There was a strong smell of burnt oil and anti-freeze, and steam was rolling into the cab thru the broken windshield. I was clawing my way up hunter hill in the 67 International Scout, and the heat gauge was in the red. I knew if I stopped before I reached the top, there was a good chance I would never make it home that morning.

It was the first week in January and trapping season was just about over . The year was 1982 and I was 15 years old. My older brother Glen had gone to Montana to seek his fortune, I was forced to run a trap line by myself. I’d done fairly well so far My haul was over a dozen fox, two bobcats and numerous coons and possums.
We had a freezing rain the night before, and I drove a bit more slowly down the highway that morning, past the quarry, and turned right on the gravel road headed back to Cave Springs. I had about six sets in that location to check on, and as I came down the last steep hill to the springs the scout started to slide up an embankment, and then rolled over, upside down , then  sideways landing on the driver side. The 22 rifle mounted on the wall behind me, flew off and smacked me upside the head, but otherwise I seemed to be in good shape. The Scout, not so much. I climbed up and out where the passenger window used to be, and made my way to the back tailgate and found a come along and chain. I hooked it to the closest tree, started cranking it and within about two minutes, The scout was back on all four wheels.
I hit the key for the ignition, and nothing happened so I rolled the rest of the way down the hill in second gear, popped the clutch and the old four cylinder roared to life. I mean, literally, roared. The muffler had somehow broke the bailing wire that was holding it together. But it was running, And turned left on E Highway and tried to build up a head of steam to get up to the top of Hunter Hill. I managed to hit 47 Miles per hour, and as soon as I crested the top, I shut off the engine and flicked the shifter into neutural . You see there is a long gradual downhill for about 2 miles from there. Past the cemetery, the old train station , and then finally ending at route 21. I popped the clutch again and coaxed the Scout into our driveway , across the cattle guard and up the gravel lane. I realized then I could not sneak in unnoticed. It was sewing day at our house and a bunch of church ladies stared out the living room picture window where they were supposedly working on a quilt . They gaped open mouthed, as smoke and steam billowed out , and a trail of anti freeze followed behind .
I parked in front of the shop and Mom and Freeman Sarah came out to have a better look. I allowed that I was ok and they murmured how fortunate I was as they headed back inside to update the rest of the ladies. Dad was gone for the day, headed off to Willow Springs to inquire about a New Holland Haybine. So I went straight to work. I removed the leaking radiator, unbolted the top of the cab, and removed the windshield. Fortunately we has a donor Scout parked on cement blocks behind the shed, and by evening the top had been replaced. Dad got home around 6 that night and did not seem too impressed with my excellent body work skills. In fact his exact words were, “Travluns Ding” which translates loosely to “ That probably wasn’t the smartest stunt you ever pulled”. Trapping season was over for me, he added. He also drug up the fact that I had broken the motor mounts on the scout just a couple months ago..
Good thing dad  didn’t know the real story! Blackwell and I had been hanging out over at the Hunter tower listening to music. An offence which could get you in serious trouble with the preachers . Blackwell left a bit before me in his dads shiny light blue f100 pickup. And I was about ¼ mile behind. Just as he rounded the curve on the tram road next to the city dump, he heard Alabama’s Roll on Highway coming on the radio. By Jove he says, I got to stop right here, smack dab in the middle of the road and have John take a listen to this new song. I came flying around the curve, saw the truck stopped and slammed on the brake. That’s brake , singular not plural. Only one rear wheel had working brakes. Sadly it wasn’t enough,    I left a 235 foot long skid mark , and watched in horror as Blackwell’s head slammed into the back window in slow motion. His bumper was dented, and my fan was embedded in the radiator. He towed me home, and I informed dad that the motor mount somehow broke just while driving on the tram road. He bought that line, But Blackwell’s dad was a little more savvy, and Tim informed him that some drunk had run into the back of him and didn’t have insurance. So Tim ended up buying him a water heater to pay for the damages.

As soon as I had the radiator repaired , (I no longer had a spare thanks to the tram road incident  ) and the newish windshield held in place with zipties , I set off to retrieve my traps. I drove very slowly, and pulled all my traps. Including the ones on the 60 acres. The only thing caught was a skunk. I was kinda tired of trapping for the year anyway I thought the scout turned out fine tho, with a brown top and Red bottom.
The old scout was a pretty reliable vehicle and did great in mud and could climb almost any grade. But there was this one mudhole. You had to drive across spring branch to get to it, and the turn left back a hidden lane to the bluffs. It was lined with Bamboo, Johnson grass and slippery river bottom mud. Glen and I had driven back One Sunday afternoon to make sure no Hunter girls needed our assistance with sunscreen. We had reached the end of the trail, and spotted a Chevy blazer stuck in a mudhole. More like buried in the mud up to the driver’s door handle. The driver was grateful to see us and asked if we could pull him out.     We had one of those stretchy tow ropes which we hooked to his rear bumper and the front of the scout. After about 3 running attempts, the blazer popped out of the mudhole and back on dry ground. He offered us beer as compensation, but we declined, being Holy Mennonite boys and all. No one was at the swimming hole, so we took a quick dip in Spring Branch and headed home.
About a year later my buddy Lloyd showed up at our house driving an 83 Ford Ranger 4×4. To say he was proud of it was an understatement. He swept out the interior every other day, and washed the outside every Saturday afternoon. “ I don’t believe there is anywhere in Carter County this here truck couldn’t go” He bragged that day. “I have never had it stuck” He droned on for about 5 minutes, Lockout hubs, low range 4×4. Mud grip tires blah blah blah.. I just grinned and agreed, and allowed that I might know a spot to put it to the test. Lloyd instantly agreed, and the next Sunday afternoon we grabbed a come-along and chain from dads lean to and set off.
You probably guessed what happened next. Yep it was buried! I scrambled out the passenger side and doubled up on the Missouri mud, Howling with laughter. The Ranger engine revved and the body rocked back and forth. About that time Lloyd figured out that he had been set up and used some very colorful language, sad to say. I chuckled as I retrieved the come along and chain from the bed of his truck and fastened it to a cottonwood tree. Lloyd took the other end and fished under the mud until he found a place to hook on . I cranked the makeshift winch as Lloyd floored the throttle . But we weren’t getting anywhere fast, and as I put my full weight on the handle it bent and I could no longer ratchet it. Now we were in a pickle. Sunday evening church would start in 3 hours and we had no cell phone to call for help. If we didn’t make it back in time for the meeting we would be in serious trouble .
So I ran the ½ mile over to the Hunter swimming hole and recruited a drunk to pull us out with his Ford stepside pickup. . He was happy to oblige, as rednecks are wont to do, and refused payment after we were out of the hole. Lloyd mopped out the mud as best he could and we made our way back home. He dropped me off and  never mentioned the incident again. So it fell on me to let everyone within a 16 mile radius know about the story. About the little Blue Ranger that tried, and failed .
Bobcats were illegal to harvest before 1981. If you caught one in a trap you were supposed to release them immediately. One of my brothers had been unlucky enough to catch 3 of them the year before they legalized the critters. Somehow they ended up in cages in our hay barn. He fed them raw meat and tried to come up with a way to sell the hides. MR Roarke , Deputy Sherriff , heard about it and told him if he ever came across some Bobcats he had a buyer for them. My brother fell for it , hook, line and sinker, and told him he had 3 ready to sell.
The next afternoon we were headed out the barn to start afternoon chores when the game warden pulled in the driveway. “I hear you boys have got some Bobcats penned up,” He said gruffly. We led him to the barn, and he loaded them in his truck, cages and all. My brother asked if he could leave the cages there, and the Game Warden snarled that he was lucking he wasn’t putting him in the pen for awhile. Fortunately the game commission was in need of Bobcats to install tracking devises and he let him off with a dire warning. We never penned up another wild animal again, except for the three legged deer we were going to fatten up before we butchered it. So that hardly counts.
We had other run ins with the game warden, which I’ll write about as soon as the statute of limitations ends.