I was out camping in western Colorado early one September when it began to rain. It rained good off and on for three days. I got tired of it around day two and decided to take the back way down off the Uncomphaghre Plateau to go into the mega metropolis of Norwood, Colorado (pop 1,000 or so) to have a nice hot meal in a real cafe out of the rain. I got down off the plateau just fine, but when I was driving on the part of the road that skirts the San Miguel River, I noticed that the river was running pretty high from all that rain and had begun to overflow its banks.
I was driving along at a nice sedate 20mph due to the sharp curves on the road, the slick mud, and the proximity of the river about 15 feet to my right. Suddenly, as I rounded a curve I heard this funny, loud keraaccking noise and a huge cottonwood whose roots had been undercut by the river fell across the road right in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and in that mud, I darn near skidded into the San Miguel. After sitting there for a while attempting to recover my composure at this near brush with death by cottonwood, I sat there expectantly awaiting bubba to come along with his logging chain.
The cottonwood completely blocked the road from the river on my right to the steep slope to my left - no way around the thing. I sat patiently in my car and waited. And waited. Finally, I realized that Bubba had wisely decided to stay in Norwood and drink some brews at the local bar and catch the Bronco's game. I was going to have to move that cottonwood myself.
I sat and contemplated vectors for a while, the slick mud, dirt road and the roaring stream just a few feet away. I had my very own logging chain in the back of my car. I managed to get my car turned around, got out the logging chain, attached it to a sturdy branch on the fallen cottonwood, attached the other end to the rear bumper of my Explorer, locked in the hubs, and told the Explorer to be a good girl. The Explorer was not pleased at its new role as tree mover, but finally with a loud grumbling roar of the engine, it dragged the cottonwood just far enough to the side of the road that I could get around it.
I unhitched the logging chain, turned the Explorer around, and drove past the tree into Norwood where I treated myself to a chicken fried steak at the Rocking R cafe and listened to the ranchers at the next table complain about the high price of hay.
Does this qualify me as an honorary Bubbette?
