Oh, for a chance to get stuck in the mud

Like a starving man craving prime rib, I have been dreaming of the good old days, when there was enough rain to make getting stuck in the mud at least a seasonal, if not a daily possibility; with the weather we’ve had, there’s no chance at all.
There is nothing quite like being responsible for getting stuck in a mudhole. I have usually been alone when it happens; my only companions, a shovel and, on lucky days, a Handyman Jack to keep me company. (In such a predicament, I can think of worse friends.)
The wisdom I learned from being stuck in mudholes isn’t taught in any school. I don’t claim to have been blessed with above-average intelligence or common sense. Still, whatever minuscule amount I have of either, I owe to the lessons indelibly etched in my mind while sitting on a rock, staring at my pickup buried past its axles in slimy, greasy, bottomless mud.
The first thought through my mind: “What were you thinking? Are you stupid enough to believe you would be able to make it through that?”
After asking myself that question four or five times, I learned to view being stuck as the ultimate outdoor classroom. It was something to be grateful for.
Like most 17-year-old boys, I knew everything there was to know about most subjects, including how to avoid getting stuck. My creed became: “As long as the vehicle moves, it’s not stuck.”
In the Spring of 1972, feeling a bit cocky, I was sure to be the first kid up the road to Abajo Peak. My brother Mark and I sailed up that road one day in early June faster than I thought was possible, then we hit the first snowdrift at about 9,000 feet.
Keeping to my mantra of “as long as you are moving, you’re not stuck,” I gunned my dad’s Blazer, sure that pure inertia would carry me across the entire snowdrift. But after ten yards, the wheels started to spin. I gave it more gas. I was still moving... in the wrong direction.
My brother smiled and said, “Ya little brother, you’re still moving, but keep spinning your wheels like that and you’ll be at the bottom of Montezuma Canyon in about ten minutes.” I could still move, but I was definitely stuck. Maybe my method to avoid getting stuck needed work.
Right or wrong, one of the first methods employed for getting out of a mud bog is road-building. This involves jacking the stuck pickup as high as you dared with your Handyman Jack, then placing whatever you could find under the tires. It could be anything from rocks to fenceposts, pine branches, blankets, or used gunny sacks — anything to provide enough traction and clearance to allow forward progress.
I once built a road this way from an old sheep corral made of 1”x12” rough-sawn lumber.
When I had worked long and hard enough to regain some of my teenage cockiness, I would let the jack down, climb behind the wheel, say a prayer, give it a little gas, and try once more. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t.
One of the best stories about the Handyman Jack method of roadbuilding involves my older brother Greg. My son and I had brought a couple of carloads of friends from Beaver to complete his Eagle Scout project, which was to place trail markers on San Juan Hill from the river to the top of Comb Ridge along Hole-in-the-Rock Trail.
Shortly after we turned off the highway west of the Comb, I got my dad’s pickup stuck. I’d seen worse, but it had sunk deep enough to bring the procession to an unceremonious halt. I was driving and bore sole responsibility, but given we had a lot of work to do along with the six-hour drive back home, Greg told us to go and do what we came for while he and my daughter worked to free the truck.
Greg immediately commenced to employ the Handman Jack roadbuilding technique. After an hour or more of jacking up the pickup and placing two-inch to four-inch diameter logs under the wheels only to feel the tires spin and slide off into the mud yet again, he heard someone chuckling. He turned around and saw a Navajo boy about 14 or 15 years old watching him.
The boy: “Is this your first time being stuck?”
My brother: “No, I’ve been stuck plenty of times.”
The boy: “You could have fooled me, because you’re not very good at getting out of the hole you’re in.”
At this, the boy stopped chuckling while my brother laughed out loud and said, “I guess you’re right. Do you have any suggestions?”
The boy, young enough to be Greg’s son or grandson, walked over and said, “First, don’t use such big logs, it’s better to use smaller ones, like willows, but more of them. Then make sure you have a way for any water to drain away.”
Taking the boy’s advice, the pickup was free and moving within 15 minutes.
“Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment.” I think Will Rogers first said that. It speaks volumes about acquiring wisdom.
Each day, I pray for at least enough rain to make mudholes. Without the opportunity to get stuck, how will today’s youth survive?