ALONG THE WAY

Stranded in the Sun-baked Heart of the Desert . . . and Lucky to Be Living to Tell the Tale

The truck's differential bowed to the ground. One front tire pointed uproad; the other splayed pathetically to the side like a broken wing. I was on a jeep trail 30 miles from the nearest outpost of civilization and heading nowhere. In Arizona's vast backcountry, I have splinted broken mainspring leaves, traced shorted wires, spliced punctured fuel lines, put tubes in ripped tires, and changed clattering wheel bearings, but this disaster was beyond any tool, part, or skill in my kit. It was pointless to cuss the truck. I sat on the hood and reclined against the windshield. I was in no danger, and I was stranded in a beautiful place. I had a week's food and water. All I had to do was wait for help. I had it made. But, impetuously, I decided to walk out to a settlement on the highway and roust a tow truck. I'd walk all night and be back with help right after breakfast. No problem. I slipped a note under the windshield wiper explaining my route. I didn't bother explaining the problem that was self-evident. I tucked a couple of juice cans and a gallon of water into a frayed daypack, waved good-bye to my once-trusty truck, and tromped up the road into the night. By morning I had napped a I could have used my rear view mirrors to lure would-be rescuers. Floor mats and extra clothes could be laid on the ground to make panels visible from the air, like a giant cloth billboard saying "Find me! Find me!" A search plane can spot a vehicle from five miles away but from 50 feet may miss a person afoot. In the words of friend Tom Harlan, co-founder of Southern Arizona Rescue Association, "Make yourself seen; attract attention. Get BIG!" I could have used road flares or a camera flash to signal at night and could have burned the spare tire to make smoke by day. Even a raised hood is a pretty universal signal of distress. Some rescues in our high-tech age have actually been launched by the straggler's cellular phone. Many victims of the desert leave the road to shortcut across open but treacherous and trackless ground. The stories are as instructive as they are common. A woman and two small children look for a campsite, get the truck stuck, try to walk out, and perish in the heat a mile from a paved road. An elderly fisherman mires his truck in sand and dies walking out, in winter no less. His wife stays behind; she lives. Two men drive a rough road to save a few miles. Their battery dies. They walk. Passersby find their jeep within two days, but rescuers locate the men four days after that, only one alive. Unpleasant talk, but a theme runs through it: Stay with the vehicle. I remembered finding another walker west of here on a Fourth of July. He lay peacefully under a tree not 40 feet from a rough road driven daily. But he had left no sign or marker on the road, so no one knew couple of times and walked not nearly as far as I had hoped. If this had been summer instead of spring, I couldn't have been walking at all I couldn't tote enough water to make it. I would have stayed with the vehicle, slept in its shade, and gulped water. In winter the sufficed. It was a week too late for anyone to help him. The biggest obstacle to salvation is our pride we're reluctant to even admit there's a problem, let alone an emergency. The trick is to keep minor inconvenience from becoming a major disaster. Few of us want to be humbled on the evening news. The best rescues are low-key calls to "locate and assist" a disabled vehicle or late hiker; these don't make headlines. They are over, done, and forgotten before calamity can strike. Dawn rose and noon came. Twenty-some miles into my walk, I sensed behind me the rumble of a vehicle on washboard road. I sat down on the road berm to muddle. No sense in walking another step if there's a chance for a ride. I should have thought of that yesterday. I ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed two-day's beard. Not a pretty sight. The driver slowed and stopped. He looked at me hesitantly. His wife turned down the radio. "I'm Bob Brawdy," he announced. "Was that your truck we passed?" I nodded. "Get in if you like," he said, motioning to the cluttered bed of his pickup. I squirmed in with the trash bag, charcoal Truck would have been a haven against rain and wind. The cigarette lighter could start a warming fire, and the seat would make a snug bed.

Grill, duffle bags, and spare tire. No king ever rode so well or gratefully as this pilgrim. While bouncing along in the truck, I reconsidered my decision to walk out. Twenty miles for nothing. Even under those ideal conditions, I would have been better off staying with the truck. Tom Harlan is right: Go prepared. Stay put. Get BIG. That's the best way to enjoy being stranded.