This essay was written in collaboration with David Vaughn.

It all began with an exchange of texts involving shared experiences from the past, two stories of fated Volkswagen Beetles.  David had received a note in jest from Thaddeus, a text that jokingly included a picture of an old VW van, a colorful poster image from Malibu, California. It was a late 50s surfer mobile with a sleek rooftop surfboard. Thad’s humor was a response to a text David sent him regarding his new Tesla Y.  It had a hitch that would enable him to pull his new Airstream mini trailer.  “You should have bought this instead”, Thad said in his caption below the VW van image. “But it’s a gas guzzler and terrible in a head on collision”, he added.  David nostalgically replied that many years ago, his 1967 Beetle sedan (not a van) was actually quite good at rolling, and he had a story to tell. Thad added that he also had a Beetle story.

Here’s David’s Beetle story:

It was Spring break, 1969, and I was a student at the University of Colorado in Boulder. It was late at night during a road trip to west Texas and the Rio Grande in Big Bend National Park, a raft trip adventure, four friends traveling in a two-vehicle caravan, fully loaded clunkers hurtling down a long flat highway near Pecos, Texas. My girlfriend was driving as I drifted off to sleep, slumped comfortably in the passenger seat.  I suddenly awakened, or thought I had.  I was in a drowsy delusional stupor.  I imagined we were drifting toward a rock cliff… in the midst of a profoundly toneless Texas desert?  I instantly grabbed the wheel and attempted to turn the vehicle clockwise to save us from perceived disaster. The car jerked hard to the right, twisted and flipped, rolling like a large metallic version of a roly-poly in the wind. The front windshield popped out, but thankfully we came to a halt, albeit overturned, traumatized and shaken, but otherwise unscathed.

My roommate Dan and his girlfriend, Diane, were following us and witnessed the action. They quickly pulled over to help us extricate ourselves out through the now open windshield. When I realized we were still alive and somewhat mentally functional, I looked around. There wasn’t a cliff to be seen, no chasm, no wall, nothing but the vast expanse of west Texas monotony and the debris of a single vehicle accident. We gathered our belongings and piled into Dan’s car. We shivered from shock as we headed to Pecos and an emergency room. Hospital staff and police asked questions.  I’m sure they suspected drugs or alcohol, but we were completely sober, just very confused. Somehow, we managed to continue our trip a day later, now in one vehicle, to the Big Bend and our raft trip.  We left the totaled Bug in Pecos.

After returning to Boulder several days later, I sought help, realizing that I had a medical problem. I visited Wardenburg Health Center on campus, where I was diagnosed as having anxiety neurosis.  I was prescribed Valium to calm an overactive waking-dream life. I soon discovered that sleep walking is not an acceptable condition for service in the military.  I was rejected by the army after I failed my draft physical several months later. So, this near tragic event had a silver lining, one allowing me to escape the Vietnam War, but I feel sadness for those whose names are carved on the black granite memorial in Washington DC, for their ultimate sacrifice.

Here’s Thad’s Beetle story: 

During my junior year in Rapid City at South Dakota School of Mines, my friend Tom from Kentucky approached me with a proposition.  His younger sister, Pam, was soon to visit, and he hoped I would take her out on a date. She was pretty wild according to his description.  He was right.  Tom knew I had recently lost my 1955 Dodge station wagon in an accident that occurred under dubious circumstances, but he volunteered his 1960 VW Bug for the event anyway. Tom was a trusting soul.  An unfortunate incident took place late on the evening in question. 

We met at Tom’s place, where he introduced me to Pam.  We got acquainted and soon left Tom and his wife at a local movie theater.  I recommended we drive to Deadwood, the legendary frontier town 35 miles northwest of Rapid City. The old gold mining hub had a colorful history and was home to numerous establishments including the No. 10 Saloon.  The Old No. 10 was packed full of historic Deadwood memorabilia, the place where Wild Bill Hickok was (presumably) shot while playing poker in 1876.  Pam whole heartedly agreed to the adventure.  She seemed like the party type.  We left Rapid City and headed north on highway 79, through Sturgis, then west on highway 14 to Deadwood, while I gave Pam a guided geologic tour of the northern Black Hills. 

Our first stop was a tavern carved out of an abandoned mine shaft in Lead, a nearby community.  It was called The Inferno, a popular hangout for college kids from nearby Black Hills State College in Spearfish.  I clearly impressed Pam because she had never consumed beer in an abandoned gold mine.  Not many people have!  Our next destination was the No. 10 Saloon.  When we arrived, I immediately pointed to the bullet hole in the mirror behind the long mahogany bar, apparently placed there during a fight years ago.  We easily snagged a table and soaked in the ambience.  The place was nearly empty, a weekday night in a small town, long before the reintroduction of gambling and the development of places like Cadillac Jack’s Gaming Resort.  When our first round arrived, we wandered through the place, looking at old framed photographs and miscellaneous trivia from the old west.  We had a marvelous time while consuming several pitchers of beer.

It must have been around midnight when we left the No. 10.  We may have closed the place, but I can’t remember.  A lot of time has passed since that night in 1967.  I must have suggested taking highway 385 back to Rapid City, a narrow winding route through the middle of “The Hills” rather than retracing our route through Sturgis.  Somewhere south of town I lost control of Tom’s Bug, probably by hitting the edge of the shoulder on a curve, maybe a sharp drop where the pavement met gravel. The bug rotated and flipped at least once and landed upside down in a ditch next to the road.  Surprisingly, we were unhurt but dazed.  Luck was clearly with us, especially considering that nearby sections of the road had steep drop offs.  After all, we were in the mountains.  We managed to open the side door windows and crawl out.  It took a while to flag down a passing vehicle and survey the damage.  The mangled Bug was no more.  A state trooper soon appeared, and remarkably, I wasn’t issued a ticket.  I doubt that alcohol was even mentioned.  It was a single vehicle accident in the mid-60s, and we must have seemed sober.  My ego and reputation as a lady’s man was totaled too that evening. I soon bought Tom a new car, a two-tone 1960 Mercury sedan, for $300, a lot of money in 1967. He seemed happy with the arrangement.  After all, he had acquired a much nicer vehicle for free and got the scrap price for his Beetle. I was still carless and out $300. My reputation as a ladies man ended that evening too.