As a general rule, I’m not much of a risk taker. When making everyday decisions, I like to err on the side of caution. When it comes to driving out in the pasture or on questionable terrain, I definitely like to play it safe. This is partially why, over the years, I have been able to refrain from getting stuck. In fact if I really think hard, the last time I recall getting stuck was back in 2003. This particular incident wasn’t because I got held up in the muck or mud, it was because my tire got wedged in a dusty, tire-sized crevice on a dry trail. So that hardly even counts.
Other members of my household get stuck on a more, shall we say, regular basis. Sure, these specific members need to travel through snow and mud and manure much more often than I, but they do get stuck more than their fair share.
Recently my Other Half, our dear children, and I were out driving in the pasture behind our house to retrieve something. As a passenger, it seemed as though we were certain to get stuck. The snow was deep in some parts, and the banks were hard, and it really didn’t look as though my husband was choosing the best route. We got where we needed to go, he got out and said ‘why don’t you take the kids and I’ll meet you back at the house. Do you think you can make it there without getting stuck?’
‘Of course I can,’ I replied, a bit huffily. I haven’t been stuck in eleven years and I certainly wasn’t planning on changing that. ‘It’s really deep in some spots, especially on the side hills,’ my significant other added. ‘Thanks for the tip!’ I said, revving my engine and confidently making my way towards the house with my little brood in tow. I was breaking new trail, taking an entirely different (surely wiser) route than the erratic way we came. My new trail was straight and true. Until it kind of veered off towards a side hill. The snow on this particular side hill was a bit deeper than it looked. Quite a bit deeper, really. The snowbanks were pretty hard. Very hard, if you want to know the truth of it.
My speed was slowing at a disturbing rate until all of a sudden, we weren’t moving any more. It seemed as though possibly, just maybe, there was a slight chance that I was….stuck.
“Are we stuck, mom?” a helpful little voice piped up from the back.
After watching all of this from a distance, my husband handily caught a nearby horse that was in the same pasture as I, threw a string in its mouth, hopped on and rode up to me and my motionless pick-up. His look said volumes, but he said just one word: ‘Stuck?’ I nodded. With a sigh, he rode the quarter mile or so back to retrieve the tractor and pull me out.
A few minutes later, we hooked one end of the tow rope on my stubborn truck, the other end on to the tractor, I threw the gearshift in neutral and my Other Half proceeded to pull me out of the ridiculous snowbank. But he didn’t stop there. He kept on pulling, carefully weaving us through the rest of the pasture, over the Texas gate, down and around the winding trail, until we gracefully glided to a stop, right in front of our house.
“You didn’t have to tow me the entire way back!” I objected. “Oh, I just wanted to make sure you got back safely. Didn’t want you to get stuck again on a side hill or anything,” he cheerfully replied.
There it was… a generous, well-deserved slice of humble pie. In the future it looks as though I won’t be keeping such close track of who gets stuck and who doesn’t. For a few years, at least.
