On the last day of a long trip in the Wind River range my Wyoming compadre Brian and I endured an afternoon of enforced shore leave experiencing the full range of weather nastiness - rain, sleet, thunder & lightning and absurdly high winds.

No need to wonder why it's called the WIND River range; the winds were strong enough that you could forget about paddling, just standing up was a challenge. We found we could lean over into the wind at a 45% angle and the force of the wind would hold us suspended there. Even more fun was to spread our poncho clad arms wide and lean way, way over, flying in place like some backcountry Batman, poncho-capes rippling in the wind.

On reaching the take out the weather system passed, the sun broke out and Brian surprised me by producing tonic water, a bottle of vodka and a lemon from some hidden recess in the back of my truck.

We dried out, packed up and celebrated our successful runs by enjoying a vodka tonic or two, dreaming all the while of hitting some Wyoming small town restaurant. Just for kicks, go into a cattle-country restaurant (preferably called "The Stockman" or something similar) and ask your waitress is they offer "a vegetarian platter...for my friend here"

We head up out of the valley in high spirits. The road is muddy, but the truck is well ballasted with our gear, no sweat. Atop the valley is a broad plateau we need to cross before reaching the first paved road. This plateau floor consists of bentonite. AKA mineral soap. Known colloquially, when wet, as gumbo.

Now bentonite, at least in this "pure" form and consistent quantity, may be something found exclusively in the Wind River range. Thank god. Bentonite, mixed with water (and it absorbs something like 15 times it's own volume in water), creates mud with the texture of chocolate pudding. Actually, when driving on saturated bentonite, it seems more like a layer of chocolate pudding with grasping tentacles, spread over a sheet of ice. Not only will you have NO traction and NO control, but this goo is deep...and, apparently, lonely - it just hates to see you go.

We plow through the first couple of mud holes, fishtailing, countersteering and downshifting. Gotta downshift, cause this slop just seems to try to hold you in place. The mud holes starting to get bigger; I start having to hit them faster in order to have sufficient momentum to break through to the other side.

Soon I'm plowing into bigger and bigger mudholes, going 50 mph on the way in and barely making it out the other side doing 15 mph, working my way through the gearbox as we careen around.

Then we crest a slight rise and see it - THE MOTHER OF ALL MUDHOLES. 100 yards of breathtaking ooze.. I glance over at Brian - he seems unconcerned. He also seems to have acquired a fresh vodka tonic. I elbow him - he glances at me, looks at the mud mother and arches an eyebrow, as if to say "Yeah, whadda ya waitin' for? Hit it!" What confidence.

I gun the truck as fast as I dare and scream into the mud mother. And swiftly realize that there is no way this is going to work. I'm all over the road. I'm losing too much speed too fast. I'm banging gears, I'm working the accelerator. I'm pulling us out of a slip this way and a slide that way....I'm in the ditch.

I look over to make sure Brian is OK. He still seems unconcerned. And he hasn't, as far as I can tell, spilled a drop. I'm not even sure he knows we're in a ditch.

We get out to survey the situation. I'm about 50 yards into the mud mother, nose down, half in and half out of the ditch. Big ditch. A Wyoming sized ditch. Back east they give ditches this size names and build housing developments in them. Bentonite Acres. Gumbo Estates.

OK, we've been in this position before. First things first, lets get the truck back on the road. "Brian, get in front and push; I'll ease the clutch out and try to coax her back up onto the road".

No good. "Dang Brian, look at all that mud on ya from the back tires spinning".

OK, lets denude this hillside of sagebrush; we'll lay out corduroy tracks back up onto the road and try again. "Come on Brian, one-two-three, heave!"

No good. "Dang Brian, now yer covered with tiny bits of sagebrush debris too".

OK, it's time for desperate measures. We'll jack up the downside of the truck as far as we can, push her off the jack towards the road, jack her up, push her off....it's a slow process, an inch or so at a time, but we've done it before. "Here Brian, squirm up under the truck and slip the jack into place".

No good. Now the jack is stuck in the mud under the truck. "Jeeze, Brian, look at yourself. Clothes make the man, don't ya know".

Things aren't looking too good. Brian chooses this moment to utter his longest vocalization of the trip - "Good place to homestead, eh?". Perhaps the alcohol has loosened his tongue, I notice he has mixed another vodka tonic.

Then we hear it. Ting. Ting, ting. Ting. Bells? Then we see them. Sheep. Lots of sheep. Coming over a rise to our north. Brian gets a wild look in his eyes. I begin to suspect that he's been away from his girlfriend for too many weeks.

Fortunately, the sheep are followed by a shepherd on horseback. He pushes the sheep off into a meadow, gives his dogs a whistle and rides through the gumbo up to the truck

Surveying the truck, the ruts, the sagebrush corduroy and Brian's throughly bespattered condition, he looks down at us and says "Espidquton basomnpz freveyya"

Ah, a Basque shepherd on horseback.

"Yup, we're stuck in the ditch" I say.

"Jezzevtya nugtrudao weghita", replies the shepherd, holding up his rope and gesturing towards the bumper.

"Hell, it's worth a try" I respond. "Brian, you push".

The shepherd hops down, throws a hitch around the bumper, remounts and throws a hitch around the pommel. Brian pushes. I ease the clutch out. The truck slides out of the ditch and we work it back onto solid road outside the mud mother.

The shepherd hops down, uncoils his rope and we shake hand all around. I offer him a $10. Brian offers him a vodka tonic. He refuses both, gathers his sheep and rides off.

Of course, we're still on the wrong side of the mud mother, having been pulled out of our dilemma backwards. I back the truck up to the top of the rise and try again. Fly into the mudhole, slipping right, sliding left, slamming gears...and put us in the ditch again.

We've gone about 50 yards. Again. We're in the ditch. Again. The only difference is we've slid off the other side of the road this time.

We get out, denude the other hillside of sagebrush and lay out another corduroy track, leading up out of the mud mother this time...no way I'm starting back at point A again if we get free. I'm walking around to the drivers side when Brian utters his second longest sentence of the trip. "YOU push. I'LL drive".

I get behind and push, Brian eases the clutch out and the truck comes out of the ditch and starts gaining momentum. 5mph. 10mph. 15mph. We're back on solid ground. Now I'm covered with gumbo and sagebrush, but the truck is going. Still going. Still going. Still going. Gone.

Up over the next rise and out of sight. Hmmmm, well, I guess Brian didn't want to stop until he was certain he wouldn't get stuck again. I walk to the top of the rise. Just in time to catch a glimpse of the truck, clearing the next rise, still going.

When I catch up to Brian, miles later, parked at the end of the dirt road on the paved shoulder , he's laying on a boulder, sipping a vodka tonic. He smiles at me and throws me the keys. "Here" he says "You drive".