We all want people to enjoy our pastimes with us. But if our hobby involves four-wheel-drive, it sometimes takes rather extreme measures to get participation. Sometimes it happens that the participants are not necessarily volunteers.

Since they were children, my dad and his sister have been playing pranks on one another. I have plotted with my dad on several schemes, but most have been too elaborate to work.   For instance, we once had the idea of buying a wrecked car identical to my aunt’s new T-Bird and swapping them in her garage.   It’s a great idea, and one not yet given up on, but also not one easily coordinated over three states.  So we bided our time awaiting an opportunity. And recently, one appeared.

About twice a year my parents come down from Iowa to visit us.   Last year, my aunt and uncle decided to come with them.  Not wanting to let this opportunity go by unused, I set the wheels to turning and came up with a plan; a plan that would not only get some people out wheeling that had never been before, but that would also trump any prank my aunt has ever schemed up.

The trail I normally wheel on terminates at a bed and breakfast five miles from my house. The beginning of the trail is thirty minutes from my door-step and it takes a half hour to navigate its two-mile length. The plan was to organize a late lunch at the inn which, according to us plotters, was an hour away.  Nothing suspicious there, as an hour’s drive through the countryside is scenic, and enjoyable to city dwellers. Of course, the last 2 miles of the drive would be quite different….

For the mission, I borrowed my brother's Nissan Pathfinder and put my aunt in the front seat where she would not miss anything.  Into the rear seat went my dad and uncle, along with my young sister-in-law.  She was along to provide chatter, keeping everyone occupied and off their guard. My wife, another sister-in-law and all the kids piled into my wife’s Honda CRV and led the way.  At a designated intersection they were to peel off and hide while the rest of the convoy went by.  They would then backtrack around to the end of the trail, where they would eventually be seen driving up ahead as if they had been in front of us all along. Between us (to keep us back far enough that my passengers would not see the women break off) were my brothers in my Ranger. Once the trap sprung, my unsuspecting aunt would be subjected to 2 miles of flying mud, dizzying drop-offs, frame-rending crevices, nail-biting slopes and ravines big enough to swallow an SUV whole and in the next breath ask for seconds.

With everyone in their proper seats and the vehicles in correct formation, we head to lunch.  As we drive, one behind the other, we casually increase the gap between vehicles to let my wife’s green Honda ease ahead out of sight.  I endure a moment of acute anxiety as we pass the turn-off where my wife is supposed to be hiding, but we cruise by without seeing her car.  On the next straight section of road I pass the Ranger so it can be behind us as a safety vehicle. Then, we are at the entrance of the trail.

The trail is a section of road that has not been maintained in fifty years.  It is perfect for our plot because one moment you are clipping nicely down a county road and then suddenly, and literally, the road goes to pieces.

The first set of obstacles is a bunch of rock shelves in a deep, flowing creek that has taken over this part of the road.  While cursing the county highway department, I subtly slip the truck into Four-Low and carefully climb the shelves. In the mirror I see my uncle and I can tell by the look on his face that he is onto us, but he would never spoil a good joke.  My aunt’s demeanor is less stoic.

As we climb up the series of miniature waterfalls she is gasping “This can’t be the road!” and “Are you sure the girls went this way?”

I keep “seeing” them up ahead and pointing out non-existent tire marks.  

The stream soon becomes a road again and then we are faced with a mud hole about one hundred feet long.  The bottom is pretty solid so you can’t sink down far enough to get stuck, but I feel the need to hit it wide open in second gear: about twenty miles-per-hour. My aunt still isn’t onto me and her mild alarm has turned into a silent mouthing of prayers and protests while gripping the JC strap: white-knuckled.

After a couple of more mud splashes, the only clear view is through the wiper trails on the windshield. Now the fun begins.

The next mile of trail is strewn with deep gullies on steep hillsides, cut by water rushing down and assisted along by off-roaders.  The Pathfinder only has about four inches of wheel travel on the front and twice that on the rear, so when you get it twisted up, the chassis is hurting and the resulting gap between the door and the frame causes the dome light to come on.   For this next mile my aunt is sucking air like a beached tuna, the dome light is flashing in wild protest and in the mirror I see that my uncle is gripping the JC straps above both doors (damn the other passengers) and is making a strong effort to pull the truck flat.  I’m busy trying to keep the speed up because the bottom is banging everything with bone jarring thuds and I am afraid of getting hung up.  Worse yet, it’s wet and we keep sliding off of stuff and hitting the bottom hard enough to induce in me a slight fear that we might roll over.  The additional topside weight of my load of passengers makes this at least a possibility.

I shout: “Lean left!”

Everyone does it.

“Lean right!”

Again, eager compliance.

“Lean!”

“Which way!?”

“I don’t know, BOTH ways, just do it NOW!”

Through it all I still call out CRV and tire track sightings.   Suddenly the frame torture is over, the dome light flickers out, and we are sitting at the top of a big hill looking down.

This hill is, from either direction, what separates the faint hearted from those with borrowed trucks.  I’m happy to be going down it today instead of up, because I will at least have gravity working for me. As we survey the hill, two heavily modified Jeeps come scrambling over the crest and the first pulls along side; the driver eyes us incredulously.  I don’t blame him; sixty-percent of the population of our truck is eligible for reduced rates at the box office.  For effect, I ask if he has seen a green Honda CRV loaded to the sills with women and children come this way.  He hasn’t. Damn.

They go by and with a last hesitant teeter on the precipice, we come crashing down.  The hill is mostly made of rock that has flaked away in layers leaving sharp ledges which are good for gouging tires.  Along one side is a deep ravine, part way into which the Pathfinder immediately slides.  With my heart beating like Mohammed Ali’s speed-bag, I keep the throttle gently pressed with the wheels turned upwards in an effort to ward off an expensive visit to the body shop.

I am a little worried about leaving my mid-60’s relations hanging upside-down in their seat belts, but I am even more worried about getting stuck and having to shuttle them out two at a time in the Ranger. The loss of cool points would be unbearable: a guy with six diopters of correction ground into his bifocals hasn’t many surplus points to expend.

Finally, with a collective release of aged air, we make it down.   Even my dad is looking pretty pasty at this point.  But in the back, seemingly oblivious to the crack of doom outside the windows, my sister-in-law is still chatting away as if we are heading over to Bloomington to try out a new Vegan restaurant. Perfect.

The last half mile of trail is within the comfort zone of the Pathfinder, but still fairly challenging. Through creative steering, I make it as interesting as possible without being too obvious about bouncing my passengers.  Then we are off the trail and lo and behold, there is the CRV just within sight out in front of us!  My aunt is flabbergasted:

“I can’t believe they drove through that!”

“Well that Honda IS a pretty good car,” I say, glancing casually away.

Sitting down at the inn awaiting the arrival of our food we are all laughing about it and it begins to dawn on my aunt that it was a set-up.

“Oh My God…were you…did you…when did you…I have never even dreamed a road like that existed.” She accuses us all, justly.

My uncle says he knew we were up to something when we made them all cram into the Pathfinder, leaving their much larger SUV sitting in our driveway.   Like I said, he’s a good sport.

So now the joke’s over and I fearfully await retaliation.   Will it be a letter from the lawyer of a previously unknown relative leaving me a large estate?  Will I start receiving the leather-bound Time Life’s “Vietnam Series” monthly in my mailbox?  I don’t know but I hope it doesn’t hurt much.  What I do know is that it’s always fun to get someone out ‘wheeling that hasn’t been before.  I’ve yet to find anyone (aunts included) that, no matter their initial hesitation, didn’t end up having a good time.~TRS

 

 

 

 

We are always looking for hometown events to feature here. E-mail me at wwills@iquest.net.