The first lesson taught me about persistence. I think I was 13 or 14 at the time. I wish I would have written the date down, but of course during trying times, details are never recorded. Through my life I have thought about this experience often because it was such a remarkable recovery from a very bad situation.
My Dad, my brother and I, jumped into our old 55 Chevy truck and drove out into the desert on a Saturday. My Dad loves the desert, and enjoys wandering the arid spaces with no particular plan but to enjoy the wide-open and wild places. We drove to an area within miles of the Bonneville Salt Flats. We came to an old barracks and decided to check it out. There was nothing left inside but we did notice that some military personnel had left their names and dates scratched into the walls. The dates were around the time of World War II and I imagined that this could have been a barracks for those men that were training to fly the infamous mission on the Enola Gay. One of the soldiers had scratched the words, “been here and gone,” along with his name and date into the wall.
One of the doors of the barracks was still in good condition so my Dad decided to throw it in the back of the truck and take it home for a better door on the shed in our back yard. We jumped in the truck and headed north then west down a dirt road and suddenly found that the road had very muddy patches. It was spring and there were still patches of snow here and there. We realized that it was going to be very hard to turn around and when the road dropped down to a wide section of the mud flat I remember my Dad saying something about giving it “the ole’ college try” and away we went out onto the mud flat. We were sinking in enough that we were worried about bogging down and getting stuck so my dad gunned the truck along with wheels spinning and mud flipping out behind the truck. We were heading south now back towards I-80 and kept looking for an escape from the mud flat. After several minutes, there was still no way off of the flat and as we were sinking several inches into the mud we didn’t know how long we could keep up the momentum so my Dad saw a snowy area along the East side of the flat and assumed that the ground under the snow would be frozen and harder. We made a slow 45-degree turn and headed for the snow only to find that the snow had insulated the ground from the cold during the night and the mud under the snow was actually softer that what we were driving on. We slowly lost momentum and sinking in terribly, ground to a stop as our wheels were spinning. Dad threw it in reverse with no effect and with wheels spinning we knew we were stuck. We jumped out and to our horror the truck was sunk in the mud right up to the floorboards. As the reality of our situation sunk in, we looked around and there we sat, in the middle of nowhere, stuck up to the floorboards, with very little food or water and no way to communicate with the outside world. Remember, back in those days there was no such thing as a cell phone.
Our first plan was to jack up each wheel and try to stuff sagebrush under the tires. It was so muddy though, that the jack stand just kept sinking down in the mud. The door in the back of the truck was sacrificed for use in our extraction from the mud, but it was not heavy duty enough to stand up to the weight of the truck and broke up as we jacked up the truck and then quickly shoved in the door before the jack base sunk down. We were getting nowhere. My mind started to wander to the hopelessness of our situation. We were now covered in mud and I was starting to be hungry and thirsty. As we contemplated our next move, I remembered that we hadn’t passed a soul since leaving I-80 earlier that day. My 13-year-old mind was losing hope. As I remember though, I never heard one pessimistic word come out of my dad’s mouth. It wasn’t if we got out, it was when we got out.
Right about then, my Dad proposed that we hike back to the barracks and bring back more wood to stuff under the tires and anything else that might be useful. Luckily, the barracks was only a mile and a half or so away and directly east of us. Off we went! We had a mission. We walked and walked and finally made it to the barracks. After a few minutes of reconnoitering, we decided to climb up on the roof and pry four 12 foot, 1” x 10” boards off. We had taken the tool with us that we had pried the door off with earlier and within a short time we had the boards down on the ground and ready for the big carry to our truck. The boards were heavy and we took frequent rests on our way back. Glimmers of hope started to kindle in my mind.
Upon arriving back at the truck we got right to work jacking the truck up high enough to get the boards under. We still had the sinking jack base problem and stuck bits of the broken door and brush under the base to try to keep it from sinking. After 45 minutes of hard work we had the boards in place. Two of the boards were under the truck and the other two boards were placed directly in front of the truck to drive onto. Once we drove onto the forward boards, the ones behind would be carried to the front to start the whole process over again. It was a slow process and my brother and I carried those boards forward so that my Dad could drive onto them until we thought we were going to drop. Finally we got close enough to the edge of the mud flat that my Dad said, “get out of the way boys, I am going to go for it. Stay back because I’m not stopping for anything”. He punched it and off he went. I can still remember that truck bouncing up off of the flat onto the solid ground above, mud flinging in every direction. Dad didn’t stop until he knew he was on hard ground and as he was going my brother and I were screaming and hollering and running and waving our hands in victory. As we arrived at the truck we were smiling ear to ear and if there had been a photo taken at that moment it would have been priceless.
In our rush to get out of there we left the jack stand buried in the mud. No time wasted and we were on our way home. We stopped for a hamburger in Grantville and it was the best I ever tasted.
To this day I still remember the remarkable feeling of accomplishment that I felt as we drove home. We had overcome an obstacle. We had endured a setback. We had persevered and we had won.
Several years later we went back to our “stuck site”. It was weird seeing how fast the mud had leveled out after we had stirred it up so much. The most amazing thing is that the darn old jack base had slowly made its way back to the surface and there it sat, as if it had been waiting for our return. That place seemed like hallowed ground to me because we had shared an experience there. For a few short moments in time, that obscure place in the desert is where we shared a Father-Son experience that I will never forget. By the way, the barracks had been burnt to the ground. . . . . . . Been there and gone!
-
The next experience was a deer-hunting trip that we went on together to a place called Sulphurdale in central Utah where I started developing my love of nature. I think I was probably about 10 or 11 years old. We left on a Friday after work and arrived late that night. We got up early the next morning and hiked onto the mountain in the dark. Deer season is in the fall and I remember how loud and crunchy the dead leaves were. It was pitch dark and hard to see where we were going. At one point my Dad laid down to wait for it to get a little lighter before continuing. I laid down next to my dad and huddled up close to him for two reasons. First, it was cold. Second, in the dark, it was scary. The forest came alive and I could hear things moving around in the dark. My 10-year-old mind conjured up all kinds of scary images but now I realize that it was probably lizards and chipmunks starting to stir in the early morning light. I scooted even closer as I stared out into the blackness. I remember that the dry leaves made it sound like there were things moving within feet of us. I looked at my Dad to see if the sounds were spooky to him and he was lying there enjoying the early morning calm and the beautiful star show twinkling above us. In my anxiousness I wanted to crawl under my dad and pull him over me like a big, warm, safe blanket.
Later in my life I shared a similar experience with my son Trevor when he was 10. We were in Sulawesi, Indonesia on a white water raft trip down the Sadan River. We were sleeping in a Bungalow built up on stilts for when the river flooded its banks. I was suddenly awakened by a rock fall that seemed like it was going to come crashing down right on top of us. The canyon that we were in was very steep. The jungle growth next to the river was very thick and blocked our view. Once again, the inky blackness enclosed our world and deceived our ability to accurately measure distance. My blood ran cold and my heartbeat was thundering in my chest. I glanced over to Trevor and he was sawing logs, absolutely oblivious to the traumatic sounds. After the rockslide subsided and just as my heart started to calm, down river from the depths of the jungle, an animal started making the most anguishing moan that I had ever heard in my life. For the next 30 minutes this animal (one of our guides told us later that it was probably a monkey) would bellow out this heart-wrenching wail every 3 or 4 minutes that sent a chill threw my heart that I cannot describe with words. Remember, we were in the middle of the Indonesian jungle in the pitch-blackness. I glanced at Trevor and he was still in peaceful slumber, sleeping like a baby. I remember chuckling to myself as I pulled my sheet up over my head for some degree of comfort as, barely breathing, I waited for the next pitiful cry to shudder to the depths of my heart through the thick, dark jungle.
The hut in the middle of the photo is the one that we were in when the rock slide occurred.
Let me tell you another reason why the jungle was so spooky. Have you ever heard of a Babirusa? A Babirusa is an Indonesian Pig-deer that lives in the jungles around rivers on the island of Sulawesi. They have weird tusks that grow up out of the roof of their mouths. To hear that eerie sound and know that these guys were near-by was spooky! (www.blueplanetbiomes.org/babirusa.htm)
Babirusa (pig-deer) from Sulawesi, Indonesia
I concur with what Edward Whymper said as he was writing about his 6th attempt to climb the Mattterhorn in his book, “Scrambles Amongst the Alps”. He said, “The greatest rock-falls always seem to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters.” The next morning I looked all around us and couldn’t see anywhere where there had been a rockslide. I suppose it had been started from a Caribou (Indonesian Water Buffalo) on a steep mountain trail, high above us. In the morning, Trevor remembered nothing.
As the dawn light started to filter through the trees we finally got up and started hiking further up the mountain. High up on the mountain we saw a group of deer but they were out of range. After more hunting we finally decided to sit down on the top of a large rock and eat our energy snack; apples and Hershey chocolate bars. The sun was now high in the sky and its warmth was nice. We settled back and started to eat. When my Dad finished his apple he sat up to throw the core down the cliff . . . . . but as he did he stiffened out like a board. Motioning me to be quiet he excitedly pointed his rifle over the edge of the cliff and shot. Rapidly and with a look of disgust he chambered another round and then shot again. That time, by seeing the joyous response in his face I knew that he had hit his mark. I stooped up and looked out over the cliff and there at the base was a huge four-point buck lying on the ground.
After field dressing the deer we began dragging it back to the truck. The big buck was heavy but we were aglow with the joy of a successful endeavor.
Even today, my love of the outdoors comes from remembering my Dad enjoying nature. He is a whole different person when he is out in the wild. I can remember my Dad slogging across the marsh, duck hunting out at Salt Creek. He was truly in his element, with shotgun slung over his shoulder, hip boots on with water up to his thighs, searching the sky for a flight of ducks.
Another time we were fishing at Kent’s Lake near Beaver, Utah. The sun had gone down and we were eating supper around a campfire. Way down in the canyon, someone hit their car horn. It echoed and reverberated up the mountain. Somewhere way up above us in the pines an Elk started to bugle. Then, on a far ridge in the opposite direction a coyote started to howl. In the midst of this symphony of nature, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was eerie and beautiful. There, in the glow of that fire, the magic and majesty of the natural world started burning in my soul; a gift from my Dad.
-
The third experience happened while fishing at a favorite family fishing spot called Little Res. I think I was probably 8 or 9 years old. This was a favorite place to fish with my Grandpa and Grandma Nielsen. When I think of Little Res I think of drinking Shasta Root Beer from those big steel cans that you needed a can opener to open. For years my dad had been trying to catch a big German Brown Trout that lazily swam up and down the bank on the far side of the reservoir. So, the day that he finally hooked into it was an exciting time. My brother and I came running when we heard my dad let out a yelp of excitement. He fought it hard right to the shore. Of course there was no net close by so as he dragged the trout up onto the shore we were shocked when he slipped on the mud and fell back against the bank.
It was at this point that the hook came out of the fish’s mouth and as it started flopping across the mud toward the lake my brother and I were feverishly trying to grab the fish. It was slippery, of course, and we couldn’t get a good hold on it. During all of this our Dad was bellowing with laughter. My brother and I were absolutely serious and had on grave faces as the whole drama was playing out. Finally the fish flipped back into the lake and was gone. A thick cloud of disappointment overwhelmed my brother and me until we turned to see our Dad still in the ecstasy of the moment. He was enjoying the experience in spite of the loss. When it was all over my brother and I were mumbling about losing such a big fish, but my Dad said that that big ole’ boy deserved the right to swim free for another day. As my disappointment wore off the wisdom of my Dad’s words sank deep into my heart. He fished for the enjoyment of being in nature. He didn’t need to hold that big Brown up for other fisherman to see. It was the experience that had the worth. As a young boy I wanted to be able to say, ”my dad caught that big Brown Trout”. Instead, he taught me about conservation, sportsmanship, and style.
I really appreciate all the experiences that my Dad provided for me as I was growing up. They were numerous, varied, and fun!
