Trapped in paradise
The constant, roaring wind buffets my car, shaking it back and forth. I open my eyes and am greeted by the sight of a vast, grassy plain below me. The hill I am on is ringed by buttes and canyons of golden-yellow limestone. I step out of my truck and slam the door shut behind me. The cool, clear breeze on my face blows my hair back. I scan the horizon, noting the tree-ringed creek in the distance and several fluffy white clouds floating lazily in the sky. All is well in the world, except one thing: I am trapped here.
Recent torrential rainfall (excellent for washing out fossils) has reduced the usually hard-packed dirt road to the consistency of soft butter. My poor white truck has been ensnared by this quicksand-like trap. Ironically, I choose to avoid the verdant plains below, fearing they would be soaked and instead choose to park up above on the lofty hill and became trapped. Earlier this same morning, I drove just off the road, to make room for anyone who might need to pass by. However, I have seen only one other person; a fellow white truck, miles off in the distance. I begin to grasp how small I am compared to this great land.
I clamber partway down the hill; dislodging small rocks and watching them race each other to the bottom. I am searching for something, anything to wedge under my tires to provide that extra bit of friction that may free me. I spot several jagged-faced, flat rocks about the size of dinner plates on a nearby bluff. Upon inspection, I see that they are actually the fossilized shells of several giant clams that once lived here. I smile to myself and grab them anyway. Nearing the top of the hill I remember something: I have technology. I whip out my old brick of a cellphone to send out my SOS. I ponder who to call: nearly everybody I know is a four or five hour drive away. I remember that a fellow hunter, Matt, should be driving out to the site we will be hunting tomorrow. I send my message and he informs me that he can come give me a hand.
I spend the next few hours hunting the chalky mounds that surround me. Hiking back from the north end of the hill, along the worn cow path, I see a big Chevrolet truck up top. Matt doesn’t drive a big truck. I approach the dusty truck somewhat cautiously, as a man in his mid-thirties hops and greets me. As it turns out, the man’s name is also Matt, and he is the landowner of this property (he was checking on his cows). Matt offers to help me get my now filthy truck free from the mud. We use several cracked and bending fence posts from the back of his truck. Soon, more reinforcements appear in the form of Matt ( the fossil hunter). I ease my foot on the gas, and then quickly switch to reverse attempting to create space for the tires to move. I can smell the heat from the straining engine. Matt the landowner and Matt the fossil hunter both push on grill of my car. After nearly half an hour, the truck roars, rolling backwards onto the sun-dried road. As we celebrate, the sound of thunder is heard off in the distance. The light, fluffy clouds I saw this morning, have matured into large, dark thunder clouds. The rain falls lightly on my windshield as I drive, now free. I ponder how things may have gone if Matt was not driving past or if the landowner didn’t feel the need to check his cows. I would still be stuck, now in the rain, all alone.
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