Slippery Tractor

A friend told me I should listen to that gut feeling when it says stop.

Stop now.

Stop before you roll head over tea kettle into the creek and watch the tractor land on top of you.

“Oh, stop being a wimp,” I tell myself.

“You do scary things every day.”  

“That sheet of ice isn’t very long.”

“The tractor tires are new, with lots of traction.”

“It’s so much faster to go this way.”

I look at the side hill, gauging whether I would call it a 40-degree angle or is it 45-degrees?

Further down, the hill drops off, I notice, definitely more than a 45-degree angle. Then it cascades to the creek. That must be a 70- or 80-degree angle.

This was my third trip across this south-facing hill side in the week since temperatures warmed above freezing with daylight, only to drop again at night. Every day, some moisture evaporated while, at night, what was left turned back to ice.

The path out from the shop is a gradual climb toward the pasture where the livestock feed. The steeper downhill side catches more snow that turns to ice as soon as a cloven hoof or tire packs it down.

Going out is fine. It’s the coming back that gets risky.

On the first trip across this hill, I carried hay out and came back empty. As I crept across the ice on a tractor with no ballast on the back, I noted that a bale might aid my traction as the tractor slipped sideways until it caught on some crunchy snow and grassy mud.

The horses watched my progress from high above.

My horses have cut cattle in deep drifts, through creeks and across ice with the best of them. They are not afraid to move, but they have some common sense.

The second time out and back, I wanted to test whether the ice had melted enough with the four-wheel drive pickup.

My mom rode on the uphill side.

She knows better than to say anything.

As I was reminded of the physics of melting and refreezing moisture in sunlight, how molecules pack even tighter and smoother with each iteration, I thought about putting my seatbelt on.

I hesitated, not wanting to worry my mother.

I glanced her way.

Her white-knuckle death grip on the door handle suggested her fear factor might not increase any more if I buckled my safety device.  

The truck slid.

The buckle clicked.

She glanced my way.

“Don’t worry,” I used my most confident voice. “I just don’t want to roll into the creek.”

Her eyes widened.

“I didn’t even think of the creek!” she whispered.

The next day, I carried two 1400-pound square bales on the back of the tractor for better traction on that hillside.

The tractor eased across the grass on to the barrier ice sheet.

The sun beamed brightly on the hillside.

I thought about the tire chains at the shop.

With only six feet of ice left to traverse, I parked the tractor on the side hill and walked to the house with a plan to attempt this foray at dawn tomorrow.

The horses tiptoed across the ice at a snail’s pace, feet slipping, toward their dessert on the back of the tractor.

The next morning at dawn, I crept across the ice sheet, my heavy-grip muck boots sliding downslope with every step.

The horses stood back on bare ground, not even attempting to reach the bales on the back of the tractor.

I cranked the tractor to life and backed up.

I took the long way home.

After all, I know I make the best decisions when I listen to my gut.