'58 Chevy Apache Fleetside
By David Stenhouse
“Somebody bought it, David”
I was heartbroken. Sick. The two-toned brown 1958 Chevy Apache Fleetside pickup truck had been parked at the corner of Gibson and N. Lake Street in Chelan, Washington for quite a while. A friend of the family had owned the pickup for years and was looking to sell it. My brother gave me the idea to buy it and a spark led to a fire. After turning 16 I was ready to own my own classic vehicle, yet I was a bit short with the money I had saved up. I had made numerous stops by the truck parked on the side of the road, just looking at it from a distance. My desire to own it had been overwhelming and now my Dad had told me somebody had beat me to it.
“You did. You bought it”.
He had scribbled the words “You Did” on a piece of paper, revealing that page to me while sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of our living room. My parents surprised me and I really didn’t understand what was happening at that moment. They had paid for it and now notified me it was mine. Well, it was actually theirs and I was now tasked with paying them back in full. I can’t remember if my parents charged me interest, but at that moment it didn’t matter. That moment is one of my many impactful memories, far down the list from my wedding day and the birth of my daughter. But it is on the list.
I don’t remember driving it for the first time, however, I remember what it was like to have a vehicle of my own. I was an American kid and it was the 80’s where American kids wanted big hair, fast cars, muscles, and more freedom. When my 16th birthday rolled around, I was expected to go through the right of passage and get a driver’s license. And then buy the car. That’s just how small-town Generation X rolls.
I spent the better part of the 18 months paying off my debt. While I had recently sold my Honda dirt bike for a few hundred dollars and had saved up funds for over a year, this task required me to work daytime at a local resort and then nights bussing tables at a restaurant. The incoming revenue chipped away at the balance—a welcomed project.
I Wanted Bright, Loud, and Fast
No kid in the 80s ever dreamt about owning a car shaped like the vehicles of today. At least not in my view of the world. Loud V-8’s, curves, chrome, and bright colors. That’s all I wanted. I am so happy that I didn’t grow up with electric vehicles. I wanted to smoke the tires and impress the girls with a sharp hot rod where a passerby could feel the power of the gas pedal pressed to the floor. My truck held a 327 small block, 4-speed transmission, and 4.11 rear end. I was going to use all of it.
My desire had been ignited in the early 80s, where my brother owned a 1955 Chevy stepside 4x4 pickup. I would have been around 12 years old and remember him driving it around Chelan. When he bought it, the truck was primer grey but it was different and I thought it was cool. He later had the truck painted a burgundy red, sporting chrome wheels. I believe this was his 3rd or 4th vehicle at the time, but it was my favorite. The classic truck was tall on its 4x4 frame and hard for a kid to get into, but I did. He eventually let me drive it when I was around 13 or 14. Our family-owned orchards in neighboring Manson, where I was to go out and “help” my brother who operated two locations approximately a mile from each other. I’m not sure how much of a help I was, however when we would be at the far orchard away from the shop, he would send me back to the house to pick up tools. “Take the truck” was all I would hear. Fumbling with the 4-speed stick was difficult, grinding gears but experiencing a few minutes of freedom and listening to the radio. I was living the dream during those short jaunts.
I had wanted a pickup just like it, and now I had one.
Don’t Impress The Girls. Impress The Dads.
I noticed a trend among some of the girls that attended high school in Chelan and in the neighboring town of Manson. They may not have been impressed with my hot rod, but I was told more than once, “my Dad likes your truck”. Much like a guy that walks a sweet dog in the park to attract women, I guess I was trolling for approval from local Dads—and winning it.
My brother and I spent an evening in a workshop drilling holes in my truck’s frame and installing seatbelts so I could have my then-girlfriend-now-wife ride with me. My future father-in-law would not allow her to ride in my ‘58 unless seatbelts were installed and I respected that. My brother found a set in the wrecking yard, told me to pay him back, and we installed them. I made sure her set was in the middle position of the bench seat. I had an installation location preference and I was going to exercise my advantage. She would have no choice but to sit right next to me and I was cleared to take my girl out cruising.
I bought a mid-to-low-level stereo, amplifier, and speakers. I cannot remember if my brother gave me boxes to cover the speakers but I eventually made my own in my high school woodshop class. I gave each enough wire so I could pull them out of the truck, placing them on the pickup bed sides so I could listen to music while working outside.
I used my two high school shop classes to pull out some of the leaf springs in the front end to drop it a bit and giving it a smoother look. There were so many plans I had for that truck. I cruised the streets of Wenatchee after Apple Blossom parades. In Chelan, I would pull my truck into the Lakeview Drive-In or Safeway parking lot and hang out with friends watching “West Siders” from the Puget Sound area visiting the area and walking by.
I tried to wash it once a week whether it needed it or not. I used protectant on the tires and the truck bed’s tonneau cover, vacuumed the interior, and wiped down everything. I would clean the engine compartment because I had to be ready to answer the question of “what’s under the hood”. I waxed the entire paint surface in the Spring and then again in the Fall. I spent so much time babying my truck that my Dad reminded in his Sunday school class that I was turning the vehicle into my own little idol, on the verge of breaking a Commandment.
I never thought of naming my ‘58 and now wonder why I didn’t.
The Day My World Stopped
I cannot remember who came into the classroom, but during the Spring of my senior year someone walked into the room and said to me, “Stenhouse, someone hit your truck”.
Like any other car lover, I didn’t like to park my truck next to other cars. Yes, I am one of those that park away from all the group and find myself questioning the mental aptitude of those that pull into a spot right next to mine. I believe that if I moved to a wide-open plain in Eastern Montana, and if I didn’t buy a big enough lot of land, someone would move in right next to me and let their trees overgrow my property line into my yard. So I would park on the east side of the school, where the only option was parallel parking on a low-traveled street. No door dings were possible in that spot.
A local had experienced a medical issue while driving by the school and veered off of the road, striking my truck head on as it sat on the side of the street. He was rushed to the hospital and I didn’t know the person. When looking at the truck, I was surprised how the driver had hit my vehicle only while missing others parked in front and to the rear. No amount of washing, waxing, and maintenance was going to fix this damage. The front had a nice cave-in with the grill pushed back towards the engine compartment. The front bumper and hood had some damage that was going to require a bit of bodywork. I was pretty upset.
My brother told me I should pay an auto body shop on top of what the insurance paid and have the truck straightened and repainted a new color. Not just any color, but a bright one. He thought a yellow or orange would be nice and make the truck stand out. I thought about it and wasn’t completely sure. Another friend of the family spotted me looking at car magazines in the Safeway grocery store and told me I should paint it a bright color, such as corvette yellow. Two car guys couldn’t be wrong (and I wonder if they were talking to each other in the background).
I chose yellow.
For my graduation gift, my parents bought me much-needed new tires, and my brother had my headlight frames and front vent chromed. When the ‘58 was finished and rolled out of the shop, it was like changing hair color—very hard to take, yet exciting to see. I loved it.
I pulled into a 76 gas station on an early evening to fill up and paid the man behind the counter. He introduced himself as the man that had hit my truck. He told me when he found out what truck he had struck during his episode that he felt awful and embarrassed. He apologized to me, and I let him know the incident made the truck better. I loved the new look so he shouldn’t feel bad. And after all, he couldn’t help what happened.
Sometime after the work was finished I was stopped by a state trooper just outside of town. He instructed me to get a mirror on the driver’s side, but included that he liked the truck. I remembered the moment and tried to do the same later in my years in the Washington State Patrol, letting a number of drivers know that I appreciated the work that went into their custom vehicle.
Fall was arriving in 1987 and I was to be off to college. My Dad rolled home on a summer afternoon driving a baby blue 1972 Ford Maverick. It was ugly and I wondered who owned it. He told me he bought it for me and that’s what I was driving to college. My truck was to be left in a neighbor’s summer house garage while I was at school. I would be allowed to drive the truck when I returned for summer. Not my choice but my parents made a great decision. My pickup sat in the garage under a car cover and I missed it.
Coming home from college one winter weekend in 1988, I pulled the truck out of the neighbor’s garage and gave it a nice wash, wanting to take it out for a drive. I couldn’t due to a break in insurance coverage. But the day was sunny so I put on my aviators and a fleece Levi's jacket, snapping a timed 35mm photo off of the roof of my Maverick. A 1980s selfie.
Over the coming months, the time with my “58 Chevy was winding down with college and other interests taking up much of my days. The Maverick was working out well and I was learning the value of practicality. I eventually sold the truck to a friend from high school who sold it to another local. It disappeared from Chelan in the 1990s.
Memories Are Sweeter Than Reality
When you are young, everything is grand. This is especially true growing up in a small town bubble where objects in the mirror are farther away than they appear. Anything shiny, flashy, and loud may be seen as the best around. In reality, a short drive to a neighboring town may reveal similar items that are the same or much better.
My ‘58 Apache was the same. An old Chevy truck with a great engine and a wonderful paint job. Other than that, it was a bucket of bolts. The rear bumper had a slight twist to it if you took the time to scrutinize. Looking back, the truck was light years behind some of the builds I see now. But to a young man in high school, it was my dream vehicle. Objects can be representative of a time in one’s life. My truck represented the time between the awarding of my driver’s license and my freshman year in college. Such a short period, yet a timeframe full of great, big memories.
I have read that a rising amount of younger people do not have the desire to own a vehicle but would rather ride public transportation—a thought that makes no sense at all to me, and I am not inclined to believe such surveys. The yearning for freedom is in me and I tend to believe it resides in us all. To those that believe they would rather ride a bus or train riding under the control of others, I will keep you in my prayers. I have learned throughout time that the crowd that loves hot vehicles is also a crowd that doesn’t like rules, pushing back at any chance against those that impose those rules. I want to reside in their group.
I can still feel the uneven tension when rolling up the driver’s window. The shifting of the gears. The hum of the defroster that warmed up much quicker than usual because I left the truck outside plugged into an engine block heater. The sounds and smell of an old truck driven every morning to school and listening to the radio still can be felt by me over three decades later.
Would I want it back? Sure. I still have the VIN recorded somewhere and I believe the truck ended up in Snohomish, Washington—a 45 minute drive from my current residence, and yes I have thought about tracking it down. However, that was years ago and I definitely don’t need it back. I don’t even have a garage. The memories I made with that truck are enough and I am thankful to my parents for providing cash up front to purchase my little dream. I’m also appreciative of my brother for his advice and help when I couldn’t figure how to fix an issue or just maintain my little bit of freedom.
My daughter seems to have the special cool-car gene that provides a yearning for a hot vehicle. She has recently informed me a Chevy Camaro resides sometime in her future—a wonderful choice. I can’t wait to ride in it with her, picking up a latte with her Chihuahua in the back seat. It looks as one of my better traits has been passed on.
Carrying around a camera since childhood, David Stenhouse has a love for capturing and writing about machines, people, and the U.S.A. He is now so blessed to spend each day running a business with his best friend, high school sweetheart, and wife, Shay.