Things I've Learned: Part 1

Last night my husband and I returned from a 4,901 mile road trip through 12 states. The majority of our time was spent in Iowa, but we also experienced Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Wisconsin, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. Instead of preparing to return to work tomorrow I will sit here with a cup of coffee, puppy on my lap, first load of laundry drying - and share my experience.

All dirt roads are not created equal. Most of you have heard how many different words for snow there are in Eskimo languages. That is what comes to mind here. In So Cal we understand the vocabulary of "street" and "dirt road." We also have countless terms for the freeway systems (Orange Crush, El Toro Y, Sigalert, carpool lane, slow and go, stop and go, toll road, FasTrak, CalTrans, on ramp, off ramp, turn off, cloverleaf, slow lane, interchange, Park and Ride, meter's on, one-finger salute). In rural Iowa, this is not the case at all.

On Tuesday night over Ampride pizza, my great-uncle Don Hartig (I also have a great-uncle Don Habben) said, "Never, never drive on a dirt road. Gravel roads are okay." I thought, "Well, he must not have understood my 4WD vehicle or my experience on dirt roads!" In looking at Iowa real estate, my husband had explained to me that many acreages are on Level A roads, which are "hard-surfaced" gravel. Okay, so people live on dirt roads. No big surprise. Yet why are they calling them hard-surfaced, when they aren't even surfaced at all? At least that was my thinking after working in the concrete industry (hi to Amy and a shout out to Amburgey Carich Construction for teaching me almost all I need to know about life): if it doesn't have concrete or asphalt, it's not a "surface." That was until we went to see a property and found ourselves staring at a sign that read, "Level B Road: Use at your own risk."

Josh switched the Sequoia into 4WD and we were on our way. Within seconds, I realized this was not a "dirt road," this was a mud road. A mud road with snow and ice still on it in early April. A mud road where we were now sliding back and forth...almost spinning...out of control, and approaching the ditch. Luckily and unluckily, we began sinking until we were stuck, even with the BFG All-Terrains. I personally prefer being stuck to crashing into a ditch in the middle of nowhere, but what now? First thought: Okay, even though this house and acreage would cost in the multi-millions in So Cal, who would pay $120,000 to get stuck every day? Second thought: PANIC. We haven't seen anyone in miles, we entered "at our own risk," and we have no cell phone reception. Third thought: Why does Josh always get me in these situations? This is not the first "dirt road" adventure in which I have felt close to death.

Even though Josh, who was driving, had already realized this fact, I said aloud, "I don't think this is a good idea." Captain Obvious. At this point my memory gets a little hazy. I think Josh opened the door and looked out at the tires, uttering some kind of comment comprised of half laughter and half profanity. Although I consider myself a good problem-solver in semi-emergency situations (in the face of bystander apathy I'm generally a leader), I had no idea what to do. After a few long moments of spinning/sinking tires, somehow Josh got us unstuck, yet we were still a ways from the Level A road (how I longed for that "hard-surfaced gravel!"). We began to creep along, and then my thrill-seeking husband did the unthinkable: started messing around. Stomping on the skinny pedal, spinning the tires, sliding back and forth again. Exasperated, I said something to the effect of, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!" I must have barked it, because he snapped back, "I have to get the mud off the tires!" Then he gave me the technical explanation of the fact that we had no tread because the tires were COVERED with a thick, goopy layer of mud. As always, a method to his madness (which, after over 9 years together, I should already have known). With more slipping and sliding toward ditches on both sides of the "road," we made our way out. The truck was absolutely coated in mud, buckets of it. There was mud on the hood, windows, everywhere. The wheel wells were full and stayed full for days. If it weren't for a torrential thunderstorm in the Texas panhandle on the way home, the buggy would still have some extra weight on it.

In summary: a) trust your 90-year-old great uncle who has lived in Iowa for his entire life; b) if you have to enter at your own risk, don't; and c) navigation units are useless, as we discovered later that this property is on a paved highway and there is another way to enter. To quote Dylan, "Well, the moral of the story, the moral of this song, is simply that one should never be where one does not belong."

I have a few pics to post but can't find the right (HC) card reader at the moment.

Copyright Rachel Burns 2009