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The Agony of Defeat in the Face of Mud Season

by Frank Hamilton

It is with a great deal of hesitation and reluctance that I report this sad tale. It will be difficult even with ones helpmate to share this tale of woe and bad decisions. It is even more incredible when you realize that the writer of this tale is a native Vermonter and his son Bruce has lived here long enough to be quite familiar with all seasons in Vermont, especially “mud-months.”
The fact that both of us are conservative, reasonably sensible, and college graduates with advanced degrees makes it even more difficult to explain.
It all started when I was talking to my cousin Marilyn Barry who directs the volunteer program at the hospital. She said she was out of wood and wanted to know if we could get her any dry wood. Bruce had mentioned using the wood in the sugarhouse if we could figure a way to haul it out to the road and into the truck. I told Marilyn if her son Kyle would help, perhaps we could carry it out with many trips.
On Thursday morning we worked culling wood and picking up brush. After lunch, we borrowed Al’s truck and decided we’d find a way to drive down close to the sugarhouse. Sunday I’d cased the field—south--and thought we could come up that way. Bruce had a better idea which led us directly behind Sam’s house and straight down the gully past his maple syrup pipeline. We decided to go that way, so we started out. All went well downhill. We debated stopping about 25 feet short, loading the wood, and then returning the way we had come. Instead, we turned, backed down closer, and got hung up. I was for leaving it there and calling a wrecker. However, Bruce decided to back down past the sugar house and find another way out. First we had to move about a cord of wood that was in the way, so we loaded it on the truck hoping it would give us more traction.

We started backing so close to the trees that we had to fold the mirror against the truck body. Unfortunately the truck slid off a big rock and ended up against an eight-inch maple tree. It smacked the truck bed, broke a headlight, and smashed an aluminum ladder lying on the ground.
In my opinion, the situation at that point was absolutely hopeless. The truck wedged against the tree and there was no way to get it out. It would be impossible for a wrecker to help us where we were located. Bruce was so frustrated and mad at himself that he couldn’t believe what was happening. Again I was in favor of quitting and leaving it there till the dry weather. Bruce, to vent his frustration, said, “I’m going to cut that tree down.” I tried to talk him out of it, but he had a plan and he started sawing. With the tree down, he finally turned the truck enough to head straight down the gully. He pulled the pipeline and arrived—over a bank and onto a steep old road—sideways. After much maneuvering in the mud, he headed up the hill. Halfway up, the truck slipped to the right onto a spur that was all grown up with saplings. Again we got hung up. This was the third time—this time in real deep holes. We put wood blocks under the wheels and I tried to talk Bruce into backing down and maneuvering back on the original course.

Bruce thought we could break down or trample the saplings and break out into the open field. Somehow it happened, but I still don’t believe it. The final smart thing we did all day: we left the truck and trekked out the next intended route back toward the house. We had to move a pile of logs and brush. Bruce drove the truck to this point and we loaded some more wood on. From here we drove up over a small embankment just behind the garden.
Unfortunately, we ran over an old barbed wire fence that was down but not low enough to clear. You’re right. We got hung up again with wire all tangled up around the wheel. We spent half an hour with a hacksaw and Bruce’s muscle getting out of that mess.
Next, I had to hold up a large branch of pine tree so the truck could clear. I assumed he would stay close to the garden and the apple tree, but he was afraid he’d hurt the apple tree. Instead, he swerved left around it and got hung up again. (The sixth time!) This time the muffler fell off and the wood moved forward and broke out the truck’s back window. We threw more wood blocks into mud holes. Finally we backed up enough to get back on the original course. I meant to tell Bruce to keep going and not stop till he was on solid ground. Of course, he didn’t ESP me, so he stopped about 12 feet short. You guessed it. We got hung up again—this time (seventh) was the last time. We agreed we’d reached the end of the line just short of victory and very much the “agony of defeat.” We transferred the wood to my truck—after unsuccessfully trying to pull the truck out with a chain and jeep. Not surprisingly, the jeep hung up and the truck radiator blew—losing all its antifreeze.
We stopped by Hayes Ford and ordered the wrecker, then delivered the wood Marilyn had ordered. It was definitely the most expensive half cord of wood we would ever negotiate. The wrecker spent half an hour removing the jeep and truck.
Finally, after eating a short snack at the East Side Restaurant, we took Bruce home for a shower and rest before going on duty at 11 p.m. In retrospect, we did manage to laugh at every crisis and I feel sure something will be learned from this experience after a leisurely “recap” season.

Elapsed time, over four hours.
Casualties (rough estimate):
Headlight
Damaged truck bed
Muffler
Broken window glass
Aluminum ladder
Eight-inch maple tree
Radiator and antifreeze

Frank Hamilton, who writes from his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, grew up in Newport, Vermont.