Day 49 –Stick Stack Stuck

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
—Robert Frost

After an evening doing laundry at a Motel 6 in Eugene, Oregon, I headed southeast toward Crater Lake.

I blame Ken for Crater Lake—not for its existence, but for its spot on my itinerary. Its existence is due to a volcanic explosion. The giant Mount Mazama eruption mentioned at Mount St. Helens? Crater Lake used to be Mount Mazama, before the explosion turned it from a mountain into a giant hole in the ground.

My friend Ken simply talked about it enough, about how big it was it was and how pure the water is and how his friend had been snow-camping there. Crater Lake gets, on average, 533 inches of snow a year. Think about that for a minute. 533 inches is about 45 feet of snow.

Despite this, the park service website assured that at least part of the lake was open to visitors year-round.

The snow is what feeds the lake, and keeps it at its great depth (an average depth, across the entire lake, of over 1,100 feet). The lake has no inlets or outlets, no rivers flowing to or from it. That is the key to its purity. At first, I wondered why evaporation didn’t make it salty, like it does with every other body of water that doesn’t drain somewhere. Then I remembered the “no inlet” part, and realized that falling snow doesn’t contain salt.

After getting some advice on the best way to get to Crater Lake, I started driving down what seemed to be the best route. There are no really direct ways to drive to Crater from Eugene without taking some serious back roads—those marked as “unpaved roads” on my map. I stayed with the main highways, which would take me about 15 miles past Crater Lake to the east, and then back west another 15 miles to the National Park’s north entrance. It was a bit of a slow drive, since Oregon seemed to have a statewide 55 mph speed limit.

When I finally started back west toward the lake, a highway sign informed me that the north entrance to the park was closed.

I pulled over to the side of the road to check my options. The south entrance would be open, since that is where the park headquarters are located. To get to the south entrance, I could drive around the park to the west, a detour of 60 miles. I could drive south 39 miles and then back north 30 miles, in a sharp V-shaped trip that was maddeningly inefficient. Or, I could take a highway that cut across the V, shaving off about 25 miles off that trip for a total of 44 miles.

It was not hard to decide which way to go; I would take the short route.

The highway that provided the shortcut was not one of the main highways, which were represented on my map with red lines. But it was not one of the sketchy “unpaved roads” either. It was a grey-colored minor highway, sometimes called an “other paved road.” I grew up along one such grey highway, and it appeared to be listed on the map as such simply because it did not get much traffic. It was still just as safe to drive on as any other rural highway. So, I didn’t give a second thought to driving on one of the map’s grey lines.

As I turned down that road, I passed by an empty flatbed semi and an interesting machine: a logging skidder. At least, I was pretty sure that was what it was. It was basically a 4-wheel-drive tractor, with giant snow tires all around and even snow chains on the tires. It was designed to go anywhere through the surrounding forest and pull out heavy trees felled by loggers.

A couple of miles beyond the logging crew, I reached a point where the road had not recently been cleared by a snowplow, meaning the road was abruptly covered with snow. I momentarily considered whether this was a problem, but it seemed clear that the locals had no problem with it. The road was completely covered with tracks, and the tracks were no more than an inch deep. So, the snow must be just a couple of inches deep, and everyone has continued to drive on the road. I even have 4-wheel-drive, so I should definitely have no problem. I continued driving down the road, in 2-wheel-drive, since nothing more was needed. The snow was not very slick, and not very soft.

After a mile or so, though, the road was getting a little bit slick. I put my pickup into 4-wheel-drive as a precaution, and continued down the road. For some reason, out of the mass of tracks on the road, one vehicle had left a set of shallow ruts. Perhaps his vehicle was loaded down with something. I looked in the rearview; it didn’t appear I was leaving any ruts.

After another mile, the road was getting slick even in 4-wheel-drive. Though I could still drive it, I decided to do the safe thing and turn around, drive back out to the main highway, and take the long way around. The tricky part would be turning around. I knew that if I was going to get stuck, it would be when I tried to stop or change directions—just basic physics. And I didn’t want to pull off into the softer snow beside the road. So, I kept an eye out for a good place to turn around.

It was at least another half-mile before I came upon a side road, and I pulled onto that road to make my turn. I stopped, shifted into reverse—and went nowhere, as my right two tires dug into the snow. I tried driving forward again, and also went nowhere, as my tires just spun and my pickup did not move an inch. Reverse again—nowhere. 4-Lo, or the lower gear of 4-wheel-drive—nowhere.

Dang. Dang dang.

How do I get out of this one?

I shut off the engine and walked around to survey the scene. I was in a forest, which limited my visibility of any possible human civilization around. I had not seen any signs of life since the logging skidder and semi, though, and there was a good chance that the semi was there to load up the skidder and carry it away. The side road I had turned onto and ended up stuck on had a park service sign announcing that it was 4 miles to the Pinnacles Trailhead, which basically meant it was a road to nowhere. No one would be driving down that road, but someone should eventually drive by on the through road, and hopefully they would be able to pull me out. They might not be all that happy to help this bumbling out-of-stater, though.

That may have been my biggest concern: what would people think of me? I knew I would eventually get out, somehow. But what would people think of me for getting stuck? My more citified friends, and any mothers in the crowd, would likely be critical of me trying to drive down a snow-covered road. My country brethren and the more macho guys, on the other hand, would be more concerned with the fact that I got stuck, and could not successfully drive in the snow.

None of that would matter if I could just get out on my own, and I had not yet given up hope of that. My Dallas friends didn’t nickname me “Country Boy Can Survive” for no reason. So, I took inventory.

In junior high, I was in an organization called Odyssey of the Mind, mercifully referred to as OM. The entire point and purpose of OM was to foster creativity. We would compete, as teams, on various creative problem-solving activities. Some of these problems involved making do with sparse resources: for example, building a small bridge that can support a certain amount of weight using only 10 plastic straws, 2 paperclips, one sheet of notebook paper, 5 post-it notes, and a rubber band. That was it; you could not use anything else—not even tape to hold it together or scissors to cut the paper. You had to make do with what you were given.

Perhaps because of that, I still occasionally find myself slipping into MacGyver mode, and coming up with creative ways to fix things. Stuck in a forest with only the tools I had brought with me, I carefully considered everything I had brought with me to see if there was some creative way to get out of this jam. My resources included a kayak, oar, life jacket, chain, rope, crowbar, lots of clean clothes, pocket knife, ice chest, water filter, peanuts, tent, plastic storage container, lighter, 1993 world almanac, two suitcases, a spare tire, a forest, and a whole lot of snow. I started mentally going through any crazy possibilities: use the oar to dig a path back to the highway? Build a huge fire to melt all the snow down to solid road surface? Use (and ruin) the clothes in an attempt to provide traction? Wrap the log chain around one of the tires for a makeshift snow chain? Use the chain and rope together in an attempt to tie off to the nearest tree, and then cut down the tree with the pocket knife, with its falling weight jerking the pickup out of its rut? Or simply wrap the rope around a drive axle, and use the spinning tire as a winch?

A couple of ideas might actually have worked, if given unlimited time and energy. That I did not have. If anything, I had started out the day short on time, because I wanted to be in southern Idaho the next day and needed to be in northeastern Nevada the day after that. So, I tried to find some more realistic options.

I did use the oar as a shovel, just to dig out snow from behind the tires so they were not trying to climb out of a hole. The tires could simply get zero traction, though. Where it had been packed down by traffic, the snow’s surface was firm enough to walk on without sinking in. Beneath the surface, though, the snow was very, very soft. So soft, in fact, that my tires would spin at an idle; I actually had to hit the brakes to shift into park, even though my vehicle would not move an inch. I desperately needed something that could give me traction.

I walked around the area until I found a tree. Not that it was difficult to find a tree in a forest, but I was looking for a very specific kind of tree. The one I found was dead, was only a few inches thick and maybe 20 feet tall, and, most importantly, it was not attached to the ground. I dragged it over to the back of my pickup and jammed one end of it under a rear tire.

After more searching, I was able to find some fallen branches, some low-hanging sticks I could break off trees, and even a square of rotten plywood that was likely a sign at one point. All of these I stuck under and behind the 4 tires, in an attempt to give them something solid to grab hold of.

I started up the engine and tried, again, to leave. The tires still spun in place, though now they rubbed against wood.

Fast running out of workable ideas, I resigned myself to the fact that I was not going to get out of there without help from someone else. Though I had been stuck for at least an hour and a half, though, I had not seen a single vehicle drive by.

I took one small branch and stuck it in the middle of the road, upright in the snow, and hung my yellow life jacket on it. At least if someone did come along, they would not be able to drive by without seeing me.

I listened for any signs of human activity. Occasionally I thought I could hear something; someone driving a mile away, or perhaps a train in the distance.

Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to try, I decided to make some noise in case there was someone within hearing range. I thought about honking the horn, but…well, I can be pretty loud when I want to be, and can easily honk louder than the horn. On a ranch, you call cattle in to feed with a long siren call. Some people do this with an actual siren installed on their feed pickup, but most cowboys I know simply use their voices. In my case, this has translated well to the football and basketball arenas, where on occasion fans of my team have asked me to quiet down, or at least not sit behind them. So, I stood in the middle of the road, took in a deep breath—and called the cattle.

Wow, that sounded good, I thought, so I let out another long yell. In the clear, that sound would easily carry more than a mile. In the trees, it may have been absorbed within a few hundred yards, but I didn’t know that for sure. I had to at least try.

With no response, my next thought was to walk back out along the road, back to where I hoped the logging crew would still be. If needed, I could walk all the way to the main highway to get help. But that would take at least a couple of hours, so I decided to try a phone call first.

Yeah, yeah, so I had a cell phone with me the entire time. I considered it a last resort because I didn’t know who to call. The nearest phone number I had on me was for someone in Colorado.

I could get a weak signal as long as I was 7 feet tall, so I stood up in the bed of my pickup and dialed 411.

“City and state, please,” the operator requested.

“Um, Crater Lake National Park, Oregon?”

A pause, and then: “what name?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to get in touch with a park service or ranger of some kind.”

Another pause. “Well, there is a listing for “park headquarters” in Crater Lake, Oregon.”

“Oh, good! Let’s try that.”

She transferred me to that number, but a voicemail machine answered. I hung up and dialed 411 again.

“City and state, please.”

“I’m in a bit of an interesting situation. I am stuck in Oregon, near Crater Lake, in what I believe is a National Forest. I need to get in touch with a ranger station for the forest, or someone like that, to see if they can get me out.”

“OK, let me try something here…I found a listing for a forest ranger, would you like me to connect you?”

“Yes, thanks!”

“Good luck!”

The line rang, and this time a live person answered. After apologizing up-front for even being in the situation, I explained why I had called. When I told her my location, though, she sounded confused.

“Isn’t that near Crater Lake?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“That’s well over a hundred miles from here. You are way out of our jurisdiction.”

“Oh. Well, I was just connected to you by calling information. Could you perhaps help me find a station closer to where I am? I just don’t know who to call.”

“I can connect you with the Klamath station. You should be in their area.”

“Could you? Thanks!”

After another transfer, another woman answered, and I again went through my explanation and apology. Though the ranger was very friendly, and concerned for my welfare, she said that I would need to talk to the Klamath County sheriff’s office for help getting out. She transferred me.

A man named Rod answered, and I again went through my spiel, apologizing and describing my location. Besides the “Pinnacles Trailhead” sign, another sign listed the county road number for the trailhead road. I told Rod that I was at the intersection of that road, and the highway listed on the map “that goes through the Sun Pass to Fort Klamath.”

Rod knew exactly where I was at. As an FYI, he told me that the road to Fort Klamath was closed “just a few miles past where you got stuck.”

“It’s been closed for years,” he explained. “I know what you were doing—you were probably following the map—but that road hasn’t gone through for, gosh, 10 or 20 years. We know it is listed on maps, and that’s a problem, but we don’t know how to get it taken off the maps.”

I asked if he could help get me pulled out.

“Sure, we have guys on standby who can get you out.”

“Great! Thanks!”

“I’ll just have to call up the search and rescue people.”

“Wait! Did you say ‘search and rescue’?”

“Well, that’s what they are called. They volunteer for this kind of stuff.”

“I just need to be clear that I don’t need rescued, in terms of I’m not going to die out here. I’ve been camping, and I have plenty of clothes and supplies and even a tent. I just need someone who can pull me out.”

“They can get you out,” Rod clarified, “but they can’t pull out a stuck vehicle. That’s not what they do.”

“Well, that’s what I need, is someone to pull my vehicle out. I am 2,000 miles from home, and my only way back is this pickup. Most everything I own is even here with me. I can camp here just fine if I need to, so it wouldn’t be much help for search and rescue to come get me—unless that helped me find somebody who could pull me out.”

“So,” Rod confirmed, “you don’t want me to call search and rescue?”

“No,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to trouble them.”

“It’s no trouble. They live for this kind of stuff.”

“Well, still, it really wouldn’t help me unless I get my pickup unstuck. Otherwise, I’m here ‘till June, or whenever it is that the snow melts. Is there any way you know of that I could get someone, pay someone, to come pull my pickup out? Like, perhaps, the logging company that I saw not more than 4 or 5 miles back?”

“I can get you the number for Chiloquin Towing.”

“OK. Are they nearby? Would they be willing to come out here?”

“That’s the nearest town to where you are right now. They are probably your best bet.”

Rod gave me the towing company’s number, and I thanked him for his help. He requested that I call him back to update him on the situation after checking with the towing company.

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s your phone number?”

“Just call 911.”

I called Chiloquin Towing, and, after describing my location, was asked to call Steve, one of the tow truck drivers, on his cell phone. Steve knew the area well, and understood where I was stuck.

“I can’t go out there until about dark,” Steve explained, “when it starts to freeze and harden up some. Otherwise, I might get the tow truck stuck, and if the tow truck gets stuck, there’s no one to pull the tow truck out.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s true.”

“Try calling me back at about 4:00.”

I looked at my watch, and translated it into Pacific Time. 2:00 p.m. It would be 2 hours before I could even call the tow truck, to see if it could come out.

I called 911.

“Hello, this is 911. Do you have an emergency?”

“Um, no, I don’t. I’m trying to get in touch with Rod. He asked me to call him at this number.”

“What do you need?”

“He asked me to give him an update.”

She refused to transfer me to Rod, but took down my number so he could call me back. A minute or two later, my phone did ring with Rod checking up on me. I told him about the tow truck situation, and again turned down his offer of a search and rescue team.

“I’m thinking about walking out,” I explained to him. “It can’t be all that far back to where I saw that logging skidder, and I could make it all the way to highway 97 if I need to.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure about that. They always say, when you leave your vehicle, that’s when you get into trouble.”

“Yeah, but I would be following the road I have already driven on, so there is no chance of getting lost and I know it is not that far a walk for me. And I can walk on top of the snow just fine.”

“Well, I can’t tell you what to do,” Rod replied, “but I would recommend staying with your vehicle, and waiting for the tow truck.”

“All right,” I conceded, “I’m obviously not the smart one here, so I’ll take your advice and wait here.”

“Call me back with an update after you call the tow truck at 4:00.”

“At this number?”

“Just call 911.”

I hung up. By this time, I was sitting on top of my pickup’s cab. I left my phone there, so it would still have signal, and then climbed down and sat back in the driver’s seat.

To wait.

Throughout this time, I wondered what God was trying to tell me. Surely He was trying to teach me something with all this.

The most obvious answer—that I was an idiot—I already knew full well. He had already made that quite clear to me in the past, and I didn’t think that I needed reminded of it.

As my own efforts to get unstuck failed, I considered that perhaps the lesson was that I sometimes needed to ask for help. That I could not always do it by myself, and could not solve every problem. This seemed true, and was a good lesson to learn or at least be reminded of. As the hours wore on, though, the people to whom I turned for help, and on whom I now relied, seemed unable or unwilling to help me. Sure, everyone was extremely nice, and they were concerned for my welfare. But it still seemed like the easiest way out would be to get in touch with that logging skidder just a few miles down the road. With each phone transfer, I tried to get someone to find the number for the logging company, but it seemed no one could. If I had just walked out on my own power instead of trying to call for help, I would have made it to the skidder or at least to the heavily-traveled highway by mid-afternoon. And, no, it would not have been dangerous, because there was zero chance of me getting lost, zero chance of freezing to death on a sunny 40-degree day, and the distance was only a third of what I had hiked just 5 days before.

So, though perhaps a valid point, God didn’t seem to be getting the trust-in-others lesson across very well.

I considered, as I waited, how close I was to this not being a problem at all. If my pickup had not broken through the hard top crust of snow, I would have been turned around and out of there in minutes. Maybe if I had been a few inches over, or stopped a few inches sooner, the snow in that spot would have held up. If I could have gotten the pickup to climb the few inches back up on top of the snow, I knew I could drive it back the way I came without getting stuck. But a simple matter of inches got me into this huge pickle.

The day before, a matter of seconds may have been all that prevented me from outrunning the wave and making it to shore with no problem. But perhaps a matter of a few more seconds underwater could have led to even bigger problems.

Life seems to be a matter of seconds and inches, which is not a comforting thought, because we really have no control over it. We can choose to not go in the water at all, or to not take the road less traveled, and perhaps that is part of the lesson. But that doesn’t sound much like the life God has in mind for us. That sounds a whole lot like not taking any chances: never traveling, never talking to strangers, never dating, never daring to do anything great, and in the process never making a difference.

So, I’m still not sure what the lesson is. Maybe He just wanted to spice up my narrative a bit.

At 4:00, I called Steve, the tow truck guy. He didn’t answer, so I left a message.

At 4:05, I called the towing company directly. I really needed to know if someone was going to come for me that evening. The dispatcher was not sure where Steve was, and furthermore suggested that the owner might have a policy against pulling stuck drivers out of the snow.

At 4:10, I called 911 to give the promised update.

At 4:15, I tried calling Steve again. This time, instead of making the connection, my phone simply beeped and showed an error message: “Request Not Completed”. I tried again, and again got a beep and the message. I can tell the request was not completed; why was it not completed?

I tried calling a different number from my phone contacts, and again got a beep and the “Request Not Completed” error. I tried calling my Mom, my home phone, my old place of employment, my friends, my church, and even that guy who called me so many times looking for “Rudy” that I saved his number under the name “Wrong Number”. In each and every case, the phone beeped at me and stated “Request Not Completed”.

Then, the phone rang, and displayed Steve’s cell phone number as the caller. Thank goodness, I thought, and hit the button to answer. Beep. “Request Not Completed”. The phone continued to ring, and I continued to answer, trying the “Options” menu and selecting “Answer” instead of simply hitting the green button. Beep. “Request Not Completed.” I continued this game until the phone stopped ringing, and then indicated “1 Missed Call” and “New Voice Message”. I tried to listen to the message: Beep. “Request Not Completed”.

This was rapidly getting old, and it was not even fun to begin with.

The phone rang again, this time with Deputy Rod’s direct number. He also left a voice message that I could not retrieve.

Desperate, I tried the call button once again. It pulled up a list of the most recent completedcalls, with 911 on the top of the list. I called 911.

This time, the phone readout said “Attempting Emergency Call”. It rang once, and then I heard the now-familiar “Do you have an emergency?”

“Sort of,” I replied, and explained the situation.

After a little bit of convincing, I managed to get the 911 dispatcher to call Rod and Steve for me. After waiting on hold for a couple of very long stretches, she came back on the line and let me know that Steve was on his way, and would be at my location in 30 to 45 minutes.

I strolled around my life jacket, which was still planted in the middle of the road, and waited on the tow truck. I hoped that I, or the 911 dispatcher, had given him the correct location, and that Steve was right in thinking that he could drive on the road after dusk. I started praying that the tow truck would not get stuck. Just praying that Steve would not get stuck, even if that meant he had to turn back before reaching me. I didn’t want him to suffer on my account. I found myself praying that simple request over and over and over, almost as a meditative chant. Please keep the tow truck from getting stuck. I repeated it for—well, it was hard to say exactly how long. 30 minutes? 45 minutes? An hour? And still, no sign of the tow truck.

At 5:45 p.m., I called the only number I could call to check on the tow truck. The 911 dispatcher again put me on a long hold while she checked with the parties involved. She finally came back with the results: the tow truck had gotten stuck.

Steve had called for search and rescue to come get me, since he could not make it, and the sheriff’s office had started the process of mobilizing the team. I didn’t argue against it this time. Without even a working phone, there was no way I could find someone to pull me out while sitting in the middle of the forest.

The 911 dispatcher asked me to check back in with her at 7:00. I promised to do so, and then set about to wait some more.

It was now dark, and starting to get much colder. Deciding not to take any chances, I put on another couple of layers of clothes. I then used my oar to dig a small hole in the snow, and started a fire with the almanac and the wood I had gathered to put under the wheels. The small fire slowly melted its way down into the snow—and continued to sink, much deeper than I thought the snow reached.

Some of my remaining water was frozen, so I tried roasting a water bottle over the fire. I also packed snow into my Pur water pitcher, and set it down next to the fire. Somehow, the fire managed to melt one side of the plastic pitcher without melting a single drop of the snow inside.

I called 911 to check in at 7:00, and again at 8:00. Finally, at about 8:30, I heard the sound of snowmobiles in the distance.

The three machines came from the south, which is the opposite direction from which I had driven. The riders were Shawn, a deputy; and two volunteers who were apparently officers in the local snowmobiling club.

Though not much in the mood to talk, Shawn did comment on the OSU windbreaker I was wearing on top of my other layers. “You’re not a Beaver, are you?”

It took me a second or two to understand his question. “No, this is Oklahoma State, not Oregon State.”

“Good. For a moment there, I thought your fine may have just tripled. This is Duck country here.”


I had already packed my absolute essentials into my backpack. So, after quickly burying the fire and cleaning up camp, we were ready to move out.

Shawn had me ride behind him, and explained that he needed me to match his movements by leaning to the right or the left when he did. Snowmobiles are rather unstable, and prone to rolling over in the curves.

This was my first ever snowmobile ride, and I would not be disappointed if it turns out to be my last. It almost felt like it would be my last, as we went flying through the darkness. I have no idea how fast Shawn was driving, but it seemed clear to me that we were going way too fast. And the trip went on for miles; it was much farther to the south end of the snow than it was back to the north end.

We mercifully made it back to pavement, and I helped Shawn push and pull his snowmobile up onto the trailer.

Shawn called up the nearest hotel, a place called Melita’s just outside Chiloquin. They still had one room available for the night. Shawn explained that the hotel also included a restaurant/bar where I would be able to grab some supper. One of the other two rescuers offered me a fruit smoothie and a snack bag of miniature cookies. I politely declined at first, saying I would get something to eat at the restaurant, but then accepted them as insurance when she said that the restaurant might already be closed. Though not really hungry, I had eaten only peanuts since breakfast.

Shawn drove me to Melita’s in his deputy 1-ton Ford. Along the way, he mentioned that the road I had driven down was actually a snowmobile trail, and that the snow on the road was actually 3 or 4 feet deep.

A snowmobile trail? How could I have missed that? To be fair to myself, we are not talking about a small trail through the woods. It was still a former highway, and Shawn described my pickup’s location as the intersection of a county road 2304 and “highway 232.”

The shoulder-to-shoulder tracks in the snow had been snowmobile tracks, and they had been only an inch deep because of the lightweight nature of the machines, not because the snow itself was shallow. On the bright side, it changed the perspective of me getting stuck the way I did: instead of demonstrating bad 4-wheel-drive skills, it was impressive that I could make it that far through 4 feet of snow.

“The bad news about the good news,” Shawn continued, “is that I will have to issue you a citation for driving on the snowmobile trails. I know you may not have seen any signs indicating the start of the trail, but they were there.” (Editor’s note: no, they were not.)

He asked me where I was headed, and I told him about my trip. “Well, at least this will make an interesting story! Something you can tell your grandkids about some day.”

Sure. Hey kids, has Grandpa ever told you about the time he was an idiot, and got stuck on a snowmobile trail?

“If it ever gets made into a movie,” Shawn continued, “I want to be played by someone cool, like Ben Affleck.”

“Or Matt Damon?”

“Nah, I don’t know about Matt Damon.”

“I think Matt Damon is the better actor,” I explained, “but I suppose you do look more like Ben Affleck. I’ll see what I can do.”

The one room available at Melita’s was a smoking room. The man in the office asked me if that was all right. I am borderline allergic to cigarette smoke, but if it’s the only room, it’s the only room. I paid for the night and grabbed the key.

Shawn told me to call the sheriff’s office after 8:00 the next morning, and they would try to figure out some way to get my pickup towed out. In the meantime, he warned me against going into the town of Chiloquin itself, which was a mile down the road from Melita’s. “It’s a rough town,” he explained.

With my transportation stuck on a snowmobile trail 25 miles away, I assured him that I would not be going anywhere. It was a much truer statement than I would have liked.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *