So, I haven't written in some time. Mostly because I've been unimpressed, uninspired, and unprepared to drone on and on about my little life in a nutshell for a while. Toward the end of the year I thought a post-game wrap up would be appropriate, to tell you all the horrific things we've endured as individuals, a couple, and extended family. Then I thought I'd take a more positive tone and go on about the potential inherent in the New Year. But of course, that's all been done before. So, I'll be perfectly honest with you. I got nothin'. No seriously, I got nothing. I dont have any deep introspective outlook on life to lend you. I dont have an over-whelming sense of understanding to convey to you. I suppose at times I find my muse in the oddest places. Sometimes I find it in people that impress me either because of, or in spite of their circumstances. Sometimes it's politically motivated, and sometimes when I feel it strong enough, I'll share things that are straight out of my soul in an effort to convey the true aspects of the human condition as I know it today.
I guess, if you'll all gather 'round I can tell you a story. It's a story about how no good deed goes unpunished. So there I was. The timeline is not important, except of course it must be JUST outside the statute of limitations for breaking a forest service lock. So, "Randy" and I (not his real-name) were out for a muzzle-loader hunt for deer. We were using traditional side-lock muzzle-loaders. Growing hair on our faces, smelling of pyrodex and other manly scents and flavors. So, after about three days of hunting, walking all over hale and dale we finally elect to go on a road hunt somewhere above Strawberry Reservoir in Utah. Well, my plan, is to drive along in the crisp November evening, find us a nice little buck, blast him, throw him in the truck and then high-tail it back to the trailer which was at that time poised were my father's cabin now sits at lakeside. So, anyhow, Randy and I make our way up Sleepy Hollow. No, there were no punkins and no horsemen and as it turns out deer in sight. So, after about an hour of driving up the switchbacks to the pinnacles we elect to drive back down to the Currant Creek road and out to the highway.
[Enter Stage Right Antagonist] On our way down the backside of the mountain, we come across a very disoriented foreign gentleman whom I'll call, "Hadji". Truth be told, he was actually another varient of middle-eastern descent but it makes the account a little more funny. So Hadji, is walking along the main dirt road, about five miles up from the highway. Well, I pulls ol' Betsy over and offers this fellah a ride. Mostly because I'd want someone to give me a ride, and the sun was hurredly making it's way to the opposite horizon and it was about to get cold. DAMN cold. So, I notice that Hadji is wearing this little thin blue jacket (sans liner) carrying a red backpack, has no headgear, and looks LOST. I mean, LOST. Homeboy has NO idea where he is. So, with my best foot forward I asks him, "Sir you need a ride?" To which he replies almost as a caracature (spell that later), "My friend. He has truck." And I'm like....ohhhhhhhhhh my. What did we get ourselves into? So, again I try (slower and louder of course), "Sir....cannnn weeee...helpppah...youuuu...find your cammmpah???". To which almost as a canned response he again retorts, "My friend, he has truck." So, by this time, I'm surveying the potential level of danger, the fact that Hadji might have a severed head in his backpack, the fact that we have two rifles in the truck, and only one seat betwixt Randy and me. So, I says to him, "Well hop in the back, we'll give you a ride down the mountain to the camp." See, I reasoned that Hadji's Truck Buddy couldnt POSSIBLY have left him off closer to Currant Creek, as that was almost 10 miles in the opposite direction. Addditionally, there were no other camp sites between here and Highway 40, so thereby, using the Associative Property of Stupidity, I could give him a ride down to a string of camp sites between heah and deah.
OK, so Hadji is shivering in the back, one mile goes by, two miles...BAM. Solid Forest Service gate. Locked. A little sign reads almost mockingly, "Road Closed Due to Elk Calving Season". Well of course NOW I'm pissed. P.I. Double S-DUH. So, I'm now realizing, that there are two ways out of here, ONE involves back-tracking WITH Hadji for the next hour and a quarter, OR heading back to Current Creek, at which point I'm almost assured to be bringing Hadji that much further away from, "Friend has truck". So, I being trained in the art of quick-thinking and decisive judgment, elect to break the through the gate.
So, Hadji bails out the back, and I have Randy bring the truck up to the gate. We both get out, review our perdicament, counsel together, and elect that we have indeed chosen the less ethical, but more expedient and righteous cause of both delivering Hadji, and making a simultaneous shot-across-the bow of the Elk Calving Gurus whom dont know there ass from a hole in the ground, because elk calve in the friggin' SPRING!!!
So, all the tools I have consist of a giant standard screwdriver, a star wrench, and a 10,000 lb nylon tow strap. So, I get the tow-strap, affix it to the shaft that sits down in the cup between gate Side A, and gate Tab B. So I direct Randy to reverse Betsy, and ease a little pressure on the strap and, "Pop" the shaft up out of the cup. Of course, to no avail. So, seeing that, I realized drastic times, call for drastic measures. I now realize that there is no way to get directly to the lock because Forest Service people are smart and they put metal hoods over their $8 locks. So, I find that there is a bent pin, about 3/4 inch in diameter, which slides through the shaft and is held in place by the aforementioned lock. So I fix the tow strap to the pin, and direct Randy again, to move forward, this time about five feet and then with a tad more haste put pressure on the lock. Which results in the rear tires peeling up some road-base and kicking it all over Betsy's white sidewalls.
NOW, I am pissed. Hadji is watching this whole event, and has NO idea what is going on. But now we've committed. So, I instruct Randall to come forward,this time almost all the way to the gate, and then floor it, in a generally backward direction. Which, he does. But, almost in slow motion, I see this truck, in a white flash...the tow strap become taught...the tow strap break loose, and then return, this time carrying the bolt, directly into the front of my grill. Almost immediately, I realize not only could either Randy or I have been potentially killed in this little endeaver, but now I've punctured the radiator and steam is spewing out of under Old Betsy's hood.
So, I slam the gate open, throw the lock AND the bolt as far as I can muster (which considering my state of upsettedness was rather far) and climb into the truck. But I'm seething and I yell, "Get in the truck Hadji!!!" which, in effect could have been construed by a jury as kidnapping any day of the week. So, as we're headed down the canyon, I'm pointing out every camp spot, which of course NONE belongs to our new friend. So I get all the way out to Highway 40, watching my heat guage for any element of change. So, I open the sliding window, and ask him, "Dude! Where's your friend live? Do you have a phone number?!" He says, "My friend he lives in Heber." I almost lose it on him. I said, "DUDE where were you camped?!" He says, "Do you know where Strawberry is?" and I just about choke the shiz out of him. "DUDE! THIS WHOLE FREAKIN' PLACE IS STRAWBERRY! THERE ARE OVER A MILLION ACRES OF STRAWBERRY!! THIS IS THE STRAWBERRY RIVER DRAINAGE!!!"
So, at this point, I have Hadji again mount Betsy and we floor it for the Strawberry Visitor's Center. But I'm so irate, at his stupidity that when we get there, I point to the building, and say, "There is the visitors center. If no one is there, the buildings over there are where the rangers live. If not, there is a phone on the side of the building!! Good luck!"
so, about an hour later, I've cooled down. We're having some manly stew or beef or something back at the trailer, recounting the story, and I start to process this. By this time it's about 20 degrees outside and I start to wonder if perhaps Hadji wasnt in fact in contact with proper authority and was in fact huddled alongside the visitor's center hugging his legs to retain warmth. So, I call the Sheriff's Office. (Wasatch County) and I recount the story (sans the part regarding the pesky little lock situation). So the dispatcher says, "You LEFT him???" I said, "Hell yes I left him! What else do you want me to do with him? Adopt him? Can you just send a cruiser by and check and make sure he's not still there?"I mean, I have a heart, and as much as I hated this guy for getting my radiator a nice perfectly quarter size hole all the way through it, he was in fact one of God's kids and deserving of a better jacket and to be saved from the laws of Natural Selection.
So, I guess it's important to note at this point (the end) of the story, that this was pre- September 11th. So, I choose to think of this as a pre-emptive (albeit accidental) strike by America against Al Queda. I believe the reason there wasn't a sixth plane crashing somewhere is because Randy and I were diligent Americans and on watch that particular day.
That Spring I watched the news quite carefully, halfway expecting them to announce they had found a Hadji-sicle once the snow melted down on the side of the Visitor's Center (Which now seems to be an oxymoronic name for the place). Anyhow, I think we did the best we could considering the situation.
Well, Spring came and went and no dead dudes with severed heads in their backpack were discovered, so, I guess he made it out ok. I look back now as where we could have changed things up a bit, how we could have done it all differently, what lessons were learned and...yeah, I come up with almost nothin'. Bottom line I guess, I honestly thought I was doing the guy a favor, and was rewarded with failure at each and every checkpoint along the way. So, I'm interested someday as to the rest of the story. Perhaps there's some dude in Pakistan writing a hate-blog about how America did him dirty. Perhaps he'll read mine and know I meant no harm.
It's just, no good deed goes unpunished. So, now you have the REST of the story. Jon Kenworthy, Good Day!
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