I am supposed to be diving into my thirty-seven degree sleeping bag on the shores of Lake Superior after a mad midnight setup spree right about now. But instead I am pit-stopped on my couch, typing my way to bed. We can debate the sanity of the midnight arrival plan later.
45 minutes into our trip, the trailer blew a tire. We unearthed the jack, loosened the lug nuts, and unloaded only half of the trailer to get to the spare. Which was flat. Thankfully the blown tire was still holding air. The radials had ejected themselves with enough force to set the fender a bit askew, but the lower levels of rubber were still holding strong. We could limp her to the next town to find some air; not a problem.
Except for the dead battery that greeted us upon re-entry into the truck.
My saintly father was roused from his much needed slumber to mount a rescue mission, and 5 hours after our departure, we are back home. He gathered himself, a compressor or two, a handy generator, assorted toolaments, and the battery he salvaged from the totaled truck a few years back, and huffed himself up Highway 53 to save us from ourselves. Not without his own set of mishaps, including at least one cell phone left in the middle of the road for dead. Don’t worry, it was rescued as well.
And here we are. Kwik Trip cookies all around (thanks Grandpa) and we are going to bed.
Tomorrow we camp. I mean, later today we camp.