The darkness threatened to swallow us whole.
By this point, I had a flashlight out the window, hunting for the white line on the edge of the road. Our headlights were now so dim, the oncoming traffic barely knew we were there. As we felt our way through the fading twilight, we crested a gentle hill. The car stumbled and gave up.
Bob and I are both veteran classic car owners, so we knew we weren’t getting out of this one easily. We’d taken what turned out to be a poorly calculated risk, knowing that our generator’s control box, a sealed unit full of windings and other old school contrivances from Edison’s era, was trying hard to let us down.
We’d put up with it all week at a classic MG event in Phoenix, with some minor fuss, including replacing the generator, which was easier to find locally than a healthy control box. Despite the late hour, we thought we could make it to Cortez, Colorado, our scheduled overnight stop. The current draw from the headlights did us in.
For us, it wasn’t the What went wrong as much as the Where. We were in Arizona, northbound on U.S. 191, a two lane ribbon of asphalt cut through an epic Western movie backlot, in the heart of the Navajo Nation, known locally as The Res. Covering more than 27,000 square miles across parts of New Mexico, Utah and Arizona, the Res is vast, sparsely populated, and not without its problems. Its residents struggle with limited economic opportunity, their share of alcohol and drug abuse, and the highest crime rate of all Native American reservations in the U.S.
There was virtually no shoulder. After managing to push our stricken 1967 MGB to a narrow perch just off the road, we started phoning. I worked the AAA while Bob dialed 911. Bob’s experience set the tone for this misadventure. “Can you help? we’re broken down on Highway 191.” “I’ll transfer you,” the dispatcher said. A few clicks and a buzz later, nothing. Dead air. We called back. “This is Utah 911. Hold on, I’ll transfer you.” Another failed transfer. After the third failed attempt, Bob quit dialing. In the meantime, I was having my own struggles with the AAA. My membership had expired the previous month, so I was transferred to my local club for reinstatement. After wrestling with several dropped calls, my phone rang. “AAA called and said you were in danger, are you all right?” my anxious wife asked. Since our dark green car had virtually disappeared in the gloom, I’d told the AAA dispatcher that we were not in a safe place, thinking that might add some urgency to our situation. Before the call dropped, the AAA dispatcher advised us to call 911. Then, somewhat mysteriously, they called my home. I took advantage of the good connection and asked my wife to work things from there. We needed a wrecker. How hard could that possibly be?
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