The "you might get stranded" light

The other day (my use of this phrase is an all too common clue that I can't remember anything anymore, I think of it as child-induced amnesia) I was giving Sarah a hard time because the "fuel indicator" light came on in the middle of Fresno, CA when we were 15 miles away from our exit. She was sweating bullets over the presence of the docile yellow light in her field of view, certain that we would run the tank dry prior to docking at the port de la quinta in what turned out to be a mostly industrial part of town complete with active train tracks, well within 2 AM train whistle hearing distance. She reports that at one point she "lost power," a feeling I'm very familiar with thanks to a tiny Honda civic that, due to a poorly designed gas tank, would deny fuel access to the fuel pump when going up a steep hill. The result being a sudden "loss of power" at some point either at the zenith of the hill or just after summiting, which felt a lot like a front end collision. In other words, the gas-is gone-on-the-freeway feeling is a lot more like slamming on the brakes than anything we felt in Fresno. To make her feel better I looked up the indicator lamp in our owner's manual and relayed my findings that when the lamp comes on there are ~3 gallons of fuel left in the tank. So we had about 60 miles of fuel on board to take us the 15 miles to the exit.

Fast forward one day and I'm at the helm of the TARDIS in the amazing foothills of Mt. Shasta when the lamp rears its placid yellow head into my field of view. I try to play it cool, as moments before, we had passed a gas station in the middle of nowhere selling regular unleaded for 4.65, to which I likely remarked, "we don't need to stop, we've got plenty of gas to get us to ______." Of course the stakes were a little higher in this situation, as we were pretty remote in terms of hoofing it to a service station, so I say in my most nonchalant voice, which likely means I'm very chalant at the moment, "well, the gas light just came on."

We coasted into Weed, CA without incident after passing by a motel constructed of old train cars in which you can dine or sleep (depending on the car type obviously) and put five or so gallons of gas into the van under the watchful facade of Mt. Shasta, the peak of which was well within the low hanging clouds.

Being in California, I was still allowed to man the pump handle, a perk that would be denied me in Medford, OR the next morning. We made haste to the Oregon border and stayed in Ashland, which is apparently famous for a Shakespearean festival. Our hotel was very Tudor on the outside and very late 80's on the inside. They had an indoor pool which resulted in an automatically necessary trip for the Bot, who spent most of the half hour chlorine-Fest sitting on the second step at the pool entrance. For about ten minutes I walked around the pool with The Bot on my back while holding the wee one belly down. The wee one kept opening her mouth providing a pool skimming service for the proprietors. We'll have to get both of them into swim lessons this summer.

Medford Oregon provided us with delicious pastries, not so delicious coffee, and our first fill-up at an Oregon gas station. In Oregon you don't pump your own gas, instead you roll down your window and ask a teenager to "fill 'er up with regular." It's not as though there is anything different about the pumps, they are exactly the same as the ones 100 miles south in CA. Oddly enough the extra service doesn't seem to affect the price as Full service Oregon gas so far has been way cheaper than the "suck your own Benzene" variety I bought in CA.