Maybe two weeks ago there was a thunderstorm here in Western Kentucky that kept me awake most the night. You see, I don’t like thunderstorms. I get “skeered.” I stay awake waiting for the tornado warning sirens, or the smell of a fire from lightning striking the house, or a million other little fears I have about thunderstorms.

Oh, along with that, I worry about flash floods.

Thunderstorms with lots of rain and tornadoes kill lots of people here in the United States every year. If you’re in the Midwest, there is a pretty good chance you can see the results of a storm. Trees, houses, cars and stuff in big piles all over.

I tell folks here in Kentucky that I like to surf. They comment: “You could get killed by a shark.” The real numbers show that shark attacks cause only about one death per year in the USA. More dangerous are cows. On average about 22 folks die each year from cows. Lots of cows here in the Midwest.

And then I hear: “You have earthquakes. How can you live with that? It scares me to death.” Well, there is no warning, but the big ones don’t happen that often. Not like a tornado or hurricane. I also reply: “Did you know the largest, most violent earthquake in the U.S. happened in Missouri, in New Madrid on the Mississippi River?” That fault is due to slip again soon. Less than 100 miles from where I am right now.

Of course, we have our infamous traffic jams, which are a perfect example of an unnatural disaster. I’m still convinced the worst jams are caused by tourists who don’t realize the speed limit signs indicate the minimum speed of travel allowed in the slow lane. (Not really, but it seems that way.)

Meanwhile, back to the original subject – thunderstorms. Flash floods. Winds and lots of rain and lightning. Many of us take the “shortcut” to the I-15 to go east. Highway 14 to the Pearblossum Highway sign. On through that town and Littlerock, past Charlie Brown’s, and continuing east. Soon Highway 138 splits from that road, but taking the slight left we continue to Victorville.

This used to be a really fun stretch of road.

Back in the day, the roadway was a series of undulating rises and dips, and at the right speed, you could go airborne. Even in a 1953 Packard Clipper. It was in the dips that one had to be careful, because if you saw clouds and storms over the mountains to the south, you knew those dips could be full of water from a flash flood.

Sure, there were signs that warned you, but in an effort to “catch some air” we tended to ignore the warnings. If you’ve ever sped into a puddle about five inches deep at a high speed, you’ll know how that feels. If you haven’t performed that particular stunt, let me assure you, it isn’t something you want to experience. The Packard slowed and water sprayed over, under and around it. Light brown, muddy water full of sand. Fortunately the windows were shut. Unfortunately the distributor cap leaked, and without electricity to the spark plugs, a little over two tons of vehicle came to a halt. At least it was halted on a rise.

We knew the problem. I got out and opened the hood. Took off the distributor cap and with a dry rag wiped it and the inside of the distributor mostly dry. Cap back on, it took only a few revolutions of the starter and that old straight-8 engine sputtered to life with all cylinders firing after a couple of minutes of run time.

We could hear the thunder now, and the lightning seemed closer, as was the rain. Thank goodness the rise I had stopped on was one of the highest in the series of dips and rises, because it was obvious we weren’t going to move for a little while. The washes in front and behind were soon filled two or three feet deep in a classic flash-flood in the desert. No movement possible. There were other cars on other rises ahead and behind. Didn’t see any stuck in the dips.

Today those dips and rises are gone, and the road is nearly flat. Culverts under the road keep those pesky floods away from the roadway. They also mean only a few of us know the joy of getting a 1953 Packard Clipper completely off the ground without wings. We also did it without seat belts, crash helmets, a roll cage or any safety device known today. Of course, we were the same kids who didn’t wear helmets or knee and elbow protection when on our bicycles.

It was a day of thunderstorms when I took the old 1953 Packard Clipper up the PCO Hill in Pico Canyon and aimed it to go over the edge into the company trash heap. Transmission nearly shot and lots of oily smoke belching from the exhaust, I placed the cement block on the gas pedal. Driver’s door open, I was standing on the ground and reached inside to shift the car into gear.

The big and heavy Ultramatic transmission took a little while to get the car moving, but in the 40 feet between the starting point and the edge of the cliff, it quickly picked up speed. Rain was pouring down in torrents as the faithful old car made its last leap in the air. It was going fast enough so the front didn’t start to drop until the rear wheels started over the edge, too. And then it fell. I heard the engine die as the last little bit of gasoline was consumed in the plunge.

It hit the piles of bottles, cans and trash that was the “Mentryville dump” for at least 60 years. No flames erupted. And it got stuck in the pile of old metal, nearly upside-down.

I backed up against the cliff on the uphill side of the road. Scant protection was had from the rain. A bolt of lightning on the north ridge of the canyon brought me to my senses. I ran down the hill to what we called the old firehouse and had some shelter while the rain passed. I was soaked and a little cold.

Only later did I realize the old shed was covered in sheet-metal roofing material. You can see that metal today at the front gate to the old town. The metal was used for the recently restored pole barn at the gate.

It was in looking back that I became fearful of thunderstorms, because if a bolt of lightning had hit the old shed, well, now I figure I’ve dodged enough lightning in my life. I’m not tempting it again.

That dump was cleaned out when Chevron sold the place to the Mountains Conservancy. There were two or three other cars or parts of cars in that pile. That old Clipper had a last flight. Maybe it was an epic flight. It became the stuff of new cars and razors, and now it comes to the end of the story.

Darryl Manzer grew up in the Pico Canyon oil town of Mentryville in the 1960s and attended Hart High School. After a career in the U.S. Navy he returned to live in the Santa Clarita Valley. He can be reached at dmanzer@scvhistory.com and his commentaries, published on Tuesdays and Sundays, are archived at DManzer.com. Watch his walking tour of Mentryville [here].