Stuck in My Own Backyard

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Still smarting from the personal out-of-pocket restoration costs for the Blazer, I was forced to move to San Diego. At the time, I didn't realize how much open land there was around the county. In fact, there was a multi-thousand acre open area of hills behind our apartment in Poway. Since the truck was fully functional, and since I was significantly smarter than when I committed my sins back in Tucson, I decided that I could indulge in some off road fun. On may occasions my then wife Holly and I wend blasting through the hills at high speed, enjoying the Ralph Bell-like rush of charging up hills and descending the far side.

With one small exception, this activity resulted in much amusement and little grief. One early evening in the spring, Holly and I were jetting through the hills on a new trail. Though this trail was only about a mile from the apartment, I had never traveled it. Using then standard, Ralph Bell procedures, I screamed up the hill in low range, pedal to the metal. Cresting the hill, we descended to the creek-eroded valley on the far side. As we descended the trail, perhaps a little too fast, I spotted the rut. A big rut. A real big rut. Six to seven feet across and so deep I couldn't see the bottom. I rode the brakes and locked 'um up, but to no avail. The front wheels dropped into the rut and the truck came to an abrupt halt. Thank God for seat belts or we would have gone head first through the windshield from the sudden stop.

As I got out to survey the situation, I realized that this would turn into an earth moving exercise. The front axle was not bent, and near as I could tell, everything was functional. Except the front tires were spinning in space, not in contact with the ground. The traction supplied by the rear wheels was insufficient to cause the truck to move. Remembering Ralph Bell's experience of breaking the front axle in a similar situation, I decided that some form of mechanical assist would be required.

Holly and I walked back to the apartment as the sun slid behind the hills. I was concerned about the safety of the truck, but since it was Sunday evening, help wasn't readily available. So, I made plans for the next day. I would go see the wrecker company down on Poway road. I felt sure that using my High Lift Jack, some cable and a come-along, I could get myself out. But why get dirty and sweaty if, for a few bucks, you can pay someone else with better equipment to get dirty and sweaty?

I pulled a Ralph Bell and ran headlong into a water-carved, brush hidden ditch.