Taking Guests to the Creeek
Maybe it the exhaustion of several mechanical breakdowns.
Maybe it was the elation of finishing the job of moving hay from an irrigated field.
Maybe it was the excitement of showing off one of my favorite parts of the ranch.
Whatever the underlying cause, I sort of knew the decision to drive through a steep-banked creek might be a bad idea.
My three retirement-age passengers refrained from commenting, but their death-grips on the pickup handholds divulged their collective opinion.
They were accompanying me while I took salt to the cows at their summer pasture.
Often, I pack salt to this pasture on horseback because horses rarely get high-centered – although I’ve ridden a horse into a mud-bog and had to bail off in this particular creek before so it is possible.
But my aunt had a visitor from the Washington, D.C. area who wanted to see the ranch and my pack saddle doesn’t provide a Buick-quality ride. I offer only the best to guests I like.
Besides, I’d driven across this creek before, although it is always a questionable venture.
I slipped the truck into four-wheel-drive and scouted a decent route from one creekbank to the other.
I might have warned my passengers to hang on, but I didn’t give them time to check their hearing aid batteries.
The truck blasted over the edge of the bank, sprayed water over the cab and came to a sudden halt.
Oops.
Reverse brought more spraying water, but no discernable movement.
Oh dear.
I glanced across the floorboards to assess footwear.
All three wore walking shoes.
Whew.
The shoes would hold up on a hike back to the ranch, probably longer than knees, hips and ankles. That first long, steep hill might be the last for a few of those well-used legs.
I avoided direct eye contact while gauging the facial expressions of my companions.
They ranged from my aunt’s enforced noncommittal expression to a bit of confusion in her friend’s eyes and my mom’s twinkle at yet another unexpected adventure.
I stepped out into the ankle-deep creek to see how badly we were stuck.
One rear wheel was in the air while the entire driveline was resting on sod.
Dogs and women piled out of the truck.
Either I would dig out the sod or raise the truck.
I checked my supplies on hand. Besides a shovel and hydraulic jack, all of those old wooden posts that I collect wherever I go would come in handy.
Godwits and sparrows entertained my company as I jacked the truck.
My aunt’s friend commented on the solitude, the lack of even a single building in sight and the beauty of the creek.
I refrained from mentioning recent grizzly sightings and the lack of cell service.
I did point out that we were fortunate to spend more time than we anticipated at such a tranquil spot in this chaotic world.
It took three iterations of jacking, blocking the truck, then jacking some more before I could shove enough old fenceposts under the lowest rear wheel.
Usually, it takes me three tries to get myself unstuck, but I thought it might be best if my first attempt at backing out was successful. My passengers might have less time to develop alternative undesirable plans to return to civilization if I lowered my average.
Finally, I saw daylight under the differential.
Everyone moved out of the way, I slipped the truck into reverse and gunned it up and out of the creek.
The old wooden posts had taken the brunt of my exhaustion, elation or excitement, sparing those knees, hips and ankles.
Our cheers of relief drowned out all of those creaking joints.