Famous Last Words

"But I don't know how to drive on ice."

"What better place or time than right now?" Dad said. His steady, confident voice encouraged, no insisted, that I give it a try.

It was midwinter in my formative years. You know that special time in one's life when a solo driver's license is less than six months away. Dad, Karl and I were on our way to hunt small game on a local military reservation. Karl, a German shorthaired pointer, was a good dog -- a friend, a companion, and a pretty good birder.

We were all in familiar territory, except for the pesky ice and slush on the dirt roads. Dad pulled over, we traded places on the broad bench seat of a 1963 International Harvester, model 1100 pick-up truck. I climbed behind the steering wheel of the mostly familiar vehicle. I had driven around the block and up to the local grocery store but only on dry pavement. The interior was Spartan -- a few levers and two knobs for a radio that did not work so well. Karl was in the bed of the truck, loosely chained, so he could not jump or fall out of the truck.

After a couple of minutes of instruction, I started the engine, shifted the bent-stick floor shifter into first gear, revved the engine, and began letting out the clutch. The truck stalled. The second attempt worked better. The truck moved. I gunned the engine and the back tires threw a cascade of ice, snow, and mud into the air, making a rooster tail of spray in the general direction of the back of the truck. Meanwhile, the front of the truck was snaking down the road. With heart pounding, I let up on the throttle and a more peaceful motion ensued. During several circuits of a couple of quarter sections, I learned to turn left and right. I learned to make careful stops and less bodacious starts. I was driving on ice.

Then it happened. Dad asked me to find a place to park along side of the road. It was time to go hunting. I steered the truck to the right and started into a skid. I over compensated by jerking the steering wheel to the left, causing a more severe skid. Back to the right, then left, then right -- I must have fishtailed that truck for at least 200 yards. The tracks I left behind were most impressive. I ended up sliding into the ditch on the right side of the road -- parked. Dad shrugged, and off we went hiking into the woods. Karl was relieved to be out of the moving truck. I was relieved not to be driving. Dad was secretly grinning.

After a couple of hours in the woods we headed back to the truck for sandwiches and hot cocoa. I worried the whole time about how Dad would get the truck out of the ditch. Little did I know that since I got it there, I had to get it out! We put Karl back in the bed of the truck, and Dad put me back behind the wheel. I was taught how to rock the vehicle back and forth until the tires grabbed and pulled us out of the ditch. I shifted into low and began to pull forward. Karl looked into the cab though the back window and, seeing who was driving, lifted muzzle to sky and let out the most pitiful howl I have ever heard. It was not until I stopped, and Dad took over driving that Karl quit the continuous howling. With this lesson I earned Dad's respect, but it took a while to regain Karl's.