A River to Cross
We finished tidying up our camp. Packing the remaining food we would leave in
plastic buckets, we then pulled them high up into the tree out of the way of
the bears. The fire put out and
everything in order, we started for home.
Arriving at the second creek, Ellen's creek, we saw a stream
normally only a few inches deep now a raging torrent. It was running through
the brush on both sides of the creek. We stopped, checked the stream then plunged
into the freezing current.
We came to Gayland’s hill, the steepest, longest muddiest
hill of the whole trail. The hill drops to
the canyon below, nearly 200 feet. Narrow
and slanting outward the trail continues dropping where, at halfway a spring
flows out of the mountain right in the middle of the trail. A constant wet spot in the trail makes going
up or down a chore!
From far below, the
roar of the raging river hit our ears. I knew for sure that we were in trouble! Would we be stranded on this side? Stopping at the edge of the once docile creek,
I could see that it was running far too fast and deep to ride the machines
across.
Digging through our gear tied to the four wheeler we found
the rope we always carried. I tied one end to my dad and he waded across the
treacherous stream. Once across he yelled over the chaos of the raging torrent and
told me to tie the end of the rope to the front of the three wheeler and push
it into the stream. Soon the three wheeler was completely floating and I was struggling
against the current. As we pulled
and pushed the machine across the rushing creek, the current dragged us slowly
downstream.
Once on the other side, we started the machine and drove it up
the bank to high ground. We had made it
successfully across with the first and easiest machine. The four
wheeler with the trailer would require different technique.
My dad explained to me how we would attempt to make the
crossing. First we would pile as many
big rocks as we could on the front and back racks of the four-wheeler. Tying
them into place, we hoped would keep it from being washed downstream
This time, I would wade across the icy stream with one end
of the rope. The other would be tied to
the front of the four-wheeler, just like we had done with the three wheeler. Then riding the machine my dad would hit the
stream as fast as he could go and get as far across as possible.
Safely back across I secured the end of the rope to a nearby
tree wrapping around several times, preparing to take up the slack as fast as
possible. My dad hollered above the roar of the river to see if I was
ready. I nodded that I was. He started
the machine and as he hit the water I began to take up the slack, running to
keep the rope tight.
I watched as the machine went deeper and deeper, soon the
water was up to the seat and the trailer
was floating, pulling the back of the machine down the river. My
dad and the machine were struggling against the deep current. Then
he hit the deep hole near the far side of the stream the machine plunged deeper,
water covering the fenders and seat.
Now only the tops of the rocks and
the handlebars were still above water.
We were miles from town and the huge four wheeler was dead
in the water.
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