“Did You Do Something You Regret?”

 

 

“Did You Do Something You Regret?”

   I texted my friend Joe to see if he was up for a late morning ‘Bott’l Run’ to Thief River Falls to recycle glass bottles, etc, per an urgent request by my wife who claims I become ‘obtuse’ when confined at home for too long, and this was definitely one of those days. 

    Joe’s bread-making schedule was agreeable, so he readily accepted my invitation, and within an hour we were flying down Roseau County Road 8 toward Strathcona and Beito Blvd., off Marshall County 48 east of Middle River; the windows down, the wind in our hair.

    Joe was his amiable self. He was well prepared for a late winter cross-country roadtrip, having sprung all his clocks forward an hour, hours before I called. He had put on his tattered felt cap with its earflaps tied in front, his old ratty down vest, and varnish-stained chore coat; minus proper winter boots he admitted, far away from home. He made visible note of his low-sided waterproof footwear he had on that were suitable only for tromps across vast parking lots or airport terminals in Massachusetts, where he had been only a week earlier.    

    After we dumped all our recycling in the bins by Hugo’s, and did our errands around town, Joe and I ate a late breakfast at Johnny’s Cafe. We had been going there for years, and had once a month, become part of the gang there, becoming familiar to the proprietress and her employees on a first name basis. Covid had a negative impact on their business the next couple years. The proprietorship changed, but not so the convivial atmosphere.

    On our way home, we drove through Agassiz National Wildlife Refuge. Although Wikipedia says, “Packs of wolves, moose, waterfowl, and 294 species of birds make this refuge a wildlife wonderland,” we only saw one skunk on the shoulder of the road the whole way. Joe submitted one of the pictures to the Wiktel Home Page weekly photo contest and won a spot in it on March 16, which is, coincidently, Stephen McDonnell Day in Palmville.

    Once back at Joe’s house, I helped him unload his few bags of groceries. His wife had made some cookies and wanted me to get them before I returned home. Unfortunately, she was gone on a snowshoe walk when we arrived, so I didn’t have the opportunity to thank her personally, but hoped Joe would convey my appreciation after a quick nap I just know he had planned.

    Instead of going directly home, not knowing if I had washed off all my obtrusiveness or not, I decided to drive to Beltrami Forest/Bemis Hill instead, some seventeen miles away. Recall now, this was such a beautiful day with the sun shining bright; the snow melting.

       The county snowplow had come through the forest recently as I didn’t recognize fresh car or truck tracks on the road before me as I drove them. I slowed to video seven or eight deer running ahead of me; some leapt snowbanks four feet high before escaping back into the woods on meandering well-packed deer trails.

    The landscape of snow looked so pure, untouched, unscathed. Fire-scarred stumps and fallen logs were hidden under many feet of drifted snow. New tree buds buried nearer the top waited impatiently to burst through to the sun, sensing its growing heat through the crystalline mantle.

    The road into Bemis Hill Campground had been plowed; the parking lot opened. A car with a snowmobile trailer behind it occupied a corner; I didn’t see anyone around it. Driving on past to where the plowing stopped on the east side of the shelter house, I parked my car. Only a well-used snowmobile trail exited the parking lot from that point; nobody would be driving down that in a car until its return to life as a campground road, come spring.

    An outhouse built by the Forest Service stood ahead of where I was parked; I doubted it was usable during the winter. Deciding to take a short nap, I took the keys from the car’s ignition, reclined the drivers seat, and settled in for a little shut-eye after the nearly 150-miles I had driven that day; it was so peaceful there.

    About five minutes later, I saw a SUV with North Dakota plates, drive past me and stop at the outhouse. I watched as a tall slender person, got out and went to the outhouse door. Finding it open, they went inside. “Hmmm, that’s good to know before I leave,” I thought, and shut my eyes again.

    What seemed just a few minutes later, I realized I hadn’t heard the car come back past me, and looked toward the direction of the outhouse and saw, with some real disappointment, the SUV about two hundred yards distant, stuck in the snow off the snowmobile trail.

    “CRAP!” (Or words to that effect) I said, hoping the person was momentarily stuck and would drive away in good order so I could resume my nap. 

    I watched as the rear hatchback came open, and someone retrieve what I presumed was a shovel, then dig furiously a little, at each of the wheels; then jump back in, close the hatch, and saw plumes of exhaust spiral up; the hatch would come open, the shovel would come out; the hatch close, the exhaust; the hatch open ... This was repeated four times before I reluctantly accepted as obvious, that the person was by themselves, or at the very least, unable to get out of their dilemma without help.

    Knowing how I would feel at that point in time after doing something so stupid (and have) as to drive down a snowmobile trail (or road) far from home, in the middle of nowhere, and get hopelessly stuck; I pulled out my aluminum grain shovel and walked the distance on that very nice day to help him/her, they/them ... 

    Not intending to, I innocently scared the b’jesus out of him/her, they/them when I shouted from down the trail, “Did you do something you regret?” 

    He didn’t see me approach as bent to his labors as he was on his knees quickly shoveling snow. Acting both greatly surprised and elated that he wasn’t totally alone, he greeted me in a friendly humorous manner, although he probably thought an old man like me couldn’t help him much more than act as company to his misery. 

    He admitted he regretted choosing the route he did, but proved to be no slouch shoveling snow, which quickly earned my respect. I told him I couldn’t help much more than shovel; nor push nor pull at this point in my life. Getting down on my knees too, I told him the snow was packed tight under the middle of his vehicle from end to end, and the wheels were spinning because they weren’t contacting the ground. All the small pieces of cardboard, and blankets, and miscellaneous cloth bags he had stuffed under the tires weren’t doing him any good. It did no good to accelerate and spin the tires; that we had to clear the snow out from under the car first.

    In his zest, he broke the handle of his car shovel, and was down to scooping snow out with his gloved hands -- which were soon soaked through and searing with cold; snow is still just frozen water afterall. I handed him my grain shovel, mentioning that it was the real kind of shovel to carry during the winter, instead of his toy shovel. Then, without explaining, I walked back to my car to get my own eleven-inch plastic ‘toy’ shovel with its telescoping handle. On my return, I gifted that shovel to him because his was broke, and took my grain shovel back. He thanked me profusely.

    We continued shoveling; the new shovel holding up quite well. At one point, we managed to free the car and move it backwards about sixty feet, before he lost control and it lunged off the snowmobile trail into deep snow again. Oddly, I realized for all that time, we had been working together in relative anonymity; we didn’t even know one another’s names.

    “My name is Steve, what’s yours?” I finally said, and to which he smiled, laughing about the circumstance he had just become aware of too. “I’m Ben.” After he said that he and his family had lived in Roseau County before moving to Grand Forks, we began in earnest to know who we knew in common.

    Ben couldn’t think of any friends or family living anywhere near there, to help us. But I could. I didn’t want to tap into that possibility if I didn’t have to, but we were pretty much at the end of our combined effort; and the day wasn’t getting any longer according to the sun on the trees around us. Still, we had a lot to be thankful for, being as #1, It was still daylight; #2, It was the warmest day we’d seen for months; #3, Winds were low in contrast to the gales we’ve been having; #4, We had cell reception; and #5, I had a couple small bags of homemade oatmeal and Craisin cookies in my pockets which we shared during a short break.

    I called Woe Wednesday, at long last, knowing he lived about ten miles away, hoping he would be at home, and able to help us out. His wife said he was out walking the dogs, but she would tell him of our dilemma; she said he had helped others in similar predicaments since they lived out where they did, and while she couldn’t promise anything, she was confident he’d make every effort to do the same for us.
Whew! 

      He did understand swear words however, when I realized to my horror, I did not have my thirty-foot chain and forty-foot tow strap in my car as I had thought, remembering only then, that I had removed both the day before, and put in my pickup, when I went to check on a neighbor’s house prior to her return home after a long absence.

    Woe arrived; he had his own tow strap fortunately. He looked apprehensive as he viewed the situation; thinking it would be better if he could get a tow strap on the front of Ben’s car instead of the back where the trailer hitch was. Truly, the car was closer to the opposite end of the snowmobile trail, but there was no place to hook a chain on the front end of the car that I could see; Ben had no idea. 

    Accepting the fact he would have to hook onto the trailer hitch mount, he explained the physics of his attempt to Ben; adding there was no guarantee that his idea would even work, given the depth and consistency of the snow we were in.

    With the three of us shoveling snow from around Ben’s car, we managed to free it somewhat, getting it farther down the trail in reverse, until it got stuck again. Woe made an attempt to back his pickup down the trail toward the car, going only as far as he dared; the truck being wider than the SUV.

    He attempted to pull the car using his strap, as I steered Ben’s car backwards, but the truck broke traction too. So we decided to unhook the strap and get Woe’s truck out before the situation got worse for both vehicles. In between time, Ben managed to drive the car forward several feet before becoming stuck yet again. Woe said the only thing to do now was call a tow truck.

    Making sure Ben had the means to call someone and pay for it, as I knew one local towing business insists on cash-in-hand, Woe and I began working on getting Woe’s truck back to the parking lot to no avail. Frustrated and tired, I called Joe at home and asked him to drive the two miles to my house, get my truck, and drive it to Bemis, a distance of 19 miles, so I could pull Woe out the very little effort it needed. It took longer to drive there than get Woe’s truck out, and just as fast Joe drove it back.

    At long last, Warroad Motors & Towing arrived for Ben, in the form of a straight truck/car hauler with a track vehicle on it, presumably having to literally dig their way through the snow to the car, and far easier than we had done trying to get it out. I should've maybe stayed to watch the extraction but I was tired and went on home for a well-deserved nap.

    In hindsight, I had the thought that Ben had suffered a moment of distraction when he left the outhouse, remembering when he may have used that same narrow trail through the campground during summers as a kid. At a glance, it looked passable; but then, so does quicksand ...