Desert Crossing
“Have you ever written about That day?” I had to admit that I hadn’t. Part of me doubts that most people would
believe it really happened that way.
Part of me would as soon not mention it again. Part of me doesn’t want to think what may
have happened. And part of me just knows
that all-in-all that day was not one of my better moments. But, Mary Jane, the person who asked me that
question recently, was an eye witness; more than that, she was a
participant. She thinks it was
funny. Perhaps she thinks it would be
healing for me to lay it all out on the table.
We’ll see.
In the late 1980’s I had taken a job promotion and
moved my family from Wisconsin to southern Nevada. It was someplace that I never desired to
visit, let alone live, but life’s twists and turns can get interesting. My daughter Elizabeth was born there in
July. She was born July 14th
at 4:14 in the afternoon, and it was 114 degrees outside. If I was a betting man I would have gone
straight to the casino and played those numbers. But I’m not a betting man – at least not with
money.
Paul and Mary Jane, very good friends from Wisconsin,
came out to be Godparents for her baptism.
They did their best to endure heat.
I suggested that we spend their final day with us in the high desert
several hours north. It would be a
little cooler up there, and there was a reservoir full of rainbow trout that I
thought my friend Paul would enjoy fishing for.
I had taken my family there a couple of months earlier and we had a
great time. The biggest problem was that
it was almost a three-hour car ride to get to.
But, they were game, so we packed up the car – including throwing my
canoe on top.
One thing we discovered early on was that our newborn
did not like long car rides, and she let us know about it. I think that at least partially led me to my
poorest decision of the day. I knew a
short cut to our destination. I had
taken it before with a hunting partner when we came up here to hunt quail, and again
when we had come up to fish for those rainbow trout. The good news is that it trimmed nearly 40
miles off of our trip. The bad news was
that it was a rough gravel road with no services – or any living persons at
all. Undaunted, I took the turnoff.
About halfway along our shortcut the right front tire
blew out. Of course, the jack and the
spare tire were in the trunk, buried by everything that we had packed for our
adventure. We shifted the canoe over so
the trunk lid would fully open, and piled up all of our fishing gear, picnic
baskets and coolers. Of course, these
days the dealers don’t give you a real spare tire; it’s just a small emergency
tire designed to get you to where you can purchase a real tire.
Much to my surprise, while I was changing the tire I
could hear a vehicle coming up behind us.
The truck pulled up alongside us, and the right front passenger’s window
opened. “Don’t see many of those around
here,” he was pointing at my canoe.
Everyone in the truck laughed.
Then the window went back up and the truck pulled away. No offer of help. No concern.
They just stopped for a good laugh at our expense.
I took it easy on the little spare, especially since
we didn’t have a safety net now. It did
successfully get us back out to the pavement and to a little town that actually
had a car repair shop. He was efficient
and kind. He didn’t say anything about
the car or the canoe. He had us back on
the road promptly, although we certainly lost whatever extra time the shortcut
saved us.
I decided to suggest that we turn off just ahead and
head into the first reservoir. I thought
it would save us the better part of an hour.
Agreed. However, just after we
turned onto the gravel road in, the left front tire blew out. I should say that the car and the tires were
fairly new, with less than 20,000 miles on them.
Once again, everything got piled up on the side of the
road and I put the emergency spare on. As
I finished, not really realizing what I was doing – I think it was the desert
heat, and just everything, but I grabbed the flat tire, whirled around like a
discus thrower and launched it about thirty feet. Then I thought better of it and retrieved the tire
and stuffed it back in the trunk. I got
back in the driver’s seat. Everyone was
silent, even the baby.
I turned the car around and headed back to the repair
shop. Again, he fixed us up and sent us
back on our way. Since it was close we
went back to the turn-in, determined to salvage something of the day. It was a tricky ride in but we made it safely
to the little parking lot. The women set
the picnic lunch out and all seemed like things were looking up.
A green pickup truck came up the road and pulled into
the lot. A park ranger got out and
headed over to us. “Wow, you don’t see
people in cars back here very often – you really should have a truck.” I let that comment pass on by without
reply. “We’re trying to track usage in
these parks; could I ask you folks some survey questions?” We agreed.
He asked a couple of reasonable questions, but then he explained that
the last thing was to go through a list of activities and all we needed was to
say whether we had come to engage in any of them. Simple enough.
“Cross country skiing.” I looked at him in disbelief. “What?”
“Cross country skiing” he repeated with a straight face. “It’s 95 degrees and there is no snow,” I
said in disbelief. I have to admit that inside
my mind I was feeling the breaking point.
I wasn’t really seriously thinking about committing bodily harm, just
because I briefly wondered whether he had told anyone where he was headed for
the day. “No, I guess not,” he said. Then he folded up the little paper and put it
in his shirt pocket. Suddenly the answers
to the rest of his questions didn’t seem so important. He bid us farewell.
As he drove out of sight I suggested to Paul that we
head up the marked trail to size up the reservoir. The hike in was longer than I anticipated,
and I began having doubts about carrying the canoe that far. When the water finally did emerge through an
opening in the thick willow brush, it was a disappointment. Our original destination was a pretty little
mountain lake. This was more like a very
large puddle. I picked up a rock and
easily tossed it across to the far bank.
No, we probably wouldn’t be needing the canoe! Well, we could still grab our fishing tackle and
see if we could catch some trout.
About hallway back to the picnic area I stopped Paul
with a raised hand. I pointed to the
sand at our feet. There, right on top of
a footprint we had made walking into the reservoir, was a perfect cougar
pawprint. Since it had only been ten
minutes since we here, at most the big cat was ten minutes away. But maybe not. You couldn’t see more than a couple of feet
into the willow brush.
We walked back out to the others and said that the
reservoir didn’t look worth a try and maybe we should pack up and head
out. Michelle looked at me. “We really should leave,” was all I said. We made short work of it. It wasn’t until we were safely back out on
the highway that we told our wives about the cougar track.
Strangely, the ride home was quite happy. Mary Jane played her guitar and had the children singing silly
campfire songs, the baby wasn't singing at all, and Michelle squeezed my hand and
thanked me for taking such good care of everyone.
“Remember how for these forty years the LORD,
your God, has directed all your journeying in the wilderness, so as to
test you by affliction, to know what was in your heart: to keep his
commandments, or not.” Deuteronomy 8:2
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Dino Reichmuth on Unsplash
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