The Rut

The Rut

I think we’ve all seen those videos of people driving down an icy hill—just gliding along—brakes and steering wheel completely useless. 

Well that happened to me. 

Sort of.

I had left the Grand Canyon and was driving towards Bryce Canyon National Park. I saw on the map that there was a direct route that went through Escalante National Monument—which I also wanted to visit. I knew it was a dirt road, but my research said it’s in good condition, so I decided to give it a try, knowing I could always turn around if the road got treacherous. 

The first 30 miles or so were easy sailing and I only saw one other car. I didn’t have any cell service to stream music, an audiobook or podcast, so I popped in some old CD’s that I still had in the car. 

Nostalgia.

The second (and last) car I saw was a Jeep Grand Cherokee 4x4 heading towards me. As we approached one another, they rolled down their window to flag me down. The driver informed me that he encountered some mud about 4 miles up that he “couldn’t get through.” 

I thanked him for the warning, and told him I’ll drive the rest of the dry part and turn around when the mud got bad. If his Jeep couldn’t get through, I assumed my Subaru couldn't either. 

Sure enough, after about 4 miles the road got muddy, and although my car slipped around a bit here and there, it was actually kind of fun and my car handled it all really well.

But up ahead I could see where the Jeep tracks had turned around at the base of a particularly muddy hill. I pictured myself getting stuck, with no tools to dig myself out, and hardly anyone else on the road to help, so I did the responsible thing and turned around just like the Jeep. 

But as I was driving back the way I came, my mind started to get the best of me. I couldn’t help but notice that the Jeep wasn’t very muddy, as if it hadn't even tried to get through the mud. Plus, the guy seemed kind of like a city guy to me, and the Jeep wasn’t the rugged off-road Wrangler type, it looked… pampered. 

Plus, what if, right after the muddy hill, was perfectly dry road again? 

I nearly had myself convinced.

What pushed me over the edge was that, since I had been mostly backcountry camping for weeks, I had shelter and a weeks worth of food and water with me.

I was sold.

So after a couple miles of retreating, I turned around again and headed back towards the muddy hill. 

The mud didn’t look deep enough for me to sink down into it, I just wasn’t sure if my tires would have enough traction to get me up the hill. 

So I approached the hill with some speed, effortlessly passing where the Jeep had turned around, and to my absolute pride, my Subaru climbed up that muddy hill with nothing more than some easy-to-control fishtailing.

And what’s more, the road ahead didn’t look nearly as bad. I did it! 

Mildly muddy conditions persisted for about 5 miles, but eventually the mud ended and I was back to the dry gravel road—yeah baby! 

I still had 20 miles to go, so I wasn’t ready to celebrate completely, but I sure was feeling great.

I drove on for another handful of miles and eventually came upon a steep hill. The road up it was dry, and I had plenty of traction, so I didn’t think much of it. The hill crested sharply at the top, and as soon as the downslope came into view I saw nothing but mud. Even at a slow speed, by the time I pressed the brake it was too late—the car started sliding. 

Adrenaline coursed through my body. 

The downslope wasn’t as steep as the upslope, but it was painfully long, close to 50 yards I’d estimate, with a curve towards the bottom. 

Everything started moving in slow motion.

I pumped the foot brake—nothing.

I gently tested the emergency break—nothing.

The steering wheel felt symbolic, like the ones you’d find on coin-operated children’s rides outside of grocery stores. 

If the road were straight the whole way I probably would have been fine, but I was approaching the turn in the road, which was lined with large rocks. 

And I was drifting right at them. 

There was a deep rut in the road, carved out by someone’s tire who had tried to drive up what I was currently skidding down. My front tire just happened to glide into that rut, which, to my relief, gently guided my car around the curve, past the rocks, and lined me up perfectly to skid down the final straight segment at the bottom.

The rut saved me.

Divine intervention? 

Dumb luck? 

I don’t care.

It was glorious.

At this point I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back up the hill I had just slid down, so I prayed there wouldn’t be any more surprises during the last 10 miles of dirt road, because at this point there was no turning back. 

I’m pleased to announce that the rest of the drive was completely uneventful and I literally whooped with joy when my tires finally touched a paved road. 

“Adrenaline plus excitement equals fun. Adrenaline plus fear equals pain. It's all about getting the recipe right.” —Angela Abraham

P.S. You should know that at no point was I in any physical danger—it all happened at slow speeds and there were no cliffs involved—I was just worried about damaging my beloved car.