August 1, 1965 Part II

     1965 was a flood year in Colorado.  Roads and bridges were washed out.  Deer was Trail flooded.   Cabin Creek didn’t exactly wash down the stream, but never recovered from the damage from the flood waters.  High waters washed away huge concrete pylons erected in place to support bridges and overpasses on unfinished portions of I-70 east of Denver.

      Lincoln County had its share of destroyed bridges and roads.  Every road ditch and low spot held water.  Larry and I found one of those road ditches filled with water.

     I had managed to make it about seven miles on what is now County Road 3N.  At that point, the road makes a very slight correction.  I awoke with a start when the sunflowers on the road shoulder started hitting the bumper and right fender.  My attempts to swerve left to get back on the road were futile.  The next thing was a splash and we came to a halt.  The wheels spun when I stepped on the accelerator.  Same result  when I tried reverse.

     I could have spent the rest of the night in the car.  But somehow that never occurred to me.  So, I opened the door, and the water began to creep in.  I closed the door but I already had a little water on the floor mat.  

     I had on a brand new pair of black pants, double knit with pipe stem legs like the Beatles wore.  Carefully I rolled the pants up to my knees hoping that would be high enough to be above the water.  It was.  So I stepped out of the car into the cold water—in my brand new leather shoes.  Funny I never thought about them.

      When I opened the rear door to extract Larry, he saw the water and refused to step out.  He went to the right door, so I waded around and got him out of the right door.  The water was only about six inches deep on that side.

      I don’t remember much about the trek home, except that after a couple of miles, I decided a short cut across the pasture was a better option than following the county road which would have taken us a half mile west and then a half mile back east.  I had a hard time convincing Larry to leave the road and cross the barb wire fence.  It was strange territory for him, but I knew where we were, and I prevailed.

     Arriving home, my oldest brother, who happened to be visiting, was up waiting for me.  It was past 3 a.m.  He had had enough close calls of his own to know what the possibilities were.

      I made Larry call home to inform his parents he would spend the rest of the night with us.  Later, I found out his mother wasn’t too happy having to get up to answer the phone between 3 and 4 a.m.  She was a believer in the “no news is good news” philosophy.  She thought the phone call was bad news.

      I put Larry in an empty bed where he stayed until the folks left for church Sunday morning.  He got up, refused breakfast, said goodbye and headed for home in his car.     

     There remained the problem of getting the car out of the mud puddle.  I don’t remember for sure if we tried and failed to dislodge it with our tractor, or if we decided early on it wasn’t up to the task.  The ultimate solution was to borrow the neighbor’s bigger tractor, a 500 Case.  We should have borrowed another log chain, too.

      I don’t remember how we hooked the chain to the car.  Whoever did that (did ?I) had to get down into the water to hook the chain to the frame beneath the bumper.  What I do remember is that the chain wasn’t long enough so the tractor could have both wheels on the road bed.  To make the connection, one tractor wheel was just off the shoulder of the road.  When the tractor started to pull the car, the right wheel spun, the left wheel continued forward causing an abrupt uncontrollable right turn, and the tractor was in the ditch with the car.

    I was in the car watching all this and I thought, “Oh boy.  Now we’ve got the neighbor’s tractor stuck, too.”  As I remember it, Uncle Ricky never paused or hesitated.  He kept the tractor going forward and the car began to move.  I’m sure the tractor wheels were churning up water and mud, but what I remember most was the radiator fan drawing the muddy water through the radiator and throwing it back onto the tractor.  I was glad the 500 was a diesel without spark plugs to get shorted out with the water, stalling the engine.

    We were moving and the car’s rear wheels found solid ground and then we were back up on the road.

    I think this was all done before the folks got home from church, which would have been around 1 o’clock or so.  The car was on the road with no apparent damage other than what a good cleaning would fix.  The tractor was back in its place and everybody was safe and sound.

     What else happened on August 1, 1965, I don’t recall.  Some time later when Larry and I got together, he laughed in his characteristic manner as he recalled (all that he could) about his 21^st birthday.  Then he asked me what I was doing almost three miles beyond the home place where our journey ended.

    I told him I was trying to take him home.  He paled a little then.  “Gord, you know that bridge on the road just west of our place?  That washed out.  The county never put up much of a barricade.  You never would have got me home.”

      When I recall quite a few other incidents in my young life, I think my Guardian Angel put in a lot of overtime, especially on weekends. I hope he (she?) got time-and-a-half.