The story behind The King of Mush Mountain ...

The King of Mush Mountain isn't entirely fiction. There are some basic elements that came directly from a strange experience I had back in the early seventies, and it involves a story of its own.

One day I was out surfing at Old Joe's in front of my friend, John Kiewit's, parent's house in the Malibu Colony when John's father, Ralph, cruised by on his Hobie Cat and yelled out, "Hey Bob. Want to earn some money?"

At the time I was between jobs and waiting for the new job to start in a few weeks time. So the thought of earning some money had a certain appeal."

"Sounds good to me," I shouted as he sailed past.

"Come up to the house later," he yelled after he'd jibed and sailed past again.

Ralph owned one of the biggest construction companies in the country and wanted me to do a one-off job for him. I was to fly down to Florida, pick up a new Ford pick-up truck at a huge project his company was finishing off on the eastern coast of Northern Florida and drive it back to the company's California headquarters. 

The pick-up had a locked reinforced steel box built into bed at the back of the cab and, cushioned in foam rubber, the box contained some newly developed laser surveying equipment that was worth several new pick-up trucks in those days. 

All my expenses would be paid for, I'd be paid for driving the valuable equipment back and I had ten days to complete my mission. 

A two days later, Ralph handed me the airline ticket, an envelop containing a thousand dollars in twenty dollar bills and a credit card that I could use at gas stations.

"This should cover your expenses, but if you need more let me know and I'll wire it to you," said Ralph. "You can keep whatever you don't spend and don't bother with receipts except for gas." Since cheap motel rooms were around $25 or less a night and food and drink could cost me around $20 or less a day, I was on my way with a smile.

The flight down was memorable only because my connecting flight to Florida was delayed and I was put up in a tiny hotel room at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport overnight. The room was designed for pigmies with a small, uncomfortable bed and a window that looked out on the solid wall a few inches away. The airline paid for the room and my dinner, but the food in the hotel was something you'd expect at a Denny's and I didn't get much sleep, wondering how I'd get out in the case of a fire.

The following morning the phone on the tiny desk in front of the useless window rang shortly after 4:00am and an enthusiastic voice informed me that my flight would be boarding in the not too distant future. I arrived in Jacksonville just a few hours later, was met by one of Ralph's foremen, whisked away to the construction site near Jacksonville, handed the keys to the truck and started making my way back towards California before ten.

Before I left California I got an up-to-date AA road map and decided to return to California via Interstate 10 so I could visit New Orleans and a couple of other places. I figured I wouldn't get another chance like this again.

From the construction site near the beach outside of Jacksonville I headed west across the bridge that connected to Interstate 10 and across the top of Florida until I reached Highway 231, hung a left down to Panama City and took the route along the Gulf Coast. As the sun started to set I found a small, funky motel, ate an amazing seafood dinner at an equally funky cafe and fell asleep to the sound water lapping along the white sand beach.

The next morning I was up early and didn't eat a late breakfast until I reached Biloxi, Mississippi where I made a complete fool of myself trying to chat up the waitress at a roadside cafe. After my second cup of coffee, I complimented her on her accent, adding that I really loved the way Southerners spoke. A first she just looked at me like I was crazy. Then she laughed and explained that she was actually German. And just in case I hadn't got the message, she added that she'd met her husband while he was in the US Army stationed in Germany. Otherwise the breakfast was monumental. But it was clearly time to finish my coffee and be on my way.

Once I got to New Orleans I spent a lot of time looking around for a place to stay and settled for a small "hotel" near the French Quarter. I was able to park the pick-up on the street outside and walk everywhere else. And walk I did.

In fact, I walked and partied and ate and drank and explored right through the night ... and the next. I didn't want to miss a minute of it and what I experienced and saw is another story in itself ... even though much of it is so unbelievable that someone who hadn't been to New Orleans in those days would consider it to be fiction. I'll have to check on the statute of limitations.

In any event, I'd spent a few dollars during my two nights in New Orleans and was glad I'd taken along some extra money just for that purpose. But except for the alcohol, everything else was a lot cheaper than I'd budgeted for, including cover charges in the clubs.

After staggering out of New Orleans, reconnecting with Interstate 10 and taking a good look at Baton Rouge, the going was fairly steady. After New Orleans I cut down on expenses by grabbing snacks at convenience stores, eating at fast-food places, stopping at places where I could sleep in my sleeping bag at the back of the pick-up and showering in public facilities at state parks.

There were some incidents along the way, like witnessing a fight between two gangs in a parking lot in Texas, but my only additional side trips were a quick visit to the Alamo in San Antonio and a memorable day enjoying Ciudad Juárez after leaving the pickup in a secured parking area in El Paso and walking over the border.

Otherwise, I drove from sunup to sunset ... until I pulled off the highway and parked in front of a faux-adobe 7-eleven outside of Tempe, Arizona and went in to get a cheese burrito and a beer to wash it down with.

As I stepped from the icy store back out into a blast of hot dry air, I was temporarily blinded by the glaring sun, blinked and thought I must be imagining things. Turing the corner of a nearby street were three boys on BMX bikes carrying surfboards under their arms.

So I followed them and spent part of the day at the world's biggest inland surfing beach described in the story. In real life it was called Big Surf instead of Surf City. Except for that, the the story's fictional Surf City was very similar to the real thing. 

An aerial shot of Big Surf taken from space.
Courtesy of G Scott Imaging.

Post card showing Big Surf
on a busy day

The Locals really did act as if they owned the place, the rest of the people really did look like they had been airlifted from a popular beach in Southern California and the board I rented was yellow. The girl who sold me my ticket smiled, the lard-assed ex-jock who took it from me was a jerk and my description of the wave machine is fairly accurate. Otherwise, the rest of the story pure fiction.

- Bob Feigel, 14 June 2007 

The Story Behind the Story© Robert R. Feigel 2007 - All Rights Reserved

Big Surf in Tempe, Arizona is alive and well today - almost 40 years after it opened in 1969! I understand that there's even a surf shop nearby. 

Further information about Big Surf, it's history and what it's like today can be accessed via these links:

Type the following address into Google Earth: 1500 North McClintock Drive, Tempe, AZ

History: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,839074,00.html

Historical article: http://www.gscottimaging.com/images/archives.html

Recent article: http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/local/articles/0629surfingaz29.html?&wired

The following scans of a Big Surf brochure, courtesy of G Scott Imaging: