A mud bog + a Land Cruiser + an oversupply of hubris = stuck. But not just any stuck; stuck overnight with my father-in-law.
By Kurt Gensheimer
I should have known better. I should have just turned around. The blocked off entrance to Pine Mountain’s lookout tower was Providence’s way of saying, Not today kid, just pack it up and head home.
But I didn’t take much stock in Providence. Providence didn’t understand the capabilities of a Land Cruiser. Providence couldn’t grasp my driving skill. Providence was nothing more than a city overrun by sailboats, striped polo shirts, Topsiders and tea parties. I didn’t take stock in my father-in-law’s comments either, who was sitting shotgun and sided with Providence.
“Hey, we gave it an honest try,” said Mike. “Let’s just head home.” But his words only further motivated me. Here was the chance I’d been looking for. Finally prove to my father-in-law – a respected doctor and Navy Captain – that I’m a real man.
No “trail closed” sign was going to discourage me. At the top lay the most sweeping view of Lake Winnipesaukee this side of Route 16, and if getting a little stuck along the way was one of the consequences, then so be it. But never in my life did I think a Land Cruiser could get that stuck.
I backed away from the gate, stomped the accelerator and sent the Cruiser roaring down the fire road in a sheetmetal stampede.
“We’ll find a different way to the top,” I said. Mike looked at me with his calculating yet affable demeanor.
“It’s no big deal, really,” He replied. “We can just go back to the cabin and have an early dinner with the ladies. They’ll be expecting us.”
“Trust me. I’ve been up here before.”
“Okay,” said Mike, grinning with that characteristic gap in his teeth. And from his lips came the hex. “I trust you.”
Unlike my own father, Mike isn’t the type of man argue. He is wise beyond his years, but doesn’t force his wisdom upon others. He kindly voices his opinion, and if you don’t agree with it, he’s just as happy to shut up and hand you the shovel to dig your own grave with. Too bad it’s a proverbial shovel I’m referring to, because we really would have benefited from an actual one.
We were ninety percent of the way there. I remember looking over at Mike and seeing him gasp with fright as we approached a rock the size of a Volkswagen, then breathe a sigh of relief followed by an exhilarated laugh as the Cruiser crawled over it like nothing more than a speed bump. But in the end, like every tragic hero, hubris got the best of me. That cursed hubris. We could have just stopped, walked the remaining ten percent of the trail, and let Mike take in the lush New Hampshire panorama while I basked in the glory of earning his respect. But oh no, there was that one last mud bog my hubris absolutely had to blast through.
I shouldn’t say through, because through suggests that we made it to the other side, which was definitely not the case. Instead, my brother’s beautiful blue Land Cruiser was sitting up to its doors in mud, stuck like an iron beam in dried concrete.
“No problem,” came my confident response. I engaged the lockers and put it in low gear, but it only burrowed the Cruiser even further. “Well that’s not good,” I said in a markedly less confident timbre. “Let’s try taking some air out of the tires.”
I opened the door, but it wouldn’t move more than six inches before hitting a wall of dirt in the narrow, rutted-out trail. So I shimmied out the window, stepped down and felt my legs sink with suction into the mud. Getting air out of tires submerged in repugnant, liquefied earth teeming with blood-parched mosquitoes proved to be futile.
“No problem.” I said. “We can just dig her out. She can’t be that stuck.” My conviction wavered, and Mike was losing faith.
“It’s seventeen hundred,” he said looking at his drab green government-issue watch. “It doesn’t get dark until nineteen hundred. We can probably make it back to the cabin if we hoof it now.” It was sound judgment, but also an opportunity to redeem myself. What if I were to dig us out and save the day? My confidence was rekindled.
“Nah, we’re good. We got two hours of light left.” And then like a broken record, “No problem.” Mike gave that calculating glance once more, and the proverbial shovel came my way.
“Okay, then. Let’s start digging.” But of course, we had nothing that could help extract a two-and-a-half ton monstrosity besides a plastic Wendy’s spoon Mike found between the rear seats. To make matters worse, we had no water, food, flashlight or warm clothing.
I laid down in the mud under the Cruiser frantically digging, clawing and scraping like a man buried alive. Mike searched for wood and rocks we could place under the wheels for added traction. I dug so much my fingernails were packed halfway to the cuticles with dirt and my hands were bleeding. We were in a race against daylight, and with every failed attempt at backing out the Cruiser, daylight was winning. Mike offered up his wisdom for a third time.
“We still have an hour of light left, but we have to leave now.”
“No,” I said rolling pig-headed in mud under the truck. “One more try and she’ll back right out.” Finally, Mike had had enough of my digging – literally and figuratively.
“Seriously. I think it’s time we go.” The only thing worse than failing my father-in-law was abandoning my brother’s new Cruiser deep in the New Hampshire thicket. He would slay me. Besides, it was too far to backtrack. If we were walking out, we’d have to push forward, but I couldn’t remember how much further the trail went.
“She’ll back right out,” I repeated, ignoring his suggestion. And of course, she didn’t. The Cruiser might as well have been bolted to the ground. We weren’t going anywhere.
Darkness washed over the sunken Cruiser, the mosquitoes went to bed and the biting September cold took over. We managed to make a two minute call to our wives before the connection was dropped and our phone died. At least they knew we were still alive – so far. It could be worse, I thought to myself. It could always be worse. At least we were sitting in huge, comfortable leather seats with the engine running to keep us from freezing solid. And how many guys are lucky enough to be stranded in the woods overnight with their father-in-law? This was going to be great, I thought. Quality, bonding time. No distractions like the radio, television, magazines or books. An impromptu camping trip. Just Mike and I, sharing stories and listening to the cacophony of wildlife around us.
Problem was, I seemed to be doing all the talking. Mike was silent. He’d smile pleasantly and nod his head at my stories, but he offered nothing in response. I knew what he was really thinking – his son-in-law was a consummate ass. The type he’d read about in the newspaper and treat in the Emergency Room. The guy whose famous last words were “Hold my beer and watch this.” The guy who starved to death in the woods trying to be Mister Adventure. A mental midget of unbounded proportions. What in the world did his daughter see in me?
I was convinced the clock on the dashboard was broken, as an hour drew out like a day. It was only eight o’clock. We had ten hours to go. My stomach was already a hollow pit of hunger. My throat dried up. My clothes soaked through with stinky, funky mud. It was going to be a long night.
We finally fell asleep around ten, and the next thing I knew Mike was tapping me on the shoulder. Daylight broke through the fogged up windows. It was time to find our way back home. As it turned out, we were only a mile from pavement and only four miles from the cabin. We could have easily made it there before dark, but Mike didn’t once utter those words a consummate ass never wants to hear – I told you so. Instead, as we strolled back to civilization, he just gave me that calculating look. Only this time the affable tinge was gone. Then finally, he spoke to me for the first time in twelve hours.
“Of all the nitwit, numskull maneuvers I’ve witnessed in my life,” Here it came. The painful, unbridled truth. I deserved every slanderous word. “Nothing will ever compare to the time I sunk my father-in-law’s boat trying to prove my worth as a real Navy man.” He doubled over in a convulsion of laughter, its echo thundering through the sleepy valley. He slapped me on the shoulder and spoke between his riotous howls.
“Hubris, son. That cursed hubris.”
