The 21-year-old pickup truck, its V-8 throbbing, kicked up dust along the crushed-limestone Woodson County roads. The countryside was bright green and at the height of its glory, nourished by more than ample moisture and followed by hot sun.
Neil Hartwig, who knows the country west of Humboldt like the back of his hand, was at the wheel. Happy as a kid on an adventure, I occupied shotgun.
We left Humboldt early Wednesday afternoon with plans to acquaint me with Neil’s old hunting grounds.
We chose Wednesday because better than three days of sunshine should have dried most anywhere we wanted to go.
We learned better.
Our first stop was to be a pecan grove Neil had established. We never got there.
Instead, we dallied at an intriguing homestead site along the way, protected on one side by a laid-up rock fence to discourage wayward cattle and similar rock walls of an old barn and outbuilding. Neil, still sharp at age 95, marveled at the skill of pioneers who were so adroit at building fences and buildings out of the readily available limestone.
Our next stop was along a mile-long dirt road that I doubt had been graded since the work was done with horse-drawn equipment.
The first two mud holes were manageable, causing only mildly anxious moments. When we came to a third, it was too risky, and we turned around.
Heading back, the longer of the two previous conquests proved more formidable from this side.
Once sunk down, the motor whined as the tires threw up muddy water. We were stuck.
What to do.
With no likely assistance to pass by — and did I mention the heat and humidity? — much of a walk was out of the question.
So I tracked down the number of Maynard Cress, who lives about 5 miles from where we were stranded, and gave him a call. “Sure, I’ll help,” was his answer to our prayer.
He soon arrived, equipped with a chain and heavy tow rope. I managed to find a steady place to attach the combination. Neil started the truck, straightened the front wheels and in a matter of seconds we again were on our way.
