The Lost Trail!

Tick. Tick. Tick.

That was Rusty’s engine. It ticked like an old clock. A tired old clock that would not stop.

Rusty ran the Junkyard. He was a retired monster truck, sun-faded brick red, with a few rust freckles. He had a chrome grille guard and two warm amber headlights. On his front bumper sat a winch, and its cable was patched in three places.

Forty years ago, Rusty was one of Rumble City’s very first monster trucks. Everybody knew that. Rusty made sure of it.

On this Sunday morning, the whole Mash Motors Crew had come to visit. The night before, Torque had won Freestyle Frenzy. Her winning ramp had taken a lot of lifting. Now the little pulley wheel on her crane arm was worn almost flat, and she needed a new one.

And when you need an old part, you go to Rusty’s.

The Junkyard had towers of tires and barrels of springs. It had canyons of pipes and gears, and crates and crates of bolts. Rusty never threw anything away.

“Everything here is a part for something,” he liked to say. “It just doesn’t know what yet.”

Torque smiled. Last night, a pile of rubble had turned out to be a ramp.

Five trucks rolled into Rusty’s workshop. The sixth one tried.

Big Stomp was very big. Rusty’s workshop door was not. He squeezed. He wiggled. His side bumped the wall.

The wall shook. A shelf rattled. And an old hubcap hopped right off its hook.

CLANG!

It hit the floor and rolled across the workshop. Round and round it went, wobbling like a spinning coin. Wubba-wubba-wubba. Slower. Slower. It spun down flat, right in front of Mudslide.

“Sorry, Rusty!” said Big Stomp.

“That wall’s been bumped before, kid,” said Rusty. “It’s used to it.”

Mudslide looked down at the hubcap. It was big and round and old. And it was covered in scratches.

The scratches made a picture. A mountain. Lots of little trees. A wiggly line winding up through them. A wavy line for water. Tiny arrows. And right at the top, a little circle with lines all around it, like a sun.

“Dude,” said Mudslide softly. “That’s Mud Mountain.”

He looked closer. His headlights narrowed.

“I know every trail on that mountain,” he said. “Every single one.” Then he went quiet. “But not this one.”

Rusty’s amber headlights glowed a little warmer.

“That,” he said, “is the lost trail.”

He rolled closer, slow and creaky. “That hubcap came off my own front wheel, a long time ago. I scratched the map on it with the tip of my winch hook, so I’d never forget the way.”

His engine ticked while he remembered.

“Back in my day, that trail was the best drive on the whole mountain,” said Rusty. “Up through the old forest. Over the creek. Up the rocks at the top. And then you came out at the Lookout.”

“What’s the Lookout?” asked Bounce.

“A flat rock at the top of the world. You could see all of Rumble City from up there. Every road. Every roof. All the way to the sea.”

“Why take a slow trail,” asked Nitro, “when you can take a fast road?”

“Because the slow trail went somewhere the fast road couldn’t,” said Rusty.

Nitro started to answer. Then he stopped, and thought about that instead.

“Why don’t you go up there now?” asked Bounce.

Rusty looked down at his big old tires. “These tires are worn smooth. I sit too low for big rocks. And my engine can’t push up the steep bits like it used to.” He said it the way you might say it was raining. “I remember every rock on that mountain. I just can’t climb them anymore.”

He didn’t sound sad. He’d had his turn on that mountain. A long and happy one.

“Nobody drives that trail now,” he said. “The trees grew over it. The moss grew over the arrows. I bet nobody else even knows where the Lookout is.”

Big Stomp looked at the little sun scratched at the top of the hubcap. Something inside his engine gave a tug.

“Rusty,” he said. “What if we found it for you?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You’d do that?”

“We’d LOVE to do that!” said Big Stomp, and the whole crew revved their engines at once.

Rusty was quiet for a long moment. “Then find the Lookout for me,” he said at last. “And come back and tell me if the view is still there.”

Big Stomp’s headlights shone.

“We’re going to find your trail, Rusty,” he said. “Today.”