Sprinter Killer

It has been suggested that I have a Sprinter curse on me, perhaps more to insist that the deaths were not my fault; but the fact remains that it was I who drove the Sprinters into the delivery van underworld. Two, to be exact, in a six month period.

April, it arrived smoking. Dave and I were renting a Sprinter van, much like his own, but outfitted for passengers. We were taking a group of clients to climb Picacho del Diablo, the highest peak in Baja California, and were going to drive everyone from San Diego. We had them drop the van off at my brother’s house in east county. He lives on a hill. After several other hills. A hill much like several in San Francisco – difficult to walk up (especially in flip flops where you fall out the back), and if you drive a tall vehicle (like my ’85 4Runner) you might wonder if you’re going to tip over backwards. But you just drop into first and eventually you get there.

The mechanics advised us that the smoke was just some excess oil burning off and that the van was serviced and ready to go on our Baja adventure.

With that, we were on our way to pick everyone up, and drive across the border.

Our first stop was at Dave’s dad’s winery and inn, where we would spend a lovely afternoon wine tasting, enjoy a gourmet dinner, get a good night’s rest, and be on our way early the next morning: into the wild mountains and pine forests uphill from San Vicente.

Uphill.

Driving in Baja has always rated an adventure, even after all the years I have been driving through. The random unmarked topes (speed bumps) on the highway threaten to flatten your shocks in one distracted moment; the absent shoulder on the narrow, windy roads, compounded with a steep drop off the pavement, could make one tiny swerve disastrous. It’s not a casual driving experience. One could even call it a sport.

The roads up to Parque Nacional San Pedro Martir are no exception: narrow, windy, and now with steep dropoffs on a grade that would again be difficult to walk up in flip flops.

And we were in the largest Sprinter van made.

The van stalled. But it’s an automatic transmission. I started it up again, and dropped it into second gear to try to keep more power on the uphills. It stalled again. Then white smoke started leaking out of the dashboard. Then pouring.

A pull out. The first one I’ve seen in miles. We duck into it, turn off the engine, pop the hood. White smoke is pouring out of the engine block. Bad news.

We manage to turn the van around and coast downhill to a ranch we new about. A ranch that would become home for a couple of days as we finagle a van swap to try for the parque nacional again.

Fortunately for us, the new van was a Ford. Sprinter curse: irrelevant. Now it was in the hands of a poor, misinformed Argentinian exchange student working for the rental company with instructions to drive it back to San Diego (he had no idea the cab was filling with fumes). And our second attempt at the parque nacional (and summit!) proved a resounding success with minimal time lost.

***

Four months later…

Dave was guiding in Europe, and I was van-sitting. Our friend and fellow guide, Lynette, would be piling in for the drive from Shasta (where we were working) to Bridgeport, where we had a week long backpacking trip to guide. All was normal, and the Sprinter was running great. I remembered noticing a slight loss of power, but we had an unusual amount of gear and all of Lynette’s home in the van (she was to be moving to Truckee after the trip), so I assumed it was just straining a bit to haul it all around.

And the check engine light was on – but it had been for two years, so that was nothing new. Carson Dodge said it was nothing to be concerned about.

Then the oil light came on. I picked up some Delo, stopped for a milkshake, and checked the oil. It was indeed a little low. I topped it off, stashed the remaining oil, and we were off.

I came out for a resupply during the trip, and repeated the milkshake and oil routine, now becoming a little concerned. I checked for a leak, but could find nothing. I text Dave in Europe to ask him where I can take it, but there’s no one for miles. I drive back to the trailhead to restock the group and finish the trip, and decide to drive it south after the trip, keeping an eye on the oil level, knowing that I would be getting closer to some diesel specialists in Bishop.

And then power started to decline rapidly, the oil light flashed on, and a glance in the side mirror revealed black smoke billowing out from underneath the van.

I pulled over and shut off the engine. Seriously bad news. Thankfully I have AAA – so we had the Sprinter loaded onto a mondo tow truck and carried to Bishop. I spent some time with friends troubleshooting (because of course this all went down on a Friday evening, and no mechanics there work weekends). We thought of several possibilities, perhaps it was a leak somewhere and the smoke was just the leaked oil burning off. Nothing added up except the worst possible scenario: that whatever it was, it was bad, because we couldn’t figure it out.

The next week we got it in to the Sierra German Auto shop. The owner hooked it up to a diagnostic machine and told us a piston was burned. What did that mean? How expensive is it to fix?

You need a new engine.

Read: expensive. And time-consuming. Not to mention it’s really hard to find an engine for these things, given how new they are.

So it took several months to even find an engine, another month to work out the payments and shipping, and now we are back at Dave’s dad’s Inn in Baja while the mechanic puts it all together, escaping the cold until we have the van back and can get back to our lives of climbing and skiing in the eastern Sierra Nevada.

Two people trying to live out of an old 4Runner, complete with climbing, skiing, and guiding gear, just was not going to work. Especially in the winter. Forget peeing in the middle of the night with the frost fusing the automatic window shut (that’s the easiest exit in these vehicles, especially with the front stuffed with all our gear).

We have started the final countdown, and expect to have the van back by the end of next week.

But I don’t think I’ll be allowed behind the wheel for a while.