Hail to the Chin

by Bruce Campbell

  “That’s right,” I said, stuffing my face with local Oregon beef.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Hell yeah, I can.”

  “Well, I’m runnin’ a hundred head of cattle up the road on Saturday,” Kenny said, wiping butter from his mouth with a sleeve. “Why don’t you get your ass on a saddle and help us out?”

  “Got an extra horse?”

  “Sure do.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  That Saturday, Ida brought her new video camera, I wore the gaudiest Hawaiian shirt in my collection and damned if we didn’t herd a hundred head of cattle from one pasture to another. Granted, the cattle ran along the road, not the open range – and they followed a hay truck – but my job of keeping heifers from wandering into lawns and gardens seemed absolutely indispensable at the time.

  On that same drive, easily half of our immediate neighbors were also there, helping in various ways, and I met more people in one morning than I had the three years prior in Los Angeles.

  There are many clichés about people who live in the country: They’re less educated, more paranoid, God-fearing but gun-loving, with more connection to the earth, more dirt on their boots, more dust on their trucks – which are jacked up to keep their knuckles from dragging on the ground.

  Granted, those sensibilities were very much in evidence in our new neighborhood, but the locals I met the morning of my first cattle drive were, in reality, an incredibly diverse group.

  There was Reggie, an English-born former insurance executive; Dilbert, a Merchant Marine now on disability after getting a leg smashed between two boats; the Baron and Baroness of Buncom, really Gil and Patty, who live on a former mining camp; Brenda, owner/operator of a lesbian co-op; Jervis, a right-wing ex-executive; Baxter, a former Southern California rocket scientist (I would have no reason to make that up), now returning to his cowboy roots with a vengeance. For the cattle drive – and every other time I saw him – Baxter looked like a modern-day Tom Mix, complete with vintage Western gear (jeans tucked in tall boots, a red scarf, vest and tilted, crumpled hat), a dog named Slick and a ratty Toyota pickup truck with a gun in the glove box, “Just for good measure.”

  Cowboy Kenny, leader of the cattle drive, was something of an anomaly himself. He had spent as much time in Los Angeles as he had on any ranch and his last management gig was at a marina on one of those behemoth man-made lakes in the desert.

  What I discovered in the hinterlands of Oregon was more of a “new” country, which tended to turn much of Western lore on its head. Traditionally, people who worked the land stayed in one place for generations and passed the family trade down the line. City folks, conversely, tended to move around all the time. But with development knocking at the doors of farmers and ranchers, many are selling their large spreads to people who are often relocating for reasons other than necessity.

  Ironically, it is now the “city folks” who want to settle down to a simpler life, while rural Americans often hit the road in search of something more exciting – like a city.

  Y2K OR BUST!

  Ida and I moved to Oregon in 1998 – what turned out to be a very fortuitous time period. After settling in, we attended any and all events, parties, breakfasts and other assemblages of humans in order to meet the people of our area. We enjoyed the process, but among the retirees, self-made and local folks we met, there was a small percentage of couples who ultimately moved to the middle of nowhere fearing a Y2K disaster.

  It only dawned on me after-the-fact why Dr. Dome (an affectionate name I gave to Glen, a former crisis counselor) had retrofitted his geodesic dwelling for the End of Days and planted a particular ratio of apple to nut trees in his backyard – so “when civilization falls” he’d have something of value that the surviving community would be in need of. Yikes.

  Y2K hoarding, Oregon-style.

  Two sisters relocated their husbands to build an off-the-grid home on a beautiful, remote hunk of land for the same semi-survivalist reasons. But when the world didn’t collapse, their nirvana – and Dr. Dome’s – began to unravel. Having long since divorced and moved out of the valley, the doctor is no longer in the house.

  JOIN US

  One of the downsides of living a gypsy life is that it’s hard to “join” anything – even a bowling league on Tuesdays. I just can’t predict where I will be or when – or for how long. In an effort to be a part of something, I finally broke down and joined my local Ashland, Oregon, Elks, Lodge #944, and it has since been a wonderful lifeline to what I consider “normal.”

  Being an actor makes me the perfect Elk. In 1868, in order to evade the laws of New York City regarding the opening hours of public taverns, a group of minstrel show performers formed a “private” club and ultimately named it The Elks. It made practical sense. By the time performers were “off the clock” late at night, everything was closed. By forming a private club, they could stay open as they pleased. Interestingly, as a result there is at least one bar in each Elks Lodge.

  The Ashland Lodge Induction Hall was enormous. It was built at the turn of the century, when membership in organizations like this was robust – much more so than today – hence the disproportionate size. The induction process was ritualistic, as one would expect with a fraternal organization, with pledges to each side of the room, representing Charity, Brotherly Love, Justice and Fidelity. At each turn, the Chair Officer runs you through an oath that you repeat.

  It’s all very noble and altruistic, but I must admit that I was stoned out of my gourd throughout the induction, so it was all pretty amusing. With right hand raised, my pledges were repeated loudly and with staccato – not unlike a certain William Shatner – and I powered through the induction like James T. Kirk himself.

  Afterward, the Exalted Ruler approached me with a tight smile. “Welcome to the Elks, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Thanks, Exalted Ruler!” I exclaimed, pumping her hand excitedly.

  “Sure seemed like you were having fun up there…”

  “Oh yes, ma’am!” I assured her.

  “… Almost like you were mocking the affair.”

  “Oh no, ma’am,” I said solemnly. “You have to remember, unlike most of your members, I’m an actual actor, so I’m prone to be a bit more ‘theatrical.’”

  Another Elks lodge in nearby Medford also made for a great filming location.

  The Exalted Ruler wasn’t thoroughly convinced, but I’ve been a dutiful member ever since. If you’re thinking of joining the Elks – please do. Aside from being old-fashioned and a little kitschy, the organization donates a lot of money to charity and the drinks are really cheap!

  CARS, CRASHES AND CLASHES

  They say that moving to the country is good for your health – the air is cleaner, the pace is slower, and you pass your golden years in peace and quiet. Well, “they” don’t always know what “they” are talking about.

  During my time in Oregon, I totaled four cars. In the thirty-nine years prior to arriving in Oregon, I wrecked exactly zero cars. I maintain that suburban and urban driving, the style I’m accustomed to, is often less disastrous on vehicles because streets are far more apt to be paved, straight, speed regulated, more than two lanes and lit at night. Country roads, like those carved into the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains (known for their serpentine soils), are just plain dangerous.

  The early roads in southern Oregon were put in to extract minerals and get the hell out, so miners weren’t concerned about shoulders, grade or pitch – they just blasted a road and moved on when they were through.

  The Campbell party of two arrived in Oregon with a Saturn sedan and a Nissan minivan – two of the least appropriate vehicles imaginable for where we now lived. Driving around, I was amazed at how many big rigs populated the road – and these weren’t the shiny, Hollywood-premiere types; these were mud-spattered Jeeps, logging trucks, dualies, Rural Fire District trucks, ratty pickups, SUVs, some sporting winches on the front or flatbeds on the back. In these parts, the
average two-wheel-drive city car was, by far, in the minority and they kept to their side of the not-quite-wide-enough road.

  After a year of tearing up our rural driveway with suburban automobiles, we decided to swap out the minivan for a Subaru Forester – its all-wheel-drive capacities proven by the brazen car salesman who drove the car into a gully and out again to prove his point. The brand had a good overall safety record and generous headroom for a full-sized guy like me.

  About a month later, the Forester was put to the test – a crash test. On Christmas Day, we decided to visit my mom, who lived in nearby Ashland.

  “Let’s take the scenic route,” I said, full of holiday cheer (not the liquid kind). “What could possibly go wrong?”

  That route was, in fact, down the backside of a mountain – the side that doesn’t get any sun – and it wasn’t maintained in the winter.

  I was at the wheel and the Subaru was doing rather well on the snowy back roads, but as we dropped over the backside of Griffin Lane everything changed. Snow underneath the car had been pliable, almost slushy on the south-facing, sunny side, but now that we were north-facing, the car was traveling on a sheet of ice atop packed snow.

  I took the first of four nasty switchbacks a little too fast and it proved to be the point of no return. I knew from driving in icy conditions in Michigan that if you jam your brakes on ice the car is destined to tailspin. That didn’t seem like a good idea on this steep descent, with alternately wicked drop-offs, so I decided not to brake at the next curve – I’d try to hydroplane my way around. The Subaru made it, with some wild fishtailing, but because my speed kept increasing I knew there was no way to stop this vehicle – and the next curve was arriving quickly.

  “Ida, hang on; we’re not going to make it!” I shouted hastily, like the lead actor in a disaster film and slammed on the brakes anyway.

  The Forester hit the lip of the next turn sideways, sideswiped a pine tree, which flipped it upside down almost immediately, and we proceeded to plummet down the slope, tires in the air. From inside the careening car it was a point of view I hadn’t seen since wiping out on a toboggan as a teenager – a snowy landscape turned upside down, racing at me from all sides.

  Halfway down the hill, the Subaru was mercifully stopped dead by a large pine tree. Out of breath, we hung upside down in our seat belts, trying to get our bearings. The car was still running, so my first instinct was to turn it off.

  “Are you okay, hon?” I asked.

  Ida nodded, her face red from the inversion. “Yeah … yeah … let’s get out of here.”

  We unbuckled and dropped with a thud on the roof of the car. Looking back, I noticed that the rear window had been blown out in the crash, so we crawled out and stood up on the steep slope to survey the damage. As was touted by the Subaru salesman, the roof hardly collapsed while upside down and Ida and I essentially walked away without a scratch.

  Are the trees supposed to be upside-down?

  After a really scary incident like that, people react in different ways – some bemoan the loss of their car, others shiver at the what-ifs – but Ida pumped her fist in the air.

  “Whoooo!” she shouted with genuine glee. “We made it! Whooo!”

  I hadn’t thought of celebrating at that particular instant, but there was much to be grateful for. A car could be replaced – we couldn’t.

  Just a few days later, several weird things happened. The first was a phone call from the Subaru dealership.

  “Hello, Mr. Campbell, this is Joyce from Subaru. We have a thing we do with all new car owners. We do a commercial, and we get them on tape saying how much they enjoy their car. Is this something you’d be willing to do?”

  “Well, sure, if I still had the car…”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Joyce said, confused.

  “I just totaled it.”

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I am so sorry.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I assured her. “My wife and I are fine. In fact, you know, we’d be willing to do an ad, next to the wrecked car, and talk about the car’s safety.”

  “Uh, oh, well, that would certainly be different. Could I call you back?”

  “Sure.”

  About a week later, Joyce did call back and cheerfully announced that Subaru would be happy to do a safety commercial. A film crew met Ida and me where the totaled Subaru lay in state and we made our first local commercial. I say “first” commercial, because Ida and I turned right around and bought another Subaru Forester, which tickled the dealership so much they decided to make a second, “sequel” commercial.

  I had been fairly anonymous in this area until those damn ads started running. Between them, I got more local airplay than any Xena episode I ever did.

  I have since gotten the occasional nod from a passerby. “Hey, you’re that Subaru guy…”

  At least it was a new one.

  The second strange thing I alluded to was an instant message I got while surfing online the day after the wreck. The back-and-forth went something like this:

  “Is this Bruce?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I just wanted to make sure he was all right. My name is Jewel. I am Native American. I had a dream last night that Bruce went upside down in a car – and there was a woman with him.”

  I stared at the computer screen. Nobody knew about this incident, apart from Ida, a tow truck driver and my mother. I began to type again.

  “Okay, you’re scaring me…”

  “Are you Bruce?”

  “Yes. And I did go upside down in a car. My wife was with me.”

  “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, we hit a tree before it got ugly.”

  “This is freaking me out.”

  “No shit, sister.”

  Jewel went on to explain that she sometimes gets dreams and premonitions. I told her not to tell me if she had any more. It sounded like one of those tabloid-type stories, but it was true enough to be very unsettling. The odd coincidence could mean a lot or nothing at all, but I took it as a hint that people are more connected than we think.

  That and $1.50 will buy you a cup of coffee.

  You know you’re a yuppie living in the country when your caretaker hits your housekeeper head-on. This episode was next in the Vehicular Insanity line, and the tragedy of the situation, aside from a few missing teeth and a torn friendship, was that it destroyed my newly resuscitated, 1973 Ford F-150 truck.

  Like any city boy turned redneck, I felt it was important to have a ratty old truck for working around the property, so I scoured the local Nickel newspaper, found what sounded like a cool truck and bought it for $1,750 from a local rancher. Three thousand additional dollars later I had a workable truck, but that’s another story – I had me a genuine workhorse that was jacked up, tuned up and ready for servitude.

  Apparently, the accident all happened on a blind curve. Seat belts are optional in the countryside, so everyone involved got the crap rattled out of them. The housekeeper’s daughter bit the dash of her mom’s car and donated a few teeth to the Reckless Driving museum.

  Two cars down – and counting.

  I had pretty good fortune with my 1991 Saturn since moving to Oregon, but the little workhorse was no match for the boondocks or black ice and it was time to upgrade, like millions of Americans, to an SUV.

  My neighbor Dave was getting rid of his ‘97 Ford Explorer and it seemed like a logical step to take during my adjustment period. I drove it around his driveway once in the dark and agreed to his slightly inflated price tag.

  This “vintage” of Explorer was jokingly referred to as “The Exploder” because of rollover issues, but on July 23, 2003, it got my seal of approval. My boyhood pal Mike Ditz and his wife, Jennifer, and I were on our way back home from the local eatery around 9:00 p.m., so it wasn’t daytime, but it wasn’t night either. My lights were on, but they didn’t have any effect. The road that connects to my driveway follows a beautiful w
inding river.

  I was going around 40 in the Explorer. Mike was in the passenger seat and Jennifer was in the back. As I approached a tight left turn, a red Jeep rounded the corner – in our lane – moving faster than we were. Since he was taking up our entire lane, I decided to take his and swerved left. The driver of the Jeep, Drunky McGee, realizing that he might be in the wrong lane, corrected back to the right lane and we hit pretty much head-on.

  The timing, from spotting the Jeep to the impact, took as long as it would to say: “Holy shit, that guy’s in our lane – oh my God, we’re gonna –”

  Crash!

  Neighbors reported later that they heard the loud impact from inside their homes.

  My assailant was a classic shit kicker/redneck/asshole. This was to be his third DUI. His license had already been revoked and there was a warrant for his arrest for obnoxious littering. But wait, there’s more! He had no car insurance, no health insurance, and he blew .23 on the alcohol Richter scale, which is almost three times the legal limit. All class.

  To make Drunky’s side of the crash far more destructive to his person, Drunky wasn’t wearing a seat belt, didn’t have a shirt on and the windshield on his sport Jeep was folded flat. When we hit, he was launched like a short-range ICBM and glanced our windshield. Drunky’s downward trajectory included the passenger side mirror, which he ripped off just before face-planting on the asphalt. Granted, I didn’t see any of this happen because the air bag was too busy deploying in my face, but Mike and I pieced it together after-the-fact.

  Its exploring days are over.

  On our end of things, we fared substantially better. I’m the product of a very aggressive ad campaign in the sixties to get people to buckle up and I’ve become increasingly thankful for that habit, so all three of us were seat-belted. The air bags deployed beautifully. In fact, I didn’t even know they went off until I got out of the car and looked back inside. We also got the benefit of out-sizing our opponent – my Ford Explorer simply was more Detroit steel than his Jeep.