This time of year, I travel a lot. Although my official place of residence is in Georgia, I typically drive to the Pacific Northwest every summer to work on forest inventory jobs. The weather is better, there’s plenty of work available, and I get to see remote places that I’d never otherwise visit.
Life is short. I believe in making each day count. On these road trips, I regard each new day as another adventure. My “traveling partner” is a Toyota Tacoma that I bought new in 2002. It now has more than 320,000 miles of experience, much of it on rough western logging roads.
I’ve been especially busy this year. In order to complete one job on time, I worked a lengthy stretch without a day off. When I finally had a break, I made my way to Okanogan County, Washington, where I have an off-the-grid cabin more than 20 miles from the nearest town. A friend of mine who is also a forester was able to join me for a long weekend.
My cabin in the hills of northern Washington
Two Fridays ago, I suggested that we take a drive across the valley to inspect the recent thinning and controlled burning on Forest Service lands. This summer's Carlton Complex Fire which consumed more than a quarter million acres, was one of several huge fires to hit the county in the past decade. Any actions that would reduce the fire danger within sight of my cabin were likely to earn my seal of approval.
My truck, being smaller and more fuel efficient, was selected for the trip. After leaving the paved road in the valley, we looped through forested land, eventually arriving at Lyman Lake where there was a small campground occupied by two camping trailers. The lake was green with algae and had the stench of decaying vegetation, so we did not stay long.
Continuing onward, we followed a wide but bumpy gravel road, named after the lake, for about 3 miles. Then we turned onto a Forest Service road in decent condition. It had a dirt surface with a bit of gravel, mostly smooth, but with the occasional water bar – a small ridge and trough designed to channel water away from the road surface. The woods on both sides of this road had seen a managed burn within the past year, and looked very good. Two or three years previously the timber had been thinned to remove densely packed trees of varying sizes; these were the “ladder fuels” that would feed a catastrophic wildfire. The controlled burn removed even more fuel. What remained were well spaced older trees with plenty of room to grow. Grass now covered the forest floor instead of ladder fuels.
Thinning and burning has removed ladder fuels and reduced the danger of wildfire.
Thinned and burned land in foreground. Across the road is an untreated area, showing the ladder fuels that previously dominated this forest.
Some two miles in, we came to an old homestead in a grassy meadow bordered by aspen trees. The old cabin tilted precariously, great for pictures but not for living. On this idyllic sunny day with nobody else in sight, what could possibly go wrong? The next bend in the road provided the answer. As I eased the truck over a water bar, a loud thump rocked the truck and all forward momentum was lost. I turned off the engine and jumped out to see what had happened. The front wheel on the passenger side was askew, the result of one of the ball joints failing. It looked a bit like the tilted cabin we had just seen. The truck was going nowhere without mechanical assistance.
We were stranded in the Deep Dark Woods. Actually it was the sunny woods at the moment, but darkness would come soon enough.
Got any duct tape? We can fix it!
Chuck and I quickly assessed the situation. Waiting for help was not an option on this back road; a week could pass before the next person came by. We might find somebody at a house about three miles away, but neither of us had looked for signs of activity when we passed it earlier. The next potential rescuers would be the campers at Lyman Lake, five miles away. Slightly more than two hours of daylight remained.
This area is completely devoid of cell phone service. The nearest signal was on a mountain, several miles in the wrong direction.
Since we were only out for a “three hour tour,” we hadn’t brought much with us. For my entire trip, which began in late June, my truck had always been loaded with food and camping gear, plus a mountain bike for emergency travel. All those weeks of travel on back roads had left the camper full of dust. My first order of business upon arriving at the cabin was to remove all the gear and then visit the car wash in the nearest town. All the things that would make life comfortable if we had to spend the night here were stashed at the cabin. Even the flashlight that I always leave in the truck…yep, it was at the cabin, too. The back of my truck was nice and clean, but it was empty except for a small tool box and a three-gallon Igloo cooler that was half full of drinking water.
We both had boots and comfortable clothes. Chuck had an empty 24-ounce plastic bottle. We each took a big drink from the cooler, and then filled the bottle all the way to the top. I had a handheld GPS. As we departed, I took a waypoint so that we’d know how far we had walked. There was no time to waste.
Chuck reminded me of my philosophy of seeing each day as an adventure. We were getting one now. “Some adventures are more challenging than others,” I replied.
The meadow, surrounded by aspens and evergreens.
This was the last picture I took before the truck broke down.
The first landmark along the way was the meadow with the tilted cabin. We could scarcely believe what we saw there: a pickup truck! We had just been there 15 minutes ago and had the place to ourselves. We also couldn’t help but notice the skin color of the two occupants. It’s common to see whites, Native Americans, and Hispanics in the area, but here were two black men. With guns. Did we dare ask for help? Of course we did. They were hunters and we were foresters; we see hunters all the time. We walked right up to them and explained our situation. They immediately offered to help. One of the pair remained at the meadow to set up camp and fix dinner. The other, who later introduced himself as Wylie, grabbed the shotgun that had been leaning against the truck and placed it behind the seat as we jumped in. This might sound like the plot of a TV drama about two outdoorsmen who disappeared without a trace after their truck broke down in the woods. But we knew that the gun was intended for a stray grouse, not for us.
We had gone less than a mile when Wylie asked whether we had seen any turkeys in the area. Hunters always want to know what others have seen. No, we said; but just then Chuck spied a flock of them in the woods. Considering that we had just been stranded in the middle of nowhere, we were having pretty good luck. We continued on past Lyman Lake and on to the pavement. Wylie had a timber connection as well, because he worked in a sawmill in the western part of the state. We passed Aeneas Store, the only store in about twenty miles. Then we took the gravel and dirt roads up the hillside, to the last house where the road got bad. Not wanting to make our benefactor beat up his truck on the rough stretch, we offered to get out at that point, said our thanks, and hiked the final mile to the cabin. We found ourselves enjoying the sunset from the porch, when less than an hour ago we thought that we might be hiking in the dark.
Our luck extended far beyond the good fortune of the chance encounter with hunters. Other than the isolation, the failure of the truck’s ball joint could hardly have occurred under better circumstances. During the previous ten days, I had driven nearly 1,000 miles at highway speeds, about one-third of that distance in Canada. A catastrophic steering failure in heavy traffic or on a crooked road would not have ended well for the truck or for any occupants. Having a wreck in Canada would have added more complications. Instead, the ball joint came apart at two miles per hour on a nearly flat dirt road that carried virtually no traffic.
If the ball joints had failed here...
On Saturday morning, now having Chuck’s truck at our disposal, we went to Aeneas Store to find out whether there were any local mechanics. Someone with the right tools might be able to fix it on the spot. It turned out there was a guy down the valley, literally within sight of the cabin. But he was not at home. It was Saturday, after all. Things always break on Friday afternoon.
Next stop was a parts store in Tonasket, the nearest town to the west. They didn’t have the part, but we got the phone numbers for four shops in Omak. The first three didn’t have the part, either. But luckily we had four strikes instead of three, and the fourth store had a ball joint in stock. Down the highway we went, and we bought the part.
Danny the Mechanic still was not home. Chuck has enough experience under the hood that he felt we had a reasonable chance of doing the job ourselves. To the woods we went. As we passed the meadow, the two hunters who had rescued us were packing up their truck. We stopped to chat with them, and then set about tackling the repairs. First step was to get the tire out of the way. With the wheel no longer properly attached to its moorings, it wobbled around as Chuck attempted to remove the lug nuts. In July I bought new front tires, and given that I had neglected to ask the tire shop to hand-tighten them, they were fastened so tight that they seemed to be welded to the wheel. With sufficient wrestling and a bit of profanity, four of the five nuts yielded. I finally loosened the last one by jumping on the lug wrench several times. Now it was time to remove the old parts. Alas, some of them were even more stubborn than the wheel. We had to give up the effort. The truck would rest in the woods another night.
Sunday morning after coffee and breakfast at the cabin, I peered into the valley with binoculars to see whether Danny was home. I felt like a stalker, but an extra truck in front of the house told me that he was probably there. Chuck and I were in his driveway a few minutes later. Next to his home, a sign proclaimed:
Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.
I ignored the sign and went to the door. Yes, he could repair the truck, but no, he could not fix it out in the woods because of old neck and back injuries. Bring it to my garage and I will fix it, he said.
We found a towing service in the Tonasket area. The owner was just finishing one job, and could meet us in a half hour. He followed us 30 miles to the stranded truck and towed it to Danny’s garage for a price that was probably less than you’d pay in a city. Danny promised to have it ready by noon the next day. Since there was no phone service, I told him to park the truck outside the garage when he was done. I’d be able to see it from the cabin.
So it turned out that, after having the truck break down miles from nowhere on a Friday afternoon, it was rescued and repaired by midday Monday.
About a month ago, I observed that the steering felt odd. When you drive the same vehicle for 12 years, you notice these things. I took the truck to A Shop That Will Not Be Named, instructing them to thoroughly check the front suspension. Their only recommendation was to repack the wheel bearings. My intention was to get a second opinion at some future date, whenever my schedule let up a bit. The breakdown happened before I could get that second opinion.
There are many lessons to be learned from this adventure. Every reader will have a different take. I will list some of them here. You can add your own in the comments.
City people tend to be leery of country people. Country folks tend to be leery of city folks. Hunters and non-hunters might be combative instead of cooperative. It’s easy to make assumptions about people of other races even when we claim to be color blind.
But when the chips are down, it’s often easier to get help in the middle of nowhere than in the city. In the country, when someone sees that you’re in trouble, they are likely to drop everything in order to help, knowing that next time they might be the ones needing assistance. Signs warning that trespassers will be shot are not to be taken literally. They really mean “Don’t bother me unless you have a good reason to be here.”
A country store is a great source of local information. The owner is likely to know the local mechanic, and anybody else whose service you might need. Often there is a bulletin board covered with business cards and flyers, placed there by local residents trying to make a few dollars in a harsh economy.
As someone who is not mechanically inclined, I learned about the importance of ball joints. Having one fail is the automotive equivalent of a plane losing a wing. If you have an older vehicle, be sure to check the components that might fail. And if one mechanic says that all is well, and you think otherwise, get a second opinion. By the way, as soon as I returned to civilization, I had the left-side lower ball joint replaced, too.
Always be prepared. We become accustomed to that comfortable cocoon offered by our cars and trucks. That comfort can vanish in an instant. Have food, water, and extra clothing. Know your location. Know how to find the nearest help. If you are not in physical condition to walk a long distance, make sure that somebody knows where you are. Never rely solely on your phone for rescue.
And if you happen to become stranded in the Deep Dark Woods, try to see it as another of life’s adventures.
Sunset from the cabin, looking across the valley to the USFS land where the truck broke down.