“The Closing Chapter of the Utah Trip Story,” or “The Lesson I Never Seem to Learn”
September 29th, 2007So yes, the trip was wonderful. It was not, however, without incident. Our last day entailed a loooong drive home from Moab. Setting out from our hotel, I looked at the gas gauge (I can see you THINK you know where this is going, but oh, you have NO idea) … anyway, there was more than half a tank. Looking at the map, I saw that within an hour, we would be on major U.S. highways for the entire trip. (We would later learn that David took a peek at the gas gauge as well and had the same thought.)
So we drive along out of the boonies and onto I-70. Again, this is a MAJOR U.S. highway … with NO TOWNS on it. The only exits we pass are labeled Ranch Exits, which means they open onto rough, dirt roads that snake off into the Utah wilderness. We don’t worry until two hours into the trip, when the Gas Light comes on, and, looking at the map, we realize we are smack in the middle of NOTHINGNESS FOR MILES IN ALL DIRECTIONS. No need to panic: We have David’s GPS! GPS says the nearest gas station on I-70 is more than 45 miles away. We aren’t going to make that. BUT, says GPS, if we take the upcoming “Moore Cutoff” exit, we can be in the town of Emery in 17 miles. THIS we can do.
Here’s where I make my first poor decision. The options are these: [A] Pull over on I-70 and call AAA; wait an hour until a tow-truck brings us gas, or [B] Take an unknown dirt road into the hills of Utah with almost NO GAS in the tank.
“B” it is!
So we take Moore Cutoff. It is a dirt road. There are no other vehicles on it. Not one. We are nervous about being lost with no gas on this dirt road, so I am coasting down hills in Neutral.
Five miles into the road, we both lose cell phone service.
Eight miles into the road, we come over a hill, and I make my second poor decision. It is a split-second decision that goes like this: “Yikes! Those ruts in the mud at the bottom of this hill look very muddy. Mud is bad. But that gray stuff to the right of the ruts—that could be dry, right?”
Seconds later finds the Golfie stuck. In. The. Mud. People, I’m talking about some deep mud. Black Utah CLAY mud. It is up to the doors. It is up INTO the engine. “Sploogshe.” I can’t get the car to rock forward and back. We get out and, up to our shins in vacuum-sucking mud, attempt to push the car. No luck.
Did I mention it’s COLD? Did I mention we are eight to ten miles from the highway? Did I mention we are another eight to ten miles from the nearest TOWN? Did I mention there are NO OTHER CARS on this road?? How about that we haven’t eaten breakfast? Or that I am 18 weeks pregnant and can barely walk up the STAIRS IN MY HOUSE without feeling faint?
There is no point in belaboring these points, so David and I both get ready to hike the eight to ten miles into town. For me, this means grabbing a jacket, water, and some cereal bars. For David, this means loading himself up with his heavy camera gear and laptop bag, because all of these people we DON’T see driving down this road? Thieves. Thieves who are willing to slog through three feet of mud to boost our electronics. (I convinced him to put them back in the car, but poor David felt nervous the whole time about it. I think when faced with a situation this stressful, we all direct our anxieties to surprising places. I decided, of course, that the hike into town would cause severe damage to the fetus; my imagination was eating me alive.)
Before you go thinking we actually DID hike that eight to ten miles, let me introduce you to Dick Hancock, also known as The Man You Should All Ask God to Make Win the Lottery. Dick is a 72-year-old Ferron, Utah, resident. He smokes “Dean’s Lil Cigars.” And he likes to hunt Elk off Moore’s Cutoff.
Lucky thing number one is that David and I encounter Dick’s pickup just a quarter of a mile along the road.
Lucky thing number two is that Dick is NOT off hunting elk for hours, miles from his truck, but is dealing with a broken chain on his ATV, which has tracks instead of wheels, and which is stuck in the mud just a hundred feet or so down the trail. Dick is not a nice or not-nice guy. He is the kind of folks who just don’t think twice about helping a stranger. He’s not “happy” to do it, nor does it seem to put him out in any way. Two people arrive in front of him who are in a jam. What you do is, you help them; what else would you do, is Dick’s way of thinking.
Dick’s son, a wheelchair-bound also-hunter, is in the ATV, prepared to wait for Dick to fix the situation THEY are in. Dick’s on his way into town (Ferron, a little past Emery) to get another chain. I ask if he would mind carting one of us along, so we can get a tow truck.
“I dont know that there’s a tow truck IN town,” he says in his country accent. “But what’s your trouble?” I explain that we have a VW compact stuck in three feet of mud up the road.
“Well, I can probably get you out of that,” he says.
And he DOES! He backs up his truck to the mud-hole, gets out a handy hook-and-cable thing, and just like that, the Golfie is FREE. Then Dick leads us into town, keeping an eye on us in case we run out of gas … which we DO, right in front of a GAS STATION, and right in front of Dick’s house (and I have now mentioned 50 percent of the buildings in Ferron, Utah).
Dick lends us a gas can, which David walks over to a pump and fills so we can drive the Golfie the few remaining feet to fuel. I put 50 bucks in Dick’s pickup and tell him there’s something in there for his troubles, because I don’t want him to think we aren’t grateful … and because I think I have never BEEN more grateful. To ANYONE. He argues with me a lot about it, and demands I go get it, etc. Even though I explain that he has saved us an incredible amount in towing fees, not to mention TIME, not to MENTION DEATH IN THE UTAH WILDERNESS, he is adamant. I get the feeling that for him, it’s like being given money to take out the trash. Does not compute. But I’ve hidden it well, in his cigarette pack, and I distract him with questions about elk meat and how he will get his son out of the mud and about the many cars and ATVs on his property. He shows me a backhoe.
“If I can’t get him out with the right chain, I’ll get him out with this,” he says.
Then he says, “There is one thing you can do for me, I guess. I’ve been meaning to sell this car, and if you know of anyone down there who might want a car like this, you could give them my number.” With this, he leads me to a tarp-closed carport. Inside is a 1973 Buick Riviera, maroon, MINT CONDITION, all original everything. Looks like it has been kept in this vault lovingly since its day of purchase. Dick explains that he bought the car as part of his retirement projects “To Do” list ten years ago. He says he has no idea what it’s worth, but, Readers, if you want a stunning 1970s-era car, please let me know!
Meanwhile, say a word of thanks, in whatever way you do that, for this man who saved us more than a lot of time. I don’t know how that hike into town would have gone.
Also, know for your own reference that it’s very STRESSFUL to drive the rest of the way on a long trip with a car that has thick mud in the engine. Your clutch might not be happy, and you might get a speeding ticket trying to make it to Vegas while mechanics are still open, only to decide to push it the rest of the way home and then pay to have your engine steam-cleaned, which will solve the problem but not alleviate the stress-knot in your gut that persists well into Friday as you blog about your mishap. It’s just one possibility.
I leave you with these:
The Golfie after Dick rescued her from the mud (this photo does not convey the DEPTH of the mud or the amount of it smashed into the front of the car, but you get the idea)
