This Happened To Us! Part I

By: Rick LaClaire

Article Category: Rick LaClaire

This Happened To Us! Part I
By Rick LaClaire

At age eleven I was given a gift which lasted ten years, a subscription to Outdoor Life magazine. Within were a wealth of stellar outdoor writers:  Ray Bergman, Byron Dalrymple, Joe Brooks, Jack O’Conner, Stu Apte… I only wish I could be among their number. Their stories were more than entertainment, they were inspiration.

Wintertime was a house-bound time in Northern New York, but that monthly arrival of global bloodsport transported me to lands warm and unknown: Florida for tarpon on a fly, Africa for Cape Buffalo, and Mexico for bass. And in the heat of summer, just the opposite. Alaska for caribou… Grizzly in the high mountains…

Even the ads were enjoyable. In the back were page after page of hunting and fishing lodges, listed by state and province. Replete with photos of the bag, these little thumbnails of exotica were the stuff of outdoor dreams. Ah, but the coolest thing about Outdoor Life was a full-page comic strip called “This Happened To Me!”

I love comics. Always have, still do. I started with Popeye and Donald Duck. Then came serious DC stuff like Superman and Batman. It finally culminated with the Marvel brand; super-sophisticated art starring Captain America, Sergeant Fury (and his Howling Commandos), The Fantastic Four and Daredevil. Anything drawn, anything with word balloons and visual onomatopoeia like BAM and BUDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA and KA-BLOOEY — that stuff just drew me in. And so it was with “This Happened To Me!”

Trampled by hippos! Elephants amok! Snakebit! Quicksand! You name it, it happened to somebody, and there were the cartoons to prove it. Hey, if they made a comic about it, it must be true. They solicited entries and I tried many times. In my long and not-so-illustrious career as an outdoorsman I’ve certainly had a few scrapes. But somehow, squashing a toad barefoot or digging redworms out of day-old cow pies didn’t rate. Comparatively, my outdoor life was tamer than the outdoor lives of others. That was, until last week…

It is December as I write this; hunting season. As my readership (hi, Mom!) may recall, my teenage son and I began hunting together last year. On six glorious occasions we invaded select local Wildlife Management Areas, finally returning victorious. In other words, we shot one squirrel. Three times. And we ate it. And it was good.

We had a lot of rain this fall. Not like Tropical Storm Fay last year, but it came late and stayed long. The ranger at the gate put it aptly: “It’s wet back there. But you’ll find that out.” So we were warned, but figured the savvy we’d earned the previous season gave us license to ford any quagmire these boonies could pitch. Boy, were we wrong. We were not twenty minutes into this season’s first foray and found ourselves hopelessly ensnared in a veritable tar pit, deep in the boondocks, miles from any form of salvation.

How could this happen? I drive a truck and I know these backroads. We drove them weekly last season. Always got through. And what about all those years in Buffalo, Rochester, and Watertown when I drove in slush and slop and never got stuck — and that was in those dinosaur V-8 Lead Sleds with bald tires and three inches of clearance! I drive a truck fer chrissakes! Well, I soon learned my “truck” was little more than a glorified golf cart when “it’s wet back there.”

It was my fault. We’d had a couple of “wows” in some big puddles and I was feeling pretty invincible. A bit of a sideslip, some black water over the hood, mud on the mirror… We’re hunters, kid, nothing can keep us from the killing fields. Then, whump. We bottomed out. Hard.

Reverse, that’s what you do. It always worked in snow. Rock it out. Reverse, drive, reverse, drive… Rock it out.

Or dig it in.

I dug it in. Ba-a-a-ad…

We pushed for awhile, entirely in vain. I crammed sticks under the tires to gain traction. That didn’t work. My son, brave soul, even began to dig with his bare hands. No gain. The vehicle’s frame was resting on the mound between the tracks, wheels spinning. Well, one wheel anyway… It was then I realized “rear wheel drive” means “one wheel drive.” While the passenger side spun madly, the driver’s side was still. I also noticed water swirling around a stick I had planted. This water was moving; we were mired in a creek or spring of sorts. Meanwhile, the black goo was seeping into the cab and truck bed.

The boy produced his cell phone and attempted to reach the ranger station. Surely, ours was not a unique situation. Hunters must get stuck back here every season, right? The ranger would know whom to contact. After dialing the numbers on the map and on my license, enduring several long holds and line switches, it was not to be. Those numbers are unlisted.

“The Yellow Pages,” my boy said. “I’ve got the the Yellow Pages on my phone, I think.”

I’ve never been a fan of cellphones. I find them a nuisance. But standing in that cold black water, looking around and seeing no sign of humanity except for a sinking Ford Ranger, I was beginning to appreciate them. “Look up towing services,” I said.

He stabbed the device with his fingers a few times, tilted it, stabbed again, sighed and said “Not enough bars.”

“But you just made a call.”

“I can call,” he qualified, “but I can’t seem to get the Yellow Pages.”

My mind swirled. Why did Superman only exist in the comics? Boy, could we use him now. Even Batman would be a blessing, and he didn’t have any superpowers. Okay, no Superman, no Batman, no ranger, no Yellow Pages… Who ya gonna call?

“Hi, honey. Guess where we are?” I tried to sound cheerful.

“Guess where I am?” She replied.

“I asked you first… Okay, we’re stuck. We’re stuck way out in the boonies and we need some phone numbers from the Yellow Pages. I mean, like, we’re REALLY stuck. We need a tow.”

“Well I’m at the mall. There are no telephone books here.”

“Oh yes there are! There has to be a phone booth.”

“Phone booths went out with Superman,” she stated. Then I heard a phrase we would hear several times that day: “I can’t help you.”

I can’t help you. The four loneliest words in the English language.

The cab floor was now covered with mud and it was creeping farther into the bed. Ammo, cooler, jackets and guns were now at risk. I was worried about the guns most; mud is definitely a no-no with them. I opened the hatch and pulled them out. They were still in their cases, and I laid them on a patch of high ground. The ammo would be okay; it was in a waterproof box. The cooler, likewise. Our jackets, well, they would need laundering. As a last whim I also rescued a roll of toilet paper — you never knew when that might come in handy. I could feel something boiling within my guts already.

“Dad! I found the Yellow Pages!” Yes! Thank you, Alexander Graham Cell… “Dad! What city?”

I then remembered that many years ago I made a set of signs for a towing company. Why not them? “Hey, try Acme Towing.” Of course Acme Towing is not the real name, but you’ll soon realize no towing company needs the endorsement I’m about to give.

“Dad! Here they are. Talk to ‘em.” A sweet Southern voice greeted me. I felt relieved. “Do you guys work out in the boondocks?” I began.

“Lordy, I didn’t know there were any boondocks left! We work anywhere, sugar.”

“Well, uh, we need a tow. Bad. We’re out at the wildlife management area. Road Two. When you pull in, the ranger will give you a map.”

The upshot was $75 and mileage. I had a credit card, and as I watched my truck slowly sinking in the mire, money was no object. “Forty minutes,” she said at last. What a relief. It was all that easy.

“We’ve got forty minutes,” I told my son. “Let’s load up and see if we can find some squirrels.”

Guns and ammo were uncased. “Don’t go far. We don’t want to miss our tow.” Not to worry. Scarcely were we loaded when the cellphone rang. “It’s them, Dad.” I took the phone.

“Ah’m so sorry. I can’t help you. Our boys don’t go out there. We sold our four-wheeler years ago.”

“What? You said — ”

“And we tried Joe’s — he’s got one. But he don’t go out there neither, sugar. He just don’t want to. I can’t help you. Sorry…” Click. Suddenly that toilet paper was looking mighty important.

“We have to walk, Dad.”

My boy was right. But even if we did make it to the ranger station (which could take who knows how long) could he help us? Would we be taking a long, wet walk for nothing? Did I just lose my truck? Oh Superman, where are you?

Learn the answers to these and many other of life’s questions in “This Happened To Us!” Part II.