By Matt Miner

I lost a friend this week.  She was thirty years old, and had been as faithful a companion as could reasonably be expected.  She was my 1977 Ford F-150 4X4, and I sold her down the river for a pittance − $800.

I never named my truck.  If I addressed her directly, it was usually as we groaned and clawed our way up some 30% grade, bouncing over boulders, and dragging the trailer hitch; at these times I would gently pat the dash and encourage her: “Come on, darlin’, we’re almost there!” or “Let’s have it sweetheart – and keep the transmission away from those pointy rocks!”  We always made it up the hill.

What can I say about a vehicle that I detailed with a leaf blower?  She was once perfect for me.  I bought the black Ford in September of 2000, a little less than a year before I got married, for $2700.  She was to be my hunting, camping & hauling truck, and she did all these things admirably for six and a half years.  But over the same time period, sadly, we grew apart.

What I needed, and what the truck could provide, began to diverge almost right away.  The truck was short on creature comforts, and things continued to break and deteriorate throughout our life together.  My wife found the gasoline, oil, and rotten-Arizona-car-interior fumes in the cab to be less than satisfactory.  She tolerated them until she got pregnant, and then basically declined to ride in the truck after that; I couldn’t honestly blame her.

I got out for fewer big game trips with the advent of family life and then children.  Gas became increasingly expensive, making 8 mpg look even worse than it had in the year 2000.  In the second to last year of our relationship (2005) I drove the truck for less than 400 miles.  She did experience a significant and wonderful renaissance in 2006 with three trips to the Galiuros for deer (one for scouting, two to hunt), and she got to haul a deer home from the Galiuros.  I think she enjoyed this time.  It was to be the last of our adventures together.

Selling the truck was a little bit symbolic of the break with my Arizona life that is impending as we move to North Carolina.  The truck represented a link to all my Arizona adventures in my late teens and a (one hopes vestigial) connection to my bachelorhood.  It was a very tangible connection to the past and to my Arizona hobbies.

But my eyes are on the far horizon.  I don’t know what the next two-and-one-half years have in store for the Miners, but I am optimistic that it will be good, even though the 1977 Ford will not have a place in my future.  I wish her, and her new owner, many happy trails together.

Photo courtesy of Andy Harris (2006) of the Black Lady on Rattlesnake Mesa in the Galiuros


 

Author’s note: I have been sick all week, and slammed at work as I prepare for a week’s vacation to get our home ready to be listed for sale.  I expect to resume more regular posts no later than Wednesday 3/14.