While hunting with Jordan, we took a dirt road off Highway 14 on Cedar Mountain that goes toward Red Desert. Along the way we noticed an aged man next to the road with a chainsaw cutting wood. He had an older truck and trailer, heaped with several rounds of logs.
We continued down the road which eventually became so rocky that I decided to turn around. On our way back we spent ten minutes exploring a lava flow. While there I noticed the old man with his trailer full of logs now driving toward the highway.
As we finished looking at the lava rocks, we continued on the dirt road. We came to a hill and toward the top I noticed the gray-haired woodcutter stopped in the middle of the road.
He stepped out of the truck and walked toward the back. I rolled down my window and asked if he was checking his load or wanting to talk to me.
“I'm wanting to talk to you,” he said. “I've got myself in a bind. My transmission just went out and I can't go forward.”
What an awful predicament to be in, I thought. Broke down on the mountain, pulling a heavy load of wood.
“How can I help?” I asked.
At first he wondered if I could pull his truck and trailer to the highway—a mile away. I had my doubts. That would be a heavy pull and I wasn't sure my truck could do it. As it was, we were already stuck on an incline on a dirt road with little traction.
We decided that I would try pulling him just to the side of the road to get out of the way. He backed his truck and trailer and strapped a chain from the front of his truck to the rear of mine.
I shifted into four-wheel drive and began inching forward until the chain was tight. Then I gave it more gas. My rear tires spun, digging a half-foot gash in the road while my front tires struggled to move at all. Needless to say, his truck and trailer didn't budge an inch.
I backed up a couple feet to release the tension, then shifted into four-low instead of four-high. I had to wait a minute for it to engage, then tried it again. This time both tires turned and I was able to pull the heavy load, but just a couple feet until I once again began digging a hole.
We tweaked our strategy and he positioned me on the hardest, most compact section of road. He reconnected the chain on his truck to the closest corner. I was to move forward while he angled his wheels toward the side.
With the chain connected we inched forward again until it was taut, then gave more gas. Once again I began to tug him along. We crept slowly, but didn't have far to go. The more he moved to the side of the road, it pulled at my rear and turned me sideways, but we kept moving until I got the thumbs-up. We had done it!
Over and over the man was grateful and offered to pay us, but I always declined.
He needed a way in to town, but didn't want to ruin our hunt. (It was now 4:15 and soon to be entering “prime time” for the evening.) His proposal was that we finish our hunt, then come and pick him up when we were done. I didn't like that idea because it would leave him waiting until after dark for us and there were too many variables. I proposed that I take him to town right then.
I told him we would have to clear some space in the back seat of our truck, but he insisted that he would just ride in the bed. He was very adamant, so I let him do it.
He retrieved his chainsaw and can of gasoline, then locked the cab of his truck. He climbed into the back and made himself comfortable in the corner, resting his arm on the wall of the bed as smooth as a teenager.
The grizzled old man was John Johnson. Perhaps “old” is not the best adjective used to describe him, but he had at least twenty years on me. For his age he was strong. A worn, leathered face told me he had a long life of hard work.
He had only lived here for four months, having moved from Yuma, Arizona. He moved here to raise his 15-year old daughter. There was more to him. Much more. There were stories and experiences that had sculpted his character, and I knew that for now, and probably forever, I would never know those stories.
We drove twenty miles down the mountain with John Johnson in the back of my truck, the wind blowing across his body. It reminded me of older times when people gave rides to strangers much more often, and when riding in the back of a truck wasn't frowned upon.
We pulled up to the duplex where John lived and I helped him get the chainsaw and gas can from the bed. He pulled out his wallet and said, “Let me at least pay you for the gas.”
I obliged, knowing I only burned five to ten dollars worth.
Then he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. I acted as if I didn't notice the denomination. I knew that for him it was important that he somehow returned the favor.
We wished him luck and parted ways. ♠
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