Another air-cooled remembrance
What prompted Dad to trade off his brutishly beautiful ’69 Toyota FJ40 Land Cruiser for a new-to-the-US VW Type 181, I’ll never understand. But, then again, skydivers jump out of perfectly good airplanes and I’ll never understand that either. Still, forty-plus years later, I carry this lament: How I wish Dad had offered that go anywhere Land Cruiser to me!
Dad’s VW was a throwback to World War II when German Command (purportedly) traveled behind the battle lines in drab, flat sided vehicles – driver in front, officers in the back. Rugged appearing and versatile looking, Dad – an Army Air Corps vet himself – may have forgotten that the Germans lost that conflict.
Still, there must have been alure in the angled flat hood, the four doors and the fabric top that could be folded back like the phaetons of old. His bright yellow VW Type 181, promoted stateside as “The Thing,” returned better gas mileage than the FJ and would take on any road Dad had previously traversed in the Toyota. He knew this because his long time backpacking buddy, Zibe, owned a ‘64 Bug with a fabric sunroof and when they planned to meet up at some remote trailhead, Zibe would always get there first, leaning on a fender and puffing on a Dutch Masters President.
If the Thing could get him there, that was good enough for Dad.
Dad’s Volkswagen was unique in the neighborhood and more than capable in the woods. Once, a pal and I decided to hike into Green Island Lake with my friend’s dog, Sheba. We’d stay for a couple of nights, catch some trout, grill ‘em over the fire and live off the land. Dad was going to meet us for the second evening. The first night, we didn’t catch any fish and it rained like hell about midnight. So, at daybreak, soaked, we headed up the trail thinking we’d intercept Dad on our crestfallen hike back to where we’d parked, hoping we’d be able to negotiate the storm deluged dirt roads without getting mired. With Sheba in the lead, we trudged back. But Sheba, apparently misunderstood our plan. At a trail fork, she zigged and we followed her, when she should have zagged. About a half mile on, we realized our mistake, backtracked and assumed the correct path to the trailhead. Upon arrival, parked next to my orange Beetle was Dad’s mud crusted yellow Thing. We’d missed him. He returned home a day or two later bragging about how good the fishing was at Green Island Lake.
Time after time, Dad would disappear into the Ishi Wildness or the Coast Range Yola Bollys or the foothills of the Cascades for days at a time, always to be welcomed when his yellow mud-caked VW puttered down Stewart Avenue toward home, always grinningly regaling us with tales of his latest adventure in the VW.
Only a few years elapsed before Dad sold his VeeDub and bought a new Toyota Hilux pickup. Again, I don’t know why. The Thing was perfectly good. And real cute! Once again, I lament: How I wish Dad had offered that go anywhere VW Thing to me.
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Church of the Open Road Press
