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About this time last year my wife Jo Ann and I decided to take the dogs for a hike and do some preseason turkey scouting. We headed out in the truck to a high blueberry barren at the end of a long dirt road. Spring thaw was in full swing, but a new cell tower had recently been erected atop this barren, so I figured the road in would be passable. We proceeded to climb a slight grade, and at one corner it looked a little soft. “Hmmm, this road isn’t looking too good,” I said, to which my intrepid companion returned, “You have 4-wheel drive don’t you?”
Women.
So, I pushed the 4HI button and we slid around the bend. We motored on a few dozen yards until the earth literally dropped out from under us and the truck just sank up to its running boards in what amounted to quicksand. I tried 4LO, but the spinning wheels and rocking only deepened our predicament. We were mired, miles from home, with no shovel, and had forgotten our cell phones. (A lot of good that new tower did us.) When we leashed the dogs for the trek home they didn’t have to jump off the tailgate since it was resting on the road.
Who has a skidda?
As soon I made it home I called a friend who cuts wood and plows snow, including our driveway, with an assortment of heavy equipment. His wife answered the phone—she said her husband was out of town for the day. On to plan B: I remembered a small garage close by that did some towing and headed there in Jo Ann’s car. When I arrived and saw the old-timer and aged flatbed tow truck, I sensed this might get sketchy. I suggested that I should find someone with a skidder or backhoe, but he was willing to look over the situation. So off we went, stopping at my house to grab a shovel.
We parked at the bottom of the dirt road and walked up to the corner where we could see the top of my truck up ahead. His winch would only reach about 100 feet—too short to reach my truck from that first soft corner. He kicked some dirt around, scratched his head and muttered, “Weeeelll, I think I can get up thaya as long as I stick close to the side heya.” He turned the tow truck around and started backing up the dirt road. He came around the corner, and, with tires spitting gravel, sunk into the mud like a crippled ocean liner.
Stuck in the mud takes on new meaning.
The old-timer’s bemused expression never changed. Without a word he parked the truck, grabbed his winch hook, threw the cable over his shoulder, and dragged it 20 yards up the road and securely attached it to a tree trunk. Before he crawled back into the cab he showed me how to operate the winch controls on the side of the truck. Have you ever watched paint dry? That’s how slow this dinosaur crawled out of that abyss: inch, by inch, by inch. Due to the angle, the cable was stretched and straining, creaking and groaning a foot from my head the whole time. After stopping to reset the cable on trees further up the road a couple times, the smoking behemoth finally stood on solid ground.
Free at last, free at last.
I grabbed the shovel and dug out as much dirt and mud from under my rear bumper, trailer hitch, and exhaust pipe as possible. He backed up and I set the winch hook over my hitch ball. I got in, put her in reverse, and he pulled my truck out like buttah.
It ain’t over ’til it’s over.
Now we had a tow truck facing nose downhill, and behind it a pickup facing rear-end downhill, and both had to get past the Grand Canyon we had created getting the tow truck out. I tried turning my truck around, but the road was too narrow and the sides too soft. It was backwards or not at all. My new best friend was able to blast his way through the sinkhole by shear momentum. I put my truck in reverse, said a prayer. and selectively logged the woods on the side of the road as I motored through at a 45-degree angle. I made it! I wrote this taciturn Mainer a nice check, and bid him farewell. It was like seeing an old war buddy drive off.
Pay your debts.
The drive home sounded like someone had poured sand into my wheel bearing. After I filled in low spots in my driveway with the gravel I washed out from under the truck, I took it for a test drive. As I drove by my heavy equipment friend’s house, I saw he was sitting in his truck talking with one of his workers. I drove in and told him what had happened and that his wife had told me he was out of town. He said he had no idea why his wife said that. I made a stab that it was because I still owed them for two plows for the winter just past.
He denied it. This year, I’m staying on top of those plow bills.
Brad Eden is an artist, writer, Registered Maine Master Guide, and owner/editor of the online magazine www.uplandjournal.com.
Women.
So, I pushed the 4HI button and we slid around the bend. We motored on a few dozen yards until the earth literally dropped out from under us and the truck just sank up to its running boards in what amounted to quicksand. I tried 4LO, but the spinning wheels and rocking only deepened our predicament. We were mired, miles from home, with no shovel, and had forgotten our cell phones. (A lot of good that new tower did us.) When we leashed the dogs for the trek home they didn’t have to jump off the tailgate since it was resting on the road.
Who has a skidda?
As soon I made it home I called a friend who cuts wood and plows snow, including our driveway, with an assortment of heavy equipment. His wife answered the phone—she said her husband was out of town for the day. On to plan B: I remembered a small garage close by that did some towing and headed there in Jo Ann’s car. When I arrived and saw the old-timer and aged flatbed tow truck, I sensed this might get sketchy. I suggested that I should find someone with a skidder or backhoe, but he was willing to look over the situation. So off we went, stopping at my house to grab a shovel.
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We parked at the bottom of the dirt road and walked up to the corner where we could see the top of my truck up ahead. His winch would only reach about 100 feet—too short to reach my truck from that first soft corner. He kicked some dirt around, scratched his head and muttered, “Weeeelll, I think I can get up thaya as long as I stick close to the side heya.” He turned the tow truck around and started backing up the dirt road. He came around the corner, and, with tires spitting gravel, sunk into the mud like a crippled ocean liner.
Stuck in the mud takes on new meaning.
The old-timer’s bemused expression never changed. Without a word he parked the truck, grabbed his winch hook, threw the cable over his shoulder, and dragged it 20 yards up the road and securely attached it to a tree trunk. Before he crawled back into the cab he showed me how to operate the winch controls on the side of the truck. Have you ever watched paint dry? That’s how slow this dinosaur crawled out of that abyss: inch, by inch, by inch. Due to the angle, the cable was stretched and straining, creaking and groaning a foot from my head the whole time. After stopping to reset the cable on trees further up the road a couple times, the smoking behemoth finally stood on solid ground.
Free at last, free at last.
I grabbed the shovel and dug out as much dirt and mud from under my rear bumper, trailer hitch, and exhaust pipe as possible. He backed up and I set the winch hook over my hitch ball. I got in, put her in reverse, and he pulled my truck out like buttah.
It ain’t over ’til it’s over.
Now we had a tow truck facing nose downhill, and behind it a pickup facing rear-end downhill, and both had to get past the Grand Canyon we had created getting the tow truck out. I tried turning my truck around, but the road was too narrow and the sides too soft. It was backwards or not at all. My new best friend was able to blast his way through the sinkhole by shear momentum. I put my truck in reverse, said a prayer. and selectively logged the woods on the side of the road as I motored through at a 45-degree angle. I made it! I wrote this taciturn Mainer a nice check, and bid him farewell. It was like seeing an old war buddy drive off.
Pay your debts.
The drive home sounded like someone had poured sand into my wheel bearing. After I filled in low spots in my driveway with the gravel I washed out from under the truck, I took it for a test drive. As I drove by my heavy equipment friend’s house, I saw he was sitting in his truck talking with one of his workers. I drove in and told him what had happened and that his wife had told me he was out of town. He said he had no idea why his wife said that. I made a stab that it was because I still owed them for two plows for the winter just past.
He denied it. This year, I’m staying on top of those plow bills.
Brad Eden is an artist, writer, Registered Maine Master Guide, and owner/editor of the online magazine www.uplandjournal.com.
