Wednesday, September 30, 2009 at 10:29am:
or, "What Not To Do Should You Find Your Vehicle Completely Stuck in a Muddy Field After a Party One Night Out in the Country".
The last couple of local event reviews I've posted had some less-than-positive comments about parking. Rather than begin a derogatory trend, I thought it would be better to post this as a side note to the WoodyStock review. Besides, in fairness, this predicament was completely my fault; it seemed though that this info might be useful to you, or at least serve as an example of what not to do in such a situation.
Earlier that evening, as the last band played the last few songs of their set, a good friend of mine and I had been having a guy-talk session out on the back patio about some stuff that was on his mind. We killed a pack of smokes, our beers and the rest of my flask and found that we were the last ones there. He went inside to crash on their couch and my plan was to head back to Tulsa and find something to eat.
One of my boots very nearly was lost in the mud as I shlocked across the field, and as such, there was some considerate deliberation on my part to decide how I could operate this vehicle without using my feet. It was borrowed for the night and I really didn't want to have to shampoo the damn thing before I returned it. Nothing brilliant came to mind and even my socks were filthy, so I opted to tie my boots to the side mirrors and drive barefoot. After MacGyver-ing this set-up, I launched my craft into the mire.
This wasn't my first time driving in the mud by the way; above all, once you get going, DO NOT STOP! Keep the momentum going. Anybody's who's been there knows the drill.
The plan did not go according to plan.
Captain Scott at the helm,..steady as she goes Sir,..the Mercury Sable cruised/slid about halfway across the starlit field,..all was well,...until she nose-dived and literally brought the vehicle to a sloshing dead stop. I tried rocking it in forward and reverse but this only caused me to submerge deeper.
So, it's almost one in the morning; everyone's gone, and due to my stubborn perogative, I still have no cell phone to call AAA, although I don't know what the hell they could have done anyway. Attempting to dig the vehicle out by hand was a valiant effort, although the only thing it really accomplished was making me look a little less grimy than Gale and Evelle Snoats after they escaped from prison in Raising Arizona.
After untying my boots from the mirror and trudging back to the house, my friend and I returned to the field although we started laughing about this situation and the way I looked and something else that came to mind, and the whole operation became pointless. I was spending the night there.
The last time I had crashed at the Naifeh Ranch several years ago for a birthday party, I fell alseep in a bathtub in the guest bathroom and then somehow managed to crawl near a bed, or maybe a couch, I don't remember. This time though, my state of hygiene warranted a cowboy-style doze under the stars in the sand-pit after heaping more wood onto the fire.
Freckles the resident farm-dog (she looks like an Australian Shepherd mix maybe), was an avid spectator for this entire event, and she seemed to adopt me for the time being, making frequent visits throughout the night to sniff my face. I remember last time also, Freckles seemed to find my presence intriguing because I rolled over onto her several times that night.
FYI: A bag of cedar mulch makes a terrible pillow. Besides the fucking ants that started crawling all over me, it's just not very comfortable. Also, if you spy a bag of marshmallows nearby leftover from the S'Mores activity, do not be swayed by this pillow soft siren on a dark and lonely night. First of all, the plastic slides all over your head and makes your face sweat disproportionately, and if any of them squeeze out you'll have molten fluffed sugar in your hair. Highly unpleasant.
At that point, I just rubbed sand in my hair rather than continue to have my head stick to every single surface that it came in contact with. I slept intermittently and had a mixture of some really cool and disturbing dreams, but by 6-ish a.m. I was ready to start solving this problem. With shovel in hand and a motivating hangover, I spent the next couple of hours digging the car out. After that, I formulated a Wile E. Coyote Genius Extraordinaire-level plan to extract the car by plotting a drive trajectory, and using a bale of hay, a discarded Wendy's soda cup and fries carton, and my compass.
I'm not sure how long Mrs. Naifeh observed this absurdity until she called to me from across the field, "Do you want me to call my neighbor to pull you out with a tractor?"
For your own reference, should you ever be faced with this situation, the tractor option is definitely your best choice.
The last couple of local event reviews I've posted had some less-than-positive comments about parking. Rather than begin a derogatory trend, I thought it would be better to post this as a side note to the WoodyStock review. Besides, in fairness, this predicament was completely my fault; it seemed though that this info might be useful to you, or at least serve as an example of what not to do in such a situation.
Earlier that evening, as the last band played the last few songs of their set, a good friend of mine and I had been having a guy-talk session out on the back patio about some stuff that was on his mind. We killed a pack of smokes, our beers and the rest of my flask and found that we were the last ones there. He went inside to crash on their couch and my plan was to head back to Tulsa and find something to eat.
One of my boots very nearly was lost in the mud as I shlocked across the field, and as such, there was some considerate deliberation on my part to decide how I could operate this vehicle without using my feet. It was borrowed for the night and I really didn't want to have to shampoo the damn thing before I returned it. Nothing brilliant came to mind and even my socks were filthy, so I opted to tie my boots to the side mirrors and drive barefoot. After MacGyver-ing this set-up, I launched my craft into the mire.
This wasn't my first time driving in the mud by the way; above all, once you get going, DO NOT STOP! Keep the momentum going. Anybody's who's been there knows the drill.
The plan did not go according to plan.
Captain Scott at the helm,..steady as she goes Sir,..the Mercury Sable cruised/slid about halfway across the starlit field,..all was well,...until she nose-dived and literally brought the vehicle to a sloshing dead stop. I tried rocking it in forward and reverse but this only caused me to submerge deeper.
So, it's almost one in the morning; everyone's gone, and due to my stubborn perogative, I still have no cell phone to call AAA, although I don't know what the hell they could have done anyway. Attempting to dig the vehicle out by hand was a valiant effort, although the only thing it really accomplished was making me look a little less grimy than Gale and Evelle Snoats after they escaped from prison in Raising Arizona.
After untying my boots from the mirror and trudging back to the house, my friend and I returned to the field although we started laughing about this situation and the way I looked and something else that came to mind, and the whole operation became pointless. I was spending the night there.
The last time I had crashed at the Naifeh Ranch several years ago for a birthday party, I fell alseep in a bathtub in the guest bathroom and then somehow managed to crawl near a bed, or maybe a couch, I don't remember. This time though, my state of hygiene warranted a cowboy-style doze under the stars in the sand-pit after heaping more wood onto the fire.
Freckles the resident farm-dog (she looks like an Australian Shepherd mix maybe), was an avid spectator for this entire event, and she seemed to adopt me for the time being, making frequent visits throughout the night to sniff my face. I remember last time also, Freckles seemed to find my presence intriguing because I rolled over onto her several times that night.
FYI: A bag of cedar mulch makes a terrible pillow. Besides the fucking ants that started crawling all over me, it's just not very comfortable. Also, if you spy a bag of marshmallows nearby leftover from the S'Mores activity, do not be swayed by this pillow soft siren on a dark and lonely night. First of all, the plastic slides all over your head and makes your face sweat disproportionately, and if any of them squeeze out you'll have molten fluffed sugar in your hair. Highly unpleasant.
At that point, I just rubbed sand in my hair rather than continue to have my head stick to every single surface that it came in contact with. I slept intermittently and had a mixture of some really cool and disturbing dreams, but by 6-ish a.m. I was ready to start solving this problem. With shovel in hand and a motivating hangover, I spent the next couple of hours digging the car out. After that, I formulated a Wile E. Coyote Genius Extraordinaire-level plan to extract the car by plotting a drive trajectory, and using a bale of hay, a discarded Wendy's soda cup and fries carton, and my compass.
I'm not sure how long Mrs. Naifeh observed this absurdity until she called to me from across the field, "Do you want me to call my neighbor to pull you out with a tractor?"
For your own reference, should you ever be faced with this situation, the tractor option is definitely your best choice.
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