Every year Outside Bozeman magazine holds a "Suby Tales" competition, in which owners of Bozeman's omnipresent Subarus submit stories of their cars' wonders. Having been the owner of not only a Subaru, but also of a very excellent Suby tale, I decided to submit a story. Unfortunately, my story was over 1200 words and the max for the contest is 800, so I had to do some heavy editing. Here's the unedited version. I'll let you know if I win anything.
Suby Tale: The Greatest Show on (Very Muddy) Earth
Okay, so I’m a Flatlander. I admit it. I can’t help that I was born and raised in New York, and, like many others, I hope it’s the sort of thing that’s not too obvious.
But, the fact is it takes a while to adjust to some of Montana’s idiosyncrasies. Namely, that a road that’s closed during winter may not having a sign noting this.
Such was the case when, during a warm spell in March of 1993, me and my nifty silver 1990 Loyale wagon decided to take a scenic jaunt. Brandishing an official Montana state highway map with freshly elected governor Marc Racicot’s smiling face looking benevolently upon us, we eyed what looked to be to be an excellent loop: north from Belgrade along Dry Creek Road, picking up Sixteenmile Creek Road at Maudlow, taking that east to Ringling, and then south on Hwy. 89.
The weather had been unseasonably warm, getting up into the seventies. An early spring! Nothing like zipping along Montana’s rural back roads to take in the scenery. Not even a patch of snow was visible along the gravelly Dry Creek Road; it looked like it would be smooth sailing all the way to Ringling.
But looks can be deceiving. The ghosts of Maudlow offered few hints – an abandoned schoolhouse offered no lessons to visitors. The Suby and I rolled onward.
The road became narrower… and muddier. It was barely noticeable at first, but as we passed one cow pasture after another, gaining elevation all the while, the road gradually became slick. Then sloppy. No problem for the Suby, of course – I just pushed the handy red button for on-demand four-wheel-drive, and slathering through the muck was nothing but fun.
Farther on, it got worse. Perhaps you’ve heard of something called “gumbo”? That’s the kind of mud that just sticks to itself – the more your wheels turn, the more mud you pick up, until your tires no longer have traction, they just have mud. The sliding and slathering was no longer fun, as I dropped the Suby’s automatic transmission down to low 2, and then low 1. I wondered how far it was to Ringling; could the road get any worse? Maybe it would be a good idea to turn around. But no, the road couldn’t get any worse, could it?
It got worse. Much worse. I was swerving left and right, flooring the gas pedal in a desperate attempt not to lose momentum.
In an even more desperate move, I abandoned the road. Drove it right off the side, onto the unfenced pasture. Cows looked on curiously. Surprisingly, this worked very well. The road was crap, but the side of the road was not bad. Not good, mind you, but the little car found enough purchase to roll onward.
But the road seemed interminable. I alternated between left-side pasture, road, and right-side pasture, depending on what looked most passable. And the Suby did a great job, powering through the thickest gumbo I ever imagine existing. A nightmare of gumbo – the car was covered in it.
Finally, the road began to descend. Ringling would be ours! But not quite yet – inexplicably, there was a massive snow berm completely blocking the road. I had barely seen any snow the whole way.
But the Suby had done so well, I knew there was only one course of action. I floored the mother. Full speed ahead! I’m givin’ it all she’s got, Cap’n! It would be like Evel Knievel and the Dukes of Hazzard except with snow. In a Subaru.
But it was not to be. Despite the full-throttled thrust, the Suby got high-centered midway through. We were stuck, and good.
These were the days before cell phones, and there was only one course of action: Hoof it to Ringling, and seek help there. How far was Ringling – four miles? I had no jacket, no water, no food, and it was getting dark. I said goodbye to the Suby and headed out on foot.
I didn’t see a soul the whole way to the sleepy little town, but I knew where to go: the bar. No shortage of people there. I shamefully confessed my fate to the crowd of ranchers. The response: “You’re the third one this weekend!”
Apparently, Sixteen Mile Creek Road has high entertainment value for Ringlingers. They told me to use the payphone outside to call a tow truck in Livingston. How much would that cost? Dejectedly, I went outside and picked up the phone. It was dead. Was this part of the fun?
I went back in. One old rancher said, “Well, okay, I’ll give you a pull, but just let me finish my beer.” He was drunk off his keister. I didn’t like the looks of this, but I was desperate.
Following him into the truck, he said, “Just give me a hand bringing in the cows first.” Sure, why not? He probably just wanted me to hold the fence open or something.
We drove a short to the ranch, and getting out of the truck he pointed to two four-wheelers and said, “The right one’s the gas, the left one’s the brake.” He hopped on one of them. I looked at the other, thinking, He’s kidding, right? He fired his up and, taking off, yelled, “Don’t mind the one’s that are calving, I’ll get those later!”
I looked at the thing. How hard could it be? I hopped on, switched the key, grabbed the right handlebar, and turned. It roared to life. I took off after the cows.
How does one herd, anyway? Watching the man, it seemed like you just head straight for the cows and yell a lot. I wasn’t much of a yeller, but I was okay at running straight at them. They generally moved, although rarely in the right direction. And how was I supposed to know which ones were calving? It would be nice if they had a big “C” painted on the side of them or something.
After ten minutes of pathetic herding, the man took pity on this sorry-assed Flatlander and called it good. We headed back to the truck, where another guy was waiting. His minivan was stuck in the mud farther back on the road, with a wife and two kids still in it. Another sucker! “Hop in,” the man said.
Hey! How come he didn’t have to work for it? Ah, well.
My Suby was waiting for us at the snow berm – which, I learned, was the barrier so that no one from the Ringling side would be foolish enough to drive on the road. No such luck on the Maudlow side, of course, but then, what would Ringlingers do for fun this time of year? The Superduty diesel made short work of it, plucking the Suby off the snow like popping the head off a dandelion.
It was smooth sailing from there on out. The Suby was covered in thick clumps of mud, but it was no worse for wear. Me, on the other hand… well, I’d had a good walk. I learned how to drive a four-wheeler, and how to herd cattle. I didn’t bother with the ones that were calving (or several others that weren’t). I learned my car kicks ass in mud.
And most of all, now I know where to hang out in March when I’m looking to make fun of some Flatlanders.
