Here is story....
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"The Story"
I had spent an hour in Cloverdale, CA., filling up fuel, talking to people in and out of gas station’s store front, just relaxing after hours of driving north on Rt. 101 from San Francisco. Now all this time my TV’s tail gate is down, exposing tools and an expensive generator. Additionally, I had climbed up into truck to fill generator with gas, and this activity brought more “eyes” on equipment. It was early evening and community was alive with farmers and “farm help people” coming in and out of the gas station.
In the course of my conversations I had given my plans of travel up to, and along coast to a few people. Most of course were envious, expressing the desire to be able to travel this way; just stopping where convenient to observe the beauty of California’s coast. And I must admit that my “personality” needs to tell others of my good fortunes. I tend to brag.
This road, SR128, is a twisting and narrow road, with young trees overhanging the road providing a canopy which blocked direct sunlight. It is a lonely road, and even more lonely and ominous during the closing hours of the day. Occasionally, driveways leading to farms and sparsely placed homes would allow glimpses of grape vine fields and rolling hills as I moved northwest towards Ft. Bragg. I would never reach the coast this evening, turning back in fear, seeking the familiar, a community where people existed, something other than the unknown of this road.
I left Cloverdale, beginning the climb into the hills allowing cars to pass me whenever I could by pulling to right, at spots designed for that purpose. Traffic became infrequent, and maybe a half hour into climb, I noticed a car following, but not interested in passing. After providing this vehicle enough chances to pass, I pulled over and stopped, making them pass my “Rig”. As the car passed in a normal manner, I saw a low “banger’s” type vehicle, and in it were four young males. I then reentered the road, traveling a few more turns, maybe a mile more, and there was the same car, pulled over in an area to the side, making me pass them.
Now at this point my instincts (and fearful personality) started the wheels turning. I recalled my activities at the gas station and it entered my mind that I may have been identified as a target, someone traveling alone, with an RV that might be attractive & exciting to young men on the prowl and up to no good.
In front again, and not liking it, I traveled a few miles then I pulled over and stopped for a second time in a driveway. Looking in the driver’s mirror, a few moments passed before their car rounded a curve and slowly approached. Now in my mind my worse fears were confirmed. I positioned my cell phone to my ear, removing it in a manner that would have allowed them to see I had this phone, but removing it just as they rolled along side my driver’s window. My intent was to pretend I did not want them to know I was on the cell phone, thus creating a sense that I was talking to someone about the situation.
The car pulled along side me slowly and I watched the passenger roll his window down in preparation to talk, and it entered my mind that they would block my path back to the highway. At this moment I made up my mind to just ram and push them away if the driver angled his vehicle anywhere near my front path. I was confident this powerful truck I was driving was up to task.
Now you must understand I’m a bluffer, I’m good at it, all my life I have been proud of my ability to get quiet and look unafraid at moments like this, moments of real or imagined danger.
I reluctantly gave the passenger my attention as he said most respectfully:
“Excuse me sir, do you know if this road goes to Mandocino?”
I did not vocalize my response, but rather shrugged my shoulders and slowly shook my head. There was a moment of silence and slowly the passenger realized that this was the extent of my willingness to exchange information. His body returned forward and the vehicle moved off slowly to the north. I brought the cell phone to my ear and leaned my head out in an exaggerated effort to read the license plate, as I mouthed an imaginary number to an imaginary person. I did not see if I was observed, but that was my intent.
Was the car and it’s passengers following me? I do not know. It was at this moment that I decided to turn back. Slowly I proceeded to a point where the road provided a turn around. I never seen that vehicle again, and driving south, back the ten miles I had traveled, parking in the lot of Cloverville’s police department; was what was necessary to give me peace of mind.
Was I correct in my conclusions regarding those young men? I’ll never know. But that night as I went to sleep, I was glad my rifle was in trailer.
Mr. Bojangles
