop tent, which would transform to become a sky-view second residence over the weekend. Kurt Wilson’s wagon was loaned to the tour by Kjeld Aamott, who picked up the sleek, Euro hottie on vacation while in France and shipped back to California. He was on the previous tour but unable to attend this time, so Kjeld loaned his car for the tour, thank you, Kjeld. This wagon would be driven by Legends of the Autobahn founder and MBCA Portland leader, pinnacle of strength and fitness, David Abarr, from Portland. David would be flying into Los Angeles early the next morning, picking his wagon — not with his biceps — from a predetermined parking space, and hopefully meet up with the group enroute. We say hopefully because there would be no phone reception and no maps applicable. David’s flight would land just in time, but he would have no time to waste. He would have to Uber to the parking spot where his wagon was waiting with a cryptic hand-drawn map (designating one future fuel stop out in the desert), a cozy sleeping bag, sleeping pad, charged headlamp, a film-set Motorola long-range walkie-talkie, plus a peppy mint for under his pillow.
In typical low, or no-tech fashion, no Google maps, no GPS coordinates, not even an address to type into your phone, Blue just calls everyone personally, “ From wherever you are, in the USA, go west to the Pacific Ocean, then either head North or South to the Santa Monica Pier. Be there at 8 a.m. on Friday. See you then.” That was it. Those were the directions.
It is 9 a.m. and to the east across the gigantic parking lot, is the Pacific Coast Highway with palm trees clinging to the cliff next to the Promenade and to the west is water, then 2,000 miles to Hawaii. One by one the hits keep coming. Petrol Green, Nautical Blue, Light Ivory, English Red, Astral Silver, Reed Green, Black Pearl, and on and on until roughly 30 wagons have arrived, each one being greeted by and personally lined up by Blue, in a crescent shape to make photos more dynamic. The atmosphere is a combination of fresh sea air, fresh repairs and — fresh muffins? Garth and Wendy Hammers have arrived in a right hand drive, Signal Red, five-speed wagon — the rarest of the rare. I know what you are thinking, and no, it was not a four-speed with a five-speed shift knob. They are toting muffins, which were homemade by Wendy and handed out to each entrant personally. On each bag was written “bluenelsonberry muffins”. She is a professional comedian.
Everyone was snapping selfies, drooling over any green wagon, catching up with old friends, and of course comparing checked-off pack lists, when High Desert Richard Ingram rolls in driving an original paint, 904 Dark Blue wagon with perhaps the world’s supply of roof rack cross bars on top, so many in fact that they are scrunched together to make an expensive plateau of unobtanium. This drew quite a crowd. “The reason these silly cross bars are so hard to find is because all of the existing ones are on this wagon!” exclaimed one (envious) passerby. To add to the drama, Richard was wearing a tidy, pressed Baltic Blue-color pair of mechanic coveralls complete with a sharp Mercedes Star patch, plus a custom embroidered “Richard" name patch. Oh, Richard. It did not stop there. He had large decals made for the car which read “SERVICE WAGON”, and coupled with the expertise to back up these monikers, the entire back of the wagon was laden with tools and spare parts. Richard and Blue spent the previous several months prepping/servicing/fixing various Tour entrant’s W 123s and notating exactly which tools and parts were needed. The list was transformed into an efficient kit now riding in Richard's cargo area with the same clinical appearance as the man himself.
One such recipient of a loaner wagon was John Woods. John, who professionally restores Youngtimer Mercedes-Benzes near Atlanta, flew to Southern Oregon a couple days earlier to embrace the madness of the pre-tour preparations so noted in the previous issue of the Star Magazine. While in L.A., Woods would end his fuel-filter changing tenure with the 1983 Black Pearl wagon, and slide into Geoff Elsmore’s 1980 Reed Green European masterpiece… — with the rarest option, working air conditioning. The Black Pearl wagon would then be driven by wagon-less invitees, Katie Carruth, from our beloved MBCA HQ and her new fiancé Johnny Edwards. Johnny would not only speak with a fabulous British accent, he had perfect hair; and annoyingly, it would remain poised regardless of whether he was a sidesleeper or slept on his back. This dashing couple flew in the day before, picked up their ride at the kick-off party at Dukes in Malibu, and have arrived less like a camping couple and more like a fashion couple. Pure sizzle. They arrived at the pier parking lot in time to see another long-distance attendee, Alyce Miller. Alyce left several days earlier and rocked her 1983 Astral Silver from Chicago to LA, alone, all the while memorializing her voyage in terrific photos. Her next three Death Valley days would be a small fraction of the several thousand mile drive she so enjoyed trouble-free.
“In two minutes, safety meeting in the middle!” exclaimed our leader, as he headed through the crowd. This safety meeting was more of a "this is what we will be doing and where we will be going” meeting, since nobody knew exactly where the tour was headed. Yes, Death Valley was in the title, but only Blue knew the route and he was adamant about keeping that a secret. We later learned, inquisition-style, he had an unusual reason for not divulging the route. He felt that because of the internet and its seemingly endless supply of “been there, done that” information and influencers, by not really knowing where we would be going, it would allow people to be more present and not do so much research as to ruin the spontaneity of un-known travel. Pontificating, “If you don’t know where we are going, you won’t have any expectations, good or bad. You will, in some sense, be forced to take the journey at face value and share it with only your travel mates in real time, being completely present and thus building in person friendships.“ Be. Here. Now.
Professional grade walkie-talkies were rented for the weekend by the same vendor Blue had used on so many films in years past, so a special how-to demonstration was performed. Number one; Please let go of the microphone once you have transmitted, if you do not, we will only hear your transmission forever, including when you are in the bathroom . Only transmit what you really want to say. Hail or call for your recipient on channel one, then switch to two for any lengthy conversation, and be guaranteed that nearly everyone switches to channel two to hear your conversation or gossip. If you think you are alone on two, everyone will be there listening; guaranteed. If you want to be sneaky, tell your friend in-person, not on the radio, which actual channel to switch to so that when you say ”Go to channel two”you really switch to your secret predetermined channel for privacy. This was the insider’s tip. Nobody knew there would be professional radios on hand, but Blue reminded all of us at some point later in the day, this would be our only communication between ourselves as phones would stop working for the rest of the weekend. It was not long before the use of trucker’s CB language would come into play, and not stop ... all weekend.
There were three stand-out notations in the safety meeting: 1. "Stay a good five-six car lengths away from the wagon in front of you while traveling at driving speeds to allow every other psychotic Los Angeleno driver to cut in and out of traffic without us holding them up. 2. Drive with your headlights on, and foglights, too. This will allow you to look in your rearview mirror and instantly recognize one of our group, since nearly all cars now have daytime driving lights but not foglights. 3. Since nobody has a map or knows where we are going except the person in front, pay attention and keep in the procession, do not get dropped.”
Diesels chugging, tourists are staring, we are tack-sharp, lined up in the parking lot and ready to roll!
Radio check for each car, lights on and out we go. It’s always exciting to finally get on the road after lots of preparation for a road trip. To look in the rearview mirror and dreamily make out only wagons strung out seemingly as far as you can see is fantastic. The walkie squaks, it’s Blue again. “ Please don’t be tempted to rush out of the parking lot onto PCH just to be in the procession, we will all eventually get in line, when we settle in, at a steady speed, in the same lane. We have radios to let each other know if something or someone is hung up.” Then, the first of what would seem like a million fun and memorable radio transmissions came through with a hint of an attempted Southern accent. “10-4 good buddy!” then silence. More silence. Simon, our 19-year-old (AP) sponsored W 123 nut who flew from Germany for the Tour, and who loves and collects everything American road-culture related, came back on the radio, nice and clear he said, “ I have been waiting my whole life to say that!”
The first stop lies about an hour north of Los Angeles in Mojave where we will fuel up. We pull into the Chevron which had been scouted out beforehand as the most spacious and easiest to fill up without blocking everything, ever. It is really only a top off, having just covered the first hour, but the next fuel station is lonely, and all the way on the edge of Death Valley, and with only one pump, which would take forever.
Go green but stay lavender. Kieran and Tracy Mullaney pulled into the station but passed the pump and parked in a parking space. Kieran proceeds to take out his soybean containers and fill up his wagon while Tracy, with lavender hair, helped out. They had calculated what they thought the entire route may be and brought enough veggie oil in the trunk to make the trip. Blue asked how much money he thought Kieran was saving by running veggie oil on this tour, and Kieran quipped, “I don't know, how much does diesel cost these days?” Kieran has been driving only on veggie oil for over 10, non-filter plugging years. As we all exit the station, someone on the radio mentions that it smells like french fries, the whole time, not knowing about our alternative fuel lovers. An anonymous radio response blurts, “Oh, Kieran’s wagon is running on veggie oil; you must be behind him.”
The nearly deserted back roads between here and the next stop, the impossibly scenic Trona Pinnacles, offer a special chance to get the wagons up to a greater speed than is usually experienced during normal driving. As we reach the summit of a very long and steep ascent, Blue explains on the radio that the following descent has no roads that come in from the sides, no turns, nothing to yield to and an 11-mile straight 6% grade; an unobstructed “opportunity”. Punch it. Someone responded “Oh, I have been punching it since we left Mohave.” (Diesel Mercedes-Benz humor there). “75, 85, 95, …100, I’m going 100!” The wagon train has left the station! Several people got their wagons to the magical century mark, not a closed circuit, not with professional drivers, and not under strict safety measures. It must have been some kind of world record, a dozen, 20 or more S 123 wagons all going that speed together?
As we cool down our turbos, we eagerly arrive at the first of many scenic detours, only this one will be via a dirt road, and 15 miles of it. Our Wagon Master had scouted the route and, at our second trail-head safety meeting, let us know that, “yes your wagon will get a little dirty but not thrashed, and since he regarded his wagon as immensely precious and the lowest ground clearance wagon on the tour, everyone else should be fine to proceed; just follow the line of your fellow wanderer ahead of you. It was highly recommended that we all stay very far apart since there would be nobody else on the road to hold up, so the dirt would not choke everyone out,; plus, during the scout, this dirt road route was timed out, with windows down at a maximum of 15 mph to make the day’s schedule. No need to hurry. To go from 100 mph less than 10 minutes earlier, to 10 mph seemed like torture. However, the experience of waiting for a cargo train in the middle of a white dry lakebed, then having to drive through deep sand over a huge rocky plateau while watching a magnificent brooding stormy sky, was well worth it. Slowly, we creaked and jittered up through the narrow, dusty, jeep-like paths until we rounded a monolithic outcropping into a clearing. “When you park, resist the urge to park parallel to each other, don't park with any sense of uniformity, spread out and mix it up, you’ll see why” cracked out on channel one. Of course Simon replied with “10-4 good buddy.” What came next was almost mystical. We had stopped smack in the middle of the Trona Pinnacles, a grouping of dramatic tufa spires, some as high as 140 feet. Coupled with the nearly black cumulonimbus clouds towering above, the pinnacles felt other-worldly. This would be our lunch stop, but people were too excited, and leaped out to take photos and climb up to get elevated views. I believe it was Cooper Davis, our 19-year-old photographer, who exclaimed, “Wow. It looks like you took a handful of Matchbox wagons and threw them out into the desert!” It was spectacular, and getting a few miles of dirt roads in helped to make us all feel like real adventurers.
Everyone is radioed to pull over on a long stretch of straight road visible for a safe distance in each direction. Blue drives ahead to the evening’s secret campsite, to check for a surprise lake or other unexpected restrictions. Plus, once down the dirt track that leads there, you cannot back out. He is doing this because in recent months, there was a record amount of rainfall in the area, even though the region is famous for being one of the driest places on Earth. The campsite had been completely flooded only a few weeks before, so each week since the flood, having all been hot, Blue would photograph and measure the amount of visible shrinkage of the unexpected lake that had formed, right in the middle of where the wagon circle would be for camping. With this data, he had hoped to calculate when the lake would dry up enough to provide firm ground for the caravan, plus sufficient room for everyone, and all before the temperatures would be too high, and the Superbloom would still be present. This is the type of prep that working on film sets in production for 20 years will get you.
When Blue selected the suggested tour dates there were two mitigating factors, one being quite serious and the other being quite fanciful; the weather and the Superbloom.
The weather and temperature were the primary concern. The world record temperature on Earth of 134 degrees Fahrenheit was set in Death Valley, and even in April, the temps can rise to over 100 F. It is not called Paradise Valley, nor will it ever be. April would be the month he chose because this is the last reasonable-temperature month to travel through Death Valley, with more than 50 people, in 40-year-old high(er) mile classics with no air conditioning (minus lucky dog Geoff Elsmore’s 1980 Reed Green masterpiece). The Superbloom would be the second determining factor. Blue had traveled all throughout Death Valley several times in the previous weeks and months to survey the routes and to wait for any sign of the coming floral phenomena. Apparently, Mommy and Daddy used to take baby Blue to Death Valley as a precious child to witness this, and he has been coming back for nearly 50 years. For a very short period of time each Spring in Death Valley, there is a somewhat predictable wet period and then, boom goes the Superbloom. Wispy white and yellow flowers, especially the Desert Fivespot pop up in large swaths throughout the region. Once this record huge rainstorm and flood arrived, it would only be a short time later for the ideal time to do the tour, so there was a bit of rolling the dice as to whether or not this would all line up together, with peoples availability for a last minute tour date.
Returning to the awaiting roadside party, the green light was given to follow Blue to the turnoff, not yet in view.
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