The Trek to Hell, by Clyde...

The Trek to Hell.


Sadly, Linda grew up in Cedar City, where there were very few roads, which were paved. Whenever she could escape the drudgery of the old house, she always enjoyed bouncing over the ruts, potholes and rocks as their old truck made it's way to and from the family farm. It is hard to say if the dust clouds, behind the truck, provided the magical mist that she could hide her fears within or if she somehow hoped that her dark worries were actually the dust she saw, all escaping out the back. Because once at the farm, the labor began and the magical dust settled in on everyone, contaminating the taste buds as well as their clothes.

Years passed with newer and better vehicles being invented, which made driving over dirt roads more comfortable and without the dust covering the occupants. But the magic of the rumble down to the unknown still was electrifying for Linda, wanting to see what was just over the next hill. Maybe a dead and rotting sheep or maybe a watering hole were there would be beautiful deer bounding off in all directions at the fright of the cloud of dust appearing in the distance.

Periodically, well lets be honest, once a year anyway, Grandpa Adams would have a family picnic when ever he wanted some type of beery picked by the large family he had. So into the old truck and off they went to Cedar Mountain. This is where the real seed of dirt roads came an intrigal part of Linda complex mental state. She loved seeing things from why up high in the mountains, trying to find roads that went further and higher so she didn't have to go back home to the slavery that surely waited there once the herd was home.

After a few centuries, and very few driving lessons, Linda was married and living in Cedar City where now a few more of the roads were paved. She and her husband's new car was a brand new Chevy Camaro with a big fin and wide tires, which would burn down any type of pavement leaving the smell of rubber. Plus a few grease spots from the already leaking transmission.

Little did Clyde know what he was getting into on one lazy afternoon after classes at college? They decided they had a few hours before their shift running the motel where they worked and lived. So in a blaze of blue, the Camaro headed up to C Mountain, named so because it represented Cedar High School. I guess the students didn't know any more letters than that, so they stopped at C and called it good.

The road up to the main turn off was fairly moderate, but Clyde was very hesitant of taking a brand new car, especially a new one that was very low to the ground off the pavement and over dirt roads. As a kid, he had destroyed more than one old truck going down dirt roads, realizing the dangers of potholes and washboards. However the worse was the loose gravel on the side of the road where one would loose control as the truck went over the edge into the middle of treetops. So, being well experienced in those terrors, he suggested a simple suggestion to the trip to the C with Linda. Don't go. That worked good for the first second until Linda comprehended what was said and then the tears came as well as the condemnation. Need I mention the questioning of one's manhood and parental ancestry? Those were only the beginnings of this short, one sided discussion as the blue car, shaking in its frame, was thrust in to first gear and began the assent to the fate under its once new tires.

Things were fine as the speed began slowly, but Linda didn't think there was not sufficient speed till the dust flew out the back, causing constant pressure from the passenger for more speed. What made the moment even more exciting was the electricity, which flowed between Linda's ears, as the sounds of music, not from the stereo, which was off, but from the random pinging of small rocks smacking the underside of the car. With each ping, she became more and more animated, grinning as if her face were almost contorted. But it was not as spooky as the eyes, which were totally transfixed on the target ahead, which could now be a few blocks or miles away. She was in a totally different world. It didn't matter how many branches we scraped along, rocks we hit, times the oil pan hit the dirt hard. All that mattered is we were going and the thrill was on, till at last we got to the C. An old group of whitewashed rocks in a meadow over looking the city. She bounced out and trounced around the meadow, looked around like a two year old in a candy store, while I wept over the car, trying to replay in the speedodomoter to no avail. Then the rock chip in the new window was more than just a smashed bug, especially to two starving college students. After the celebration at the top of the hill, we drove down the mountain and suddenly second gear would not engage. Now we are talking a car less than two weeks old, so I knew there was some real trouble. The next hour and a half was riding off the mountain in dead silence, in first gear, hoping I didn't burn out the transmission or the brakes.

After a few hundred dollars we didn't have, the repairs were done and fortunatley small in nature, but I had hoped she had learned her lesson. Sure, do pigs forget to fly?

To condense the facts, there have been a half dozen more stores, some less and others more terrifying than this one. However, the real lesson that was learned, in each, was that resistance was not futile. It was fodder for a verbal attack that went on for the whole trip and the next few days. If that didn't work, there was the one two combination of the silent treatment plus the instant opportunity to embarrass the driver as a total chicken with everyone she could find. There was always the decision to be made, not rather to go or not, no matter the danger, but the decision was always which was the best thing to do to cause as little pain as possible. Not going was never an option, although it was surely a wish on my part.

For you readers, I am sure you can, and will remember many such occurrences and sometimes long walks back to camp or for help having driven past the point of no return or safety to see what the dirt road on the other side of the mountain looked like. Well, dah, just like the dirt on this side. Maybe a cow pie or so more, but other than that, it was all the same.

Now for the trip to Hell. Soon you will see the reasoning for the name, thanks to the GPS system. It was this last Sunday and the mother was bored and wanted to go for a ride. I had decided to skip priesthood meeting because it was a joint meeting about adoption and considering that I am still in the process of raising someone who lives with me in this house still that was not something I wanted to take on. So, Linda suggested a peaceful ride up the canyon where we could see some of God's handiwork. Looking her direction, somehow that didn't seem quite correct, but also knowing time changes everything. Not wanting to shop on Sunday, we grabbed some sandwiches from home, other goodies and three big bottles of water. Jumped in Mom's new pick up and headed up Hobble Creek Canyon, thinking the dirt road she could go on was pretty safe to Diamond Fork. The ride was actually quite peaceful on the nicely paved road as we traveled the first thirty miles. When we came to the spot where the pavement ended and the dirt began, the windows were rolled up to keep the inside clean, but it was not without out protest. We finally agreed to the sunroof being open so she could at least smell the grit and grim as it was churned from the road though the workings of the wheels before it smothered the truck. Driving slow, kind of helped although speed was often encouraged, more than once.

For the first twenty minutes the ride was wonderful, with only ruts to avoid, limbs beating against the new paint, rearranging the nice pin striping job we paid a fortune for. But I was told that could be replaced. I am sure she was thinking more about replacing me than the pin striping about then, so in terror I drove on. Soon there were sign's we had hit the top of the mountain because there were grassy fields with broad-leafed palms. Now this looked peaceful and a wonderful place to go play the Sound of Music in, however, history had taught me this was a swamp with dark mud and many cow pies, so the best thing was to get through it as safely and quickly as possible. However, in the middle of the deepest recession of a dark oozy substance, I presume was once water, I slowed down so as not to spry it all over the truck. Bad mistake. We slid right in and right down it sank as the tires went down and down, still not finding the bottom on the driver's side. Then the ooze grabbed hold like black tar holding us fast. With total disgust that I had been forced to get into this situation, I turned to say some truthful but mean remark to Linda, but she was not there. There was a body sitting there, but the brain was disengaged. Eyes as big as saucers flashed like police lights beaming back and forth sending out a warning to not interrupt, so I kept my mouth shut due to past wisdom.

Reaching over, the dashboard, I put the truck in low four-wheel drive and gently moved forward. Let me correct that, I put it in first gear to go forward, but all it did was churn up the slimy black clay pit we were sitting in. Quickly, I hit reverse with the same results. So, then I put it in high four-wheel drive and started a slight rocking motion, back and forth, hitting reverse and then forward like clockwork, till there was a few feet of movement back and forth. Like a miracle, I felt the left rear tire snag against dry ground and gave it the gas. Like a charm, we were out of there and back onto the road. I was more than ready to back all the way to Provo if necessary just to get out of there intact. I knew just how lucky we had been.

Suggesting we turn and go back would, in a case of a national emergency, taken an order from the President of the United States. Not that I would ever listen to him, but it is on that scale getting permission to abandon a track, once Linda has set her focus on a location. Now came the test, a dirty truck with four tires ripped out of alignment or “The Treatment”. That was a no brainier. The truck could be replaced, I can't. So I backed up ten feet, hit the gas and flew over, through and at one point I swear under the clay ooze. It is such a cheep feeling to hit your head of the roof of the truck one moment as your body rises up wile the next second the side of your head comes crashing into the drivers side window. Of course all this is done in pitch black because that is the color of the ooze as it cakes the entire truck. The next little while was cleaning off spots enough to see where we were going and if all the tires were still attached.

Onward and upward I was commanded from an alien from another existence at this stage. This is the most fun she encountered since going to the dentist. Within about a mile, we came to a narrow cattle crossing that was impossible to cross because it was so narrow due to the fence on both sides of it. Wrong, I was told as I attempted to turn around, happy that we were finally going home. So, inch by inch, I got to listen to the soft pinewood realign various portions of the fenders until we were through. At that point, I didn't care what else came up, I was not going back through that thing again, even if we drove straight off the cliff to Diamond Fork. The poor old truck had suffered enough even if I had to suffer through, “The Treatment.”

Only a few block forward, we came to a water tank for cows, surrounded by a nice meadow. The road went to the right and up a steep embankment about thirty feet. I gunned the truck and found at the top a sharp turn to the right, which I made with some difficulty considering the turn I had just made. However five feet in front were two six inch round oak trees, one on each side of the road. This time even Linda with her X-ray vision could even see there was no way the truck could make it between them. You could just feel the defeat in her soul, demanding to know where Superman was when he was needed. Even the Hulk would do right now. However, I didn't get away freely, being reminded we always should carry an ax, saw, and backhoe with us. So now again it was my fault. Before “The Treatment” stated, I figured I had one extra chance to save my skin and soul. To the left, there was sufficient room, If I was very careful to zip between one of the small trees and another larger one half way to the meadow, then I could turn around and get the heck out of there. I backed up as far as possible. Looked things over and made the decision that loss of life might even be preferable at this juncture, so I gunned it. The grill went by, then the front fender made it, the my door made it…. Until the dirt shifted and then, we slid like eggs in a pan, to the left and right into a twelve-inch thick tree trunk. With a loud creek the door caved in, then the beautiful tinted glass broke into a million pieces covering the inside of the cab. Since the door was so soft, it went concave about four or five inches with the tree taking up that space. So, in that moment, we were captives of the tree, not being allowed to go backwards or forward. I had a come a long and chains, but they only broke again and again when I tried to right the truck off the concave section the tree was implanted in. There was no way we were going to get it out of there, period.

Linda looked over at me, now regretting that she had pushed me so hard in gong this far. Then she added that this could be a neat experience and that we would be a lot closer for it. Little did I realize being a lot closer was having to carry her off the mountain? But before we left, we sat down in the middle of the road with the map and the GPS and figured rather to go forward or back. Forward was faster, if we went off the road to some farmhouses I could see five or six miles down in the valley. It took us about four hours in the hot sun to get down and found some help. After I got home, we quickly had Justin get a friend with a truck and we went back up, cut down the tree and the truck drove into the meadow. As Justin and I drove off, I reattached the GPS system. I had marked the location right after the wreck, so regardless which direction we came from it would take me right to it. I gave the GPS location a name, reflecting how I felt at the time of the accident. As we came out of the meadow, past the spot, the GPS announced we had arrived, at HELL.

The truck is now being fixed and Linda is mad because she can't go rock hunting for the 4th of July. So, I am currently sleeping in the basement on the couch.

Now you know the rest of the story…

Love Dad