JANUARY 5, 2023 – (Cont.) But we still had the stuck vehicles to worry about. John had plenty of devices and equipment for pulling his tractor out of the snow, but I couldn’t see how my car could be rescued much before spring. I was prepared to abandon it until then. In that case, however, we’d have to surrender the drive itself until spring. In my mind, clearing the spur was now our only practical way out. Except . . . shoveling would take a month, and the only viable alternative was to blow it out with John’s blower attachment on his tractor, which, of course, was stuck ironically . . . in snow. Rescue of John’s tractor, then, was the prerequisite to our use of the spur.
With nightfall upon us, we returned to the Red Cabin, where, according to Beth’s previously organized meal schedule, we fixed homemade pizzas (with all conceivable toppings) and played a game of Shanghai. The falling snow looked bright and blizzard-thick in the shine of the yard lights. At 10:00, after checking the forecast again, I took a quick look at what food we had left in the refrigerator and the cupboards—in case we were snowbound until the weekend. In a pinch, we could survive through the weekend.
At 8:00 the next morning, when I trudged up the drive (the snow was too deep and wet for skiing), I discovered a miracle: the spur was clear of snow, leading me to believe John had extricated his tractor-with-blower-attachment. At least we could one of our cars could escape. Upon rounding the bend within sight of “Problem Hill,” however, I saw John’s tractor still stuck fast. He later informed me that before dawn he’d called his industrial-gauge-self-propelled blower into service.
As I got closer, I saw another vehicle on site: John’s “Mule,” a souped-up four-wheeler with a cargo box and roll-bar. After more plodding through the snow I espied John on his knees attaching to his tractor, a a tow-chain hooked to a come-along (winch), secured to a logging chain wrapped around a grand-daddy oak standing (as if exactly that purpose) by the edge of the road.
When I appeared on the scene, John greeted me, then dropped his work to show me the juvenile flying squirrel that had dropped into the snow. He told me his plan to take the squirrel back to his cabin and provide the quivering fur-ball with food, water and shelter. As fate would have it, John’s good intentions would spell the creature’s doom.
While I held the chain-of-chains free of the tractor’s rear tire, John winched the come-along, eventually pulling the tractor an inch-per-crank until the machine was better positioned for traction. In time, I watched him atop his freed machine, disappearing around the bend below.
Meanwhile, Beth informed me that she had called a towing outfit in Hayward and that help would be on hand within an hour. Out of this exchange occurred a second miracle. In less time than promised, a yellow wrecker appeared on the scene.
The fun, I’d soon learn, was about to begin. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
