What a Gas!

I have discovered that my truck likes to stall periodically for no apparent reason even after its warmed up. And after driving it for a while and then shutting it off, it refuses to start up again for up to a half-hour or so. This led me to theorize that dirt in the fuel filter canister gets sucked into the filter when the sediment inside gets stirred up while driving, thus blocking the flow of gas to the engine. So I decided to change the filter. Sounds simple, right? I thought so, too.

First of all, this filter is mounted below the engine next to the oil filter in the same housing that contains the fuel pump. Most vehicle manufacturers mount the filter in-line (meaning somewhere along the length of the fuel line where it is easily accessed.) I read in my repair manual how to remove the canister and filter. It said to remove them, discard the fuel in the canister, and replace. "That sounds easy." No where in the manual did it mention that since the filter is mounted at the lowest point in the fuel line (below the motor) a syphon would be created that would suck out every last drop of gasoline from my 16 gallon capacity tank. As fuel poured from under my truck, it splattered on the ground, into my eyes, and all over my clothes. In a panic, I tried to put the canister back on, but since the 32 year old rubber gasket was warped, the unit would not seal and I was soon covered in petroleum distillates. I found a bucket to contain the spill while I proceeded to try to stop the flow of fuel to no avail. Have you ever had rubbing alcohol on your skin and experience its rapid-cooling qualities as it evaporates? Gasoline has the same effect on the skin. Did I mention that I attempted this "easy" repair in 20 degree weather? Within seconds, by fingers were almost completely frozen. I could not move the fingers on my right hand at all and when I tried to manipulate them with my left hand, I noticed that the flesh on my digits was literally frozen solid. The tissue was so firm that I couldn't squeeze a depression into my fingers. It felt like squeezing a piece of chicken straight out of the freezer. Then I started freaking out. I think I may have even cried a little bit, although I am not sure if it was from pain, fear, or frustration.

I ran inside and rinsed my hands with cold tap water. Gradually as I regained feeling in my fingers I turned the temperature up. Eventually I was able to move them again. I peeled off my gas soaked clothing and took a long hot shower. As I thawed, I realized that gas was still pouring out of my truck and that the one, five gallon bucket would not be enough to contain the toxic flood. I hollered for Alex to get dressed so we could go to Columbia to find a fuel filter. One half-hour later we arrived at the parts store. I told them what I needed and they spent the next half-hour looking for it. None of their catalogues had any parts listed for vehicles older than 1985. (Apparently, mine is the only 1975 Ford truck still running in the entire world. I guess they didn't think anyone would need replacement parts for trucks that should have been crushed decades ago.) Finally, after three different people got involved, I had the right part. I arrived back home nearly two full hours after starting this "routine" maintenance operation to discover the tank was done draining. I replaced the filter, gasket, and canister. Then I poured the nearly five full gallons of gasoline through a coffee filter into my gas can, leaving the murky sludge at the bottom of the bucket. (Luckily, my tank was not full.) I then re-filled my truck and went back inside to wash my hands at least a dozen times. The fumes, and three beers, helped me sleep very well that night.

After discovering fresh tire tracks and foot prints in the ice and snow near our campsite at the bottom of our property while hiking in the woods this morning, I realized that the neighbor who was blasting his shotgun at me last year (whom another neighbor witnessed driving around on our property last fall) was up to his old tricks again. So Alex and I hopped in the truck to take it for a test drive and to tell this knucklehead across the road to stay the hell off of our land. When I pulled into his driveway, I had intended to let the truck run, but it was up to its old tricks again, too. It died. I politely, yet directly told the neighbor in no uncertain terms that I know that someone drove onto my property and then got out and walked several hundred feet further onto my land in what appeared to me to be an attempt to either hunt or track down a wounded animal that ventured onto my land. The woman of the house actually said that they didn't even own a four wheel drive. What amused me was the fact that I was standing there looking at their 1996 Dodge Ram 4x4 at that exact moment in time. I told them that I wasn't accusing them of anything, but they in fact did own a four wheel drive truck with mud tires that had a tread pattern very similar to the ones I saw on my property. I reminded them that they and everyone else were forbidden to be on my land for any reason at any time. I told them to tell their friends and family and anyone else they knew to stay off of my land. (I told them that once before, when they almost shot me, but I guess it didn't sink in then.) They said they have never driven down there and I said, "Have a nice day," having made my point without getting shot.

Then I hopped into my truck, turned they key, and of course- it wouldn't start. After what seemed an eternity, it reluctantly obliged and Alex and I headed home. (Apparently, the fuel filter was not the problem after all.) Gosh, it sure was a lot of fun replacing that cute little three dollar part, though. As I drove away, teetering on the edge of madness, I wondered if my neighbor (and my truck) knew how lucky they are that I don't own a shotgun myself.