June 25th, 2010. Friday, 10pm. The Tacoma was stuck in knee deep snow... Still in my work slacks and dress shirt, I found myself digging away at the snow around the wheels with my now cracked and bloody bare hands. And then, with a flashlight in hand and my knees to the ground I saw the real crisis of my situation; the snow beneath the tires had been packed to near-ice frictionless snow wells, and the truck's frame was resting upon the heavy, wet snow, with the front and rear axles locking the truck in place, not able to move forward nor backwards without any grip for its wheels. In other words, I wasn't going anywhere. "So much for those fancy new tires", I thought.
Here's how you get to Standrod from SLC. You get work off early, that is, at 5pm. You drive to Bountiful and pick up your bike rental because you're planning on riding in a charity bike tour with your team from work the following day. You then drive to Ogden and pick up a pasta dinner--they say pasta is good for a last meal before a long bike ride--and then, you drive to Tremonton. Commonly considered the last real city in Utah before leaving the state for Idaho, Tremonton is still not even half-way to your destination.
You drive westbound I-84 until you reach Snowville, which is more than a freeway exit than a city. Continue West, and you'll begin to flirt with the Utah-Idaho border as you make your way finally to Standrod, which is more of a house than a city. Here, go 4wd.
I locked in the Hi 4wd and entered the raft river mountains at about 8:45 pm, still trying to beat the twilight and make it to the peak of Bull Mountain before sundown. Dodging herds of cows in the canyon, I sped up the dusty roads passing the only people I had seen in over 75 miles--a few campers who looked more like fugitives dodging the law than your casual weekend nature lovers.
The trail steepened, and I switched into low 4wd. As I crested the first ridge the sun was fully down, and I could make out Idaho's city of rocks only faintly in the north. Here I entered "the meadow" as described by the trip reports I had read on the internet. Seeing the peak in the distance, and a gentle meadow road for the next few miles, much of the consternation I had felt all day had slowly subsided. Earlier, I sensed an instinct similar to fear when considering Bull Mtn. It would be my second attempt at the peak, afterall... I even IM'd Jenny at work, and told her if she didn't hear from me by 7am Saturday, then "I would be somewhere south of Standrod, Utah near Bull Mountain". Then, when approaching the odious mountains on the long road from Snowville, I instinctively wanted to turn back and just camp in Logan for the race the next morning. But out of a sense of personal obligation to complete this peak, I continued on.
Again within sight of the peak, I traversed the meadow and began a gentle climb at 9,000 ft into the pine forest. Crossing what seemed a small stream, the Tacoma's hood lifted and obscured my view as I rose over the crest of a short hill climb. Then, I felt that all-to-familiar and concerning sensation of the truck shifting and sliding through loose ground--snow.
It was too deep, I didn't take it at the right speed, and now I was out of luck. "S.O.L." as the kids say. At 9,000 ft, it was cold, my hands were bleeding--no shovel, no winch, no two-way radio and the last humans I ever saw, well... I was so S.O.L...
I later told my brother, being the fair-weather optimist that I am, that being in a crisis like this can really test your mettle. There I was, alone and incapable, in a remote forest at 9,000 feet, and I suppose it was just another of those life challenges to see if I would "fight" or "flight".
Fortunately, I'm more of a Farmer Oak than a Sergeant Troy. Now I just need to figure out my Bathsheba.
Whether I would hike to help or stay the night wasn't an issue at that very moment. Sufficient to the night were the evils thereof, and such a decision that had to wait until the morning. With my trusty but dull Ka-bar in hand, I set to gathering wood & kindling and I prepared a spot on a gentle slope next to the truck for a simple fire. After having burned 6 of my truck's road maps, I had only managed to singe the wet spring-logged wood & create a lot of smoke. It had now drifted past midnight, and as I had warmed myself in my efforts anyway, I prepared the tent & bed in the bed of the truck. As stupid and disobedient as the chain of decisions were to land me in that snow drift, I was nevertheless prepared to survive, if not to escape. I had food, water, everything I needed to sleep warmly, and even a means to brush my teeth.
Yet, I wasn't out of the woods--yes, I know--literally. Considering my situation, I surprisingly sensed no such anxiety that I couldn't sleep... I had a tent, a bag, a flannel liner, and even an air mattress. I fell asleep instantly. But whether it be due to the altitude or the amount of smoke I had inhaled, I woke an hour later struggling for air.
As a kid I had respiratory problems. Dr. Mower described the symptoms best by saying it was as if an elephant was sitting on my chest. No extra effort in expanding my lungs seemed to pull enough air in... and that drowning sensation I had as a 6th grader was again plaguing me as I tried to get at least some sleep, stranded, at 9,000 ft in remote Box Elder county. Although not anxious previously, I now seriously began to panic.
It was 2 o'clock a.m., and I found myself exiting my tent and climbing into the driver's seat of my truck in a desperate attempt to give it one last try. I felt the familiar spinning of the wheels as I pumped the gas; the uncertainty of my mortality consumed my thoughts as I sat in that truck cabin, struggling to breathe...
... and then the ABS warning light began to flash. I didn't know what it meant, but all things considered, it boded unwell.
I don't need to detail what happened immediately after; if my manner of writing has impressed upon you the tender mercies that made me "mighty" that night then I would consider this blog posting a success. Regardless whatever conclusion from my ambiguity you make of this, I will say that I woke up at 6:30 am, alive, refreshed, and decisive. I left a note on the windshield, then began the 6 mile hike to the canyon I had driven through the night before, in search of help from the campers.
It was a beautiful & quiet morning, and I was making good time. The trail, which had taken me 40 minutes to drive the night before, now took me over 2 hours to walk. But finally, I reached the same crest of the hill that looked down into the canyon, where I hoped to find campers willing and able to help me.
I approached the first campsite, and no one was in sight. The second campsite had a few campers awake, but all they could offer in assistance to my story was some sorry looks. They had no winch, shovel--no nothing to help. I then found the third campers... a boy and his father, who claimed to know the area well, were about to drive a four-wheeler up the mountain to approximately where I was. They had a shovel. It was no winch & a truck, but at least they were able, and selflessly willing, to give me a hand.
But at this moment, Creighton & Blaine's 4Runner was seen driving up the canyon trail. I hailed their vehicle to stop, and quickly asked them if they had a winch. Creighton replied, "no". I told them my situation. Then, to my relief, they said they were headed up to Bull Mountain also that day, and even if they had no winch, they had a strong chain and a vehicle strong enough to pull the Tacoma out. And they did just that.
Creighton & Blaine had camped at the opposite base of Bull Mountain that previous evening, but upon sunrise, they decided to explore the OMV trail up rather than hike from base to peak. It was my glorious fortune that they decided to do so. I was familiar with the trail and was able to direct them up the towards my truck & the peak, and once arriving and chaining up the two vehicles, the Tacoma was out after a good tug. We then continued further up the mountain, encountering even longer and deeper snowfields in our vehicles. Now I could return the favor and pull the 4Runner out once they were stuck, and continue on forward until we were able to reach a point high enough to begin the summit ridge hike to the peak. What a relief!
Not only were Creighton & Blaine a huge help, but they were most pleasant hiking companions, and I found myself really enjoying their company and admiring their characters. Although "older and more experienced" than I, we both come from the same social polis, and we could relate to each other well. In other words, they teased me because I spent 6 years at BYU and I'm still not married.
While Creighton explored a ridge at a distance from us, Blaine informed me, at a whisper, that Creighton was suffering from Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, commonly referred to as "Lou Gehrig's Disease", and this particular outing of their's was an effort to satisfy a point on Creighton's bucket list. It seems I've been hearing of other's terminal conditions a lot recently, and it makes me incredibly sad. But it's always a relief when I know, that they know, "if any man eat of this bread, he shall live forever".
I didn't arrive in Logan until 4:30 pm that Saturday... a full 9 hours later than I had originally wished. I had dinner and camped in Logan canyon that night... this time at a pull-in campsite. No more adventures for me, thank you very much. I took a bath in the Logan river; don't tell the rangers that I got the water soapy... and I awoke bright & early to do the second leg of the MS 150 bike race... A 75 mile ride through southern Cache Valley, including a 30 mile r/t stretch up Blacksmith Fork Canyon. It was a beautiful day and the valley and canyon were a real treat. My Goldman team quit after the first 50 miles (they had all biked the 100 mile course the previous day, and had enough), but I continued on alone, albeit slow and worn out, but consistent and steady, until I completed all 75 miles.
I returned home that Sunday with a good story to tell, and with some important lessons learned.
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