{"id":110,"date":"2019-06-01T00:18:22","date_gmt":"2019-06-01T00:18:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/?p=110"},"modified":"2019-05-21T00:39:49","modified_gmt":"2019-05-21T00:39:49","slug":"jackrabbit-soup-by-chris-espenshade","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/2019\/06\/01\/jackrabbit-soup-by-chris-espenshade\/","title":{"rendered":"Jackrabbit Soup by Chris Espenshade"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n\n

The cause of death was the immediate\nconcern.  More specifically, the cause of\ndeath as it might relate to waterborne diseases.  Even in our pitiful state, it was clear that\nthe large jackrabbit had drowned in the stock tank.  The poor creature was so desperate for water\nthat he had jumped into the tank.  A\ndesperate need for water had also brought us to the tank, to face the decision\nto go thirsty or to drink jackrabbit soup. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong>      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

How did\ntwo North Carolina — the state, certainly not the university — boys end up\ncraving water at a stock tank somewhere near the old Widowmaker Mine in eastern\nNevada?  This tale of nuclear arsenals,\nhigh-speed driving, arrowhead hunting, East Coast-West Coast rivalry, the dude\nranch, and the Econoline van began as many of my adventures have, with blind\nluck.  I was out of work, between\nundergraduate and graduate school, when I got the call from Judy (to become\nAunt Judy, see below).  Was I interested\nin a summer-long project?  Was I willing\nto go to Nevada to work?  Would I work 55\nhours a week, with 15 hours at time-and-a-half? \nWas I willing to pick up the company Bronco in South Carolina and drive\nit west?  The answer to all these\nquestions was a resounding yes.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

However,\nrather than react too enthusiastically, I decided to see how much more\nattractive I could make the deal.  I\nfirst inquired if I would be getting pay and per diem for the drive west.  I then asked if they needed any more\ncrew.  I vouched for the surface\ncollecting (fancy archaeological jargon for arrowhead hunting) abilities of my\nbest friend.  Not only was Tony my best\nfriend, he was also a fellow distance runner. \nHaving succeeded in getting Tony hired, I made the last push, for him to\nget pay and per diem for the journey west. \nJudy eventually gave in and I next called Tony to tell him of his plans\nfor the summer.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong>      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There, of course, was no logic in splashing\nthe water on our faces to see if it was safe. \nWe knew of no diseases that would make water burn our skins, thereby\nwarning us not to drink.  Yet somehow\nthis face-splashing was important step in the decision-making process.  Tequila logic, perhaps.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong>      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had\nfive days to get to Tonopah, Nevada. \nThis allowed us time to run each evening, attempting to acclimate to the\nslowly increasing elevation.  I also\nrecall that we saw the movie \u201cThe Young Riders\u201d at Oklahoma State\nUniversity.  It included the quote from a\nPinkerton detective, \u201cThat\u2019s an incredibly stupid question.\u201d  Tony was to use this quote repeatedly during\nthe summer, including our first conversation with our new boss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At some\npoint on the journey west, Tony and I decided that we were going to show \u201cthose\nwesterners.\u201d  Judy had told me that most\nof the crew was from California.  Only\nTony, myself, Dad (not really anybody\u2019s father), and a few supervisors\nrepresented the eastern states.  It\nshould be emphasized that at this point in our lives Tony and I were both\nextremely self-confident and utterly full of crap.  It remains unclear if we had an explicit plan\nfor dealing with the aforementioned westerners, or whether we simply improvised\nall summer.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the\nname of accuracy, I should say that Tony was not his real name.  Tony had been christened with two old family\nnames, Chatham Morford.  His father was\nalso Chatham, so the son became Morford. \nIt is not a common name, and it is difficult to pronounce.  Many people try to work an \u201cL\u201d into it, like\n\u201cMulford.\u201d  Others ignore the first \u201cR\u201d,\nresulting in Mufford.  By the time he got\nto college, he was getting sick of people mis-pronouncing his name, especially\nrunning race announcers.  He also felt\nthat he should have a snazzier name, and he selected \u201cTony\u201d after seeing Saturday Night Fever<\/em>.  His first use of the name came at the Tuckaseegee\nRiver and Road Race, a two-day event in western North Carolina.  The first day you paddle 10 miles of\nwhitewater on the Tuckaseegee River, even if you really don\u2019t have much Class\nII-III experience and you sort of lied to the Wake Forest Outing Club to get\nthe canoe.  The second day you run 10 K\naround the campus of Western Carolina University.  The best combined time wins.  I only beat Tony by about 20 seconds on the\n10 K run, but I had sufficient time to get the crowd chanting \u201cTony! Tony!\u201d as\nhe finished.  There was no going back\nafter that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong>      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was\nthe Survey Chief and Tony was my assistant. \nOur job was to locate, flag, and record directions to the survey\nareas.  This basically meant that we got\nto experiment with dead-end routes and got the truck stuck on a regular\nbasis.  We were specifically told \u201cdon\u2019t\nwaste any time getting to the survey areas.\u201d \nThis is certainly not the best thing to say to boys who had grown up on\na diet of high-speed, dirt road driving. \nThe instructions were interpreted to read \u201cpush the envelope at every\nopportunity.\u201d  One-hundred miles per hour\non the paved road got old after the first week, but 70 miles per hour down\nsingle-lane, sand roads remained exciting through the entire summer.  We became adept at High Desert driving, and\nalso became fast with the jack and shovel. \nTypically, we were assigned either an F-150 pick-up or some sort of\n4-wheel drive Chevy pick-up.  Very\noccasionally, when several vehicles were in the shop on the same day, we drew\nthe dreaded Econoline, a.k.a. Mom\u2019s grocery van.  The cargo van was two-wheel drive and had a\nweight distribution not well suited to sand driving. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\nquickly settled into a routine.  We lived\nin a number of large camper trailers\/mobile homes in state parks.  The large crew was provided food by a lady\nwho quickly became known as Mom, because she provided food.  Dad was so designated because he was smitten\nwith Mom.  Judy became our Aunt Judy\nbecause she was older than us and had gotten us the job.  Judy, of course, did not see herself as that\nmuch older than us and she did not always appreciate the Aunt Judy label.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were\nup very early every morning.  Tony and I\nquickly realized that the Californians were very particular about their\nfood.  We naturally decided that we\nshould be the extreme opposite, requesting white bread, refined sugar, red\nmeat, and lots of bacon when Mom went shopping. \nThis was not really much of a stretch from our normal diet.  Tony explained to the westerners (using a\nfavorite quote from the novel, Once a\nRunner<\/em>) that \u201canything will burn if the furnace is hot enough.\u201d  Our position was strengthened when two\nvegetarians washed out in the first two weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\nbecame a matter of pride to always be the first truck out of camp.  In a 10- to 12-hour work day, one or two\nminutes didn\u2019t matter much in terms of productivity, but we knew it bothered\nthe other folks to always be following us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was\nfirst exposed to tequila sweats when playing basketball in the old\nneighborhood.  Eric, who was a few years\nolder and was in college while we were still in high school, had apparently run\namuck with a bottle of tequila one Friday night.  The Saturday morning pick-up game saw him\npale, with great spheres of sweat swelling up all over his skin.  We were no strangers to hang-overs, and we\nknew about sweating, but this was something entirely different.  After just five minutes, he stank.  Nobody wanted to pick him or cover him.  By shutting up and being patient, we all\neventually learned what had done this to Eric. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Most of you know that there are not a lot\nof places to find water in the High Desert. \nIf you are 30 miles from the nearest town, you had better hope for an\nactive ranch.  The USGS quadrangle maps\nmight help, but there are no assurances that a windmill and water tank will be\nactive.  It is not a good place to be\nwithout water.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am\nnot sure who first found out about the dude ranch.  Before its discovery, our social life was\nlimited to beer, excellent Mexican food, and slot machines at the Overland Cafe\nin Pioche.  They only had 4-5 slots, and\neverybody knew when you got a pay-out, which meant that most the winnings were\nspent on the next pitcher.  The Pioche\nTheater also showed a film each Wednesday night.  On Saturday afternoons or Sundays we might go\nswimming at the ice cold and crystal clear, Panaca Spring.  Beyond that, nothing much was happening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\ndude ranch, however, changed everything. \nThey had a Ponderosa-style (Hoss and Little Joe, not the steakhouse)\ndining room with good food and wine. \nThey also had a classic Old West bar, complete with the brass foot rail,\nthe swinging doors, and the obligatory moose head.  It became the habit of the crew to go to the\ndude ranch on Friday nights.  After all,\nwe only had to work a half-day on Saturdays. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Drinking\nabilities naturally became another area of pride.  This was a little tricky since Tony and I\nalways got in at least a short (3-5 mile) run between work and the dude\nranch.  Working all day in the High\nDesert and then running a few miles tended to lower our alcohol tolerance\n(\u201ccheap date\u201d).  Nonetheless, we felt\nobligated to act as if heavy drinking did not bother us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had\nbeen told that we were surveying random rectangles, to determine what types of\narchaeological sites might be impacted if MX silo locations were ever selected\nand constructed.  After the third time we\narrived at a random rectangle to find military personnel with plans in their\nhands, we began to suspect that all was not as random as advertised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The particular night in question, or rather\nthe night before the particular day in question, there was a good deal of wine\nwith dinner.  As I recall, Tony was\ntrying hard to impress the owner\u2019s 16-year-old daughter.  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Retiring to the bar, Aunt Judy took it into\nher head that she, Tony, and I should start drinking shots of tequila.  This was the classic image of hard-core\narchaeologists with the salt, the limes, and the shots.  You don\u2019t need all the particulars.  Imagine yourself driving a Bronco (the old,\nbig Bronco, a Real Vehicle) full of drunks, trying to keep up with another\nBronco full of drunks.  Suddenly, the lead\ntruck pulls over, Judy stumbles out, and falls like old growth timber destined\nfor the sawmill.  Yes, it was that kind\nof night.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were\nrunning, in theory, as training for some as yet unidentified summer race.  Tony was also heading back to the cross-country\nteam at NCSU in the fall, and I was bound for graduate school at Florida and a\nless than spectacular career in Category 4 bicycle racing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our\nfirst effort to get to a race came one weekend. \nWe headed out Friday evening (having been excused from our Saturday\nwork) in the Chevy truck with the camper top. \nWe headed for Las Vegas, driving through an awesome lightning\nstorm.  It is rare in the east to ever\nsee lightning hit anything, but in the Great Basin that night we saw three\ntrees hit.  (I thought I had almost been\nhit by lightning once in North Carolina. \nI was sprinting to finish a run before the storm hit, when I heard\nsomething zip 5-6 feet above my head and then nail a tree ahead of me.  Years later, I found out that Billy had shot\nthe tree with a .22, just to give me a thrill.).  We were doing fine, as we passed through\nAlamo, heavily signed as the last chance for gas before Las Vegas.  A few miles outside of town, a tire went\nflat.  Tony and I both had the same\nthought, \u201cI hope we have a spare.\u201d  There\nhad been a lot of flats that summer, and some of the crew chiefs were not\nconscientious about getting the repaired tire back into the vehicles.  With constantly changing vehicle assignments,\nyou never knew.  As the lightning\nflashed, Tony assured me that he could see a round shape in the back.  I ran out in the rain, threw up the tailgate\nwindow, and stared at the tireless wheel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We then\ndeveloped the routine of sitting in the truck until we saw headlights\napproaching, jumping out to hitch-hike, and running back to the truck after the\nvehicle passed.  We did not relish the\nidea of walking back to town in the lightning and pouring rain.  We were rescued by two good old boys and a\nwoman who seemed to be everybody\u2019s girlfriend. \nI am not sure why exactly they had left West Virginia and had come to\nNevada, but that night drinking heavily and driving poorly were clearly their\npriorities. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the\ntime we bought a used tire and got it on the truck the next day, we were too\nlate to make the race.  Much to our\nchagrin, Mom showed us an article about the race, later that week.  The time for the \u201cmostly downhill course\u201d was\ninsultingly slow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rabbit had not only managed to drown\nhimself, but he had done it directly in the center of the tank.  Or perhaps the cumulative forces of physics\nhad somehow moved the rabbit to the perfect center point.  No matter how many times a person walked\naround that tank, it was impossible to find a more advantageous location from\nwhich, perhaps, to drink.  This didn\u2019t\nseem quite fair at the time.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nthemes of running and rabbits came together earlier that summer as well.  We had been talking to some of the California\nfolks about how the Indians survived.  I\nsaid if all else failed, you could stone a jackrabbit to death.  Tony went further, contending that a fit\nperson could run a jackrabbit to death. \nThis idea was much scoffed at, but Tony quietly decided that we would\ntry just that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where\nto start?  We had not identified any\nparticular attributes that could be linked with good rabbit habitat.  The whole bloody desert seemed to be prime\nrabbit habitat.  So, basically, we just\nstopped the truck wherever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As soon\nas we jumped a rabbit, the idea was to keep him moving by pressuring him on\nboth sides.  We had thought to carry\nrocks to throw, but that made for hard running. \nIt quickly became clear that jackrabbits were not at all altruistic when\npursued.  After the third time that the\nchosen rabbit tried to rub us off on another rabbit, we recognized that he was\ndoing it on purpose.  In an environment\nfull of rabbits, why not use confusion to escape predators?  Nonetheless, we managed to keep on track to\nthe point where the rabbit was jumping straight up to spot us.  I do not know if jackrabbits really pant, but\nthis one sure seemed to be doing just that. \nAnd then he was gone.  He did not\nrun off.  I think he must have dived to\nthe base of a sage brush and determined not to move no matter how close we\ngot.  The whole thing probably lasted ten\nminutes, and could be considered, at best, a moderate success.  Perhaps if we had throwing sticks, we could\nhave killed him.  Ah well, no need to\nmention this experiment back at camp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not\nhaving learned from the Las Vegas attempt, Tony and I again planned to race,\nthis time a Fourth of July event in Cedar City, Utah.  Mom and Dad were headed to the Grand Canyon,\nand were willing to drop us off.   And\nspeaking of being dropped, at the last minute, Tony decided that he would\nrather go camping with this girl he worshiped from afar.  Still not sensing that this race thing really\nwasn\u2019t meant to happen, I caught the ride with Mom and Dad.  The next morning I walked across the street\nand signed up.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This\nparticular day, they had a 10K for the Mayor\u2019s Cup and a half marathon.  I figured that the competition for the 10K\nwas to be strong (after all, it was for the Mayor\u2019s Cup), and I did not think I\nhad the necessary speedwork that summer. \nPlus, I had grown to like the half-marathon (I was once told that I\ncould absorb distance like a frog in a pond absorbs oxygen through his\nskin.  This is how one compensates for a\ngeneral lack of fast-twitch muscle mass). \nSo, having yet again made the wrong decision, I climbed into the bus\nthat would take us up canyon to the starting point.  Yes, the first five miles of the race were to\ncover a seductive downhill through cool, shady canyonland.  Your mind sees that and it doesn\u2019t register\nthat the last eight miles will be almost perfectly flat on the fully exposed,\nblacktop streets of Cedar City in the middle of the summer.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To\ndigress a bit further (I admit that any chance of an orderly, linear story was\nlost long ago), I had a cross-country coach at UVA who espoused that you should\nalways go out hard, because you might never know when you were going to have a\nreally good day.  This philosophy well\nsuited my mental state that summer, but was not an exact match to my physical\ncondition.  I flew through the first six\nmiles, setting personal bests at each split. \nThen, things became boring and hot, and I struggled for the remainder of\nthe race.  A Mormon flash had left me\nbehind from the start, but I didn\u2019t feel bad because he looked like a very\nserious runner.  At about eight miles, a\nMarine-ish guy came past and I wasn\u2019t too happy about that but I was still in\nthird.  With about a mile to go, I was\nheat-stroked, and I couldn\u2019t do the basic subtraction and division to figure\nout how fast or slow I was going.  I\nlooked behind me, and there was somebody maybe 300 meters back and closing.  \u201cOh no, this is not going to happen.\u201d  So, setting aside my deteriorated condition,\nI kicked, and kicked hard.  The kid that\ntook fourth was most impressed (\u201cYou just left me behind.\u201d).  For those that live in a world of numeric\nresults, I ran a 1:16, four minutes slower than my best ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\nensued about 20 minutes, I think, in which I debated myself on the need to get\nfluids in my body.  I had dropped to the\nground about thirty steps from a metal tub full of ice and free drinks.  There were no friends or team mates to help\nme up or throw me a drink.  This was as\nclose as I ever want to get to \u201cI\u2019m just going to take a little rest in the\nsnow; I\u2019ll make it back to base camp.\u201d \nLogic finally prevailed, I got two cans, and I started to revive for the\nawards ceremony.  I first had to sit\nthrough the 10K awards (both the Mormon and I had run our first 10K faster than\nthe 10K winner), which went five deep and were actually nice platters and\ntrophies.  The half-marathon, of course,\nawarded only the first man and the first woman. \nPerfect, just perfect.  Only a\nrace T-shirt for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All\nthat was left to do was to replenish my fluids before the next day\u2019s hitch-hike\nacross the desert.  It wasn\u2019t too bad,\nand I quickly got a ride as far as Beryl Junction, Utah.  Unfortunately, there were about six guys hitch-hiking\nin front of the gas station in Beryl Junction. \nI now had the choice of counter-intuitively walking back up the road, so\nI would be the first person seen hitch-hiking, or walking on down the road,\nhoping to play on the guilt of drivers who had passed by the other six.  With fear that I was making a classic\neasterner mistake, I continued west.  I\nhad gotten about three miles out of town, when I got picked up by two Mormon missionaries,\nwho carried me into Pioche.  They dropped\nme off in down-town Pioche, and within a minute the local sheriff had pulled up\nto question me.  I explained that I was\none of the archaeologists staying at the campground, 12 miles out of town, and\nthat I was just back from the Cedar City race, and that the missionaries had been\nkind enough to give me a ride.  I had the\nsilly idea that this guy might be Andy of Mayberry (a North Carolina boy, after\nall), and might give me a ride out to said campground and throw in some of Aunt\nBea\u2019s fried chicken.  Instead, he offered\nthe advice \u201cMight want to fill up that water jug before you head out.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The plan was to survive breakfast while\nappearing to be perfectly fine. \nPerceiving this as a test of our act, Tony and I loudly requested more\nbacon and sausage.  Could a person with a\nbad hangover drink orange juice in such vast quantities?  We were sure that the westerners now knew,\nonce and for all, that we were gods.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nrabbits again entered the conversation later that summer.  Tony was in a Bronco full of people traveling\ndown the highway one night.  As happens\nvery frequently, the Bronco was smashing jackrabbits left and right.  For the easterners in the audience, you are\nprobably thinking of the gentle thud when a cottontail glances off your\ncar.  Think again.  This was a brutal, bone-crushing sound of a\nvery large rabbit being hit by a very rapidly moving Bronco.  One of the Californian girls asked why this\nhappens.  Rather than give her the Hunter\nS. Thompson explanation (they need some adventure in their lives, and become\naddicted to the adrenaline rush), one of the California guys gave her the lame\nexplanation that the headlights froze the rabbits.  This, of course, is total crap.  These rabbits were moving when they were hit,\nand that\u2019s why it was futile to try to miss them.  The Californian girl\u2019s solution was to ask the\ndriver of the 100 MPH Bronco on this pitch black night to simply turn off the\nheadlights whenever they approached a rabbit.  \nLuckily, cooler heads prevailed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our first indicator of a possibly bad day\ncame when we were assigned the Econoline van. \nWhat could we do?  We tied our\nwater cooler in the back, and headed out for what promised to be a light\nhalf-day, thank God.  We only had one\narea to flag, but it was over 100 miles before we reached the dirt road\nturn-off.  In the typical pattern, we\nflew to the outskirts of Pioche, crawled through the town, flew to the\noutskirts of Panaca, crawled through the town, flew to the outskirts of\nCaliente, crawled through town, and flew to our dirt road. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The historic marker was our second\nindicator of potential trouble.  It was\nlocated at our turn-off for the dirt road, and explained the history of the\nWidowmaker Mine ghost town, located several miles up the road.  The formal content was interesting, but the\nhand-written addition was a bit disconcerting. \nWe could almost envision the poor tourist who had suffered the road to\nthe mine and back, generating such anger that he had to stop at the historic\nmarker and deface it with the comment \u201cTHIS ROAD IS A WIDOWMAKER.\u201d  For emphasis, somebody had leaned their\nsquashed muffler against the signpost.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So there we were, badly hung-over, about an\nhour after eating a less than optimal breakfast.  Facing a widowmaker of a road.  In the Econoline van.  We pushed on and quickly discovered the\nproblem with the road.  It received too\nmuch traffic, resulting in a combination of severe washboard and whoop-de-do\ntopography.  There was no speed at which\nthe extreme vibrations would go away.  If\nwe went fast enough to glide over the washboard, we were badly bucked by the\nlarge wave action.  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I would guess now that we had gone less\nthan a quarter mile when the water cooler broke loose and emptied itself all\nover the interior of the van.  It was\nprobably about two miles down the road when I knew that I was going to have to\nstop and feed the dogs.  I tried to calm\nmy stomach, but I felt myself going pale. \nAs if to provide a mirror image, Tony was in the same state in the\npassenger seat.  The moment the van was\nstopped, stereo vomiting proceeded.  We\njoked that the bacon must have gone bad.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course, tequila does not let you simply\npuke and get on with your recovery.  The\nact of puking initiates the uncontrolled sweats, and the desire for water\nbecomes acute.  This desire is worsened,\nof course, if it is summer in the Nevada desert, if you are 30 miles from the\nnearest town, and if your water cooler is empty.  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In our sorry state, we still managed to\nlocate and flag the survey area.  We were\nfree to make a dash back to town, but we were not sure we could face the road\nagain without a drink.  The quad sheet\nrevealed several potential stock tanks within a few miles, and the third proved\nto contain water.  And a rabbit.  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Growing up in rural North Carolina, we had\nboth drunk out of some dubious water sources. \nWe had eaten field-cooked game that was charred on the exterior and\nbloody red on the interior.  But,\nsomehow, the present situation seemed different.  Granted, the water looked clear and\nclean.  But just leaning down toward the\nwater (\u201cjust thinking about it, I\u2019m not drinking\u201d) made the jackrabbit loom\nright above the waterline.  Some of the\nfear was undoubtedly how stupid we would look if we died of a common western\nailment because we were stupid enough to drink from a tank with a dead rabbit\nin it (doubly damned: humiliated and dead).<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was\na summer of contrasts.  Cool canyons and\ndead hot desert.  Hot, dry sand and cold,\nwet beer.  Eastern flippancy and western\npolitical correctness.  A cooler full of\nice and Gatorades, and a 15-foot stock tank full of water and a dead\njackrabbit.  The biggest contrast,\nperhaps, was saved for the end of the project. \nIn part to get some extra money, and in part to get home, I volunteered\nto tow a 40-foot trailer to Cheyenne, Wyoming. \nI then drove the truck the rest of the way back to Jackson, Michigan.  The truck was just a standard\nfour-wheel-drive, lacking any special towing package.  Up the climb at (I think) White Horse Pass, I\nhad to put it into Low Range 4WD to have sufficient power to climb.  Of course, I also had to run the heater on\nfull for the entire climb to keep the engine from overheating.  I swear that I was passed by two bicyclists\nnear the top of this climb.  After a\nsummer of high-speed driving, I was being dropped by bikes (which,\nincidentally, became an all too familiar experience during my bike racing\ncareer).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am really not certain which of us first\ndrank, and I\u2019ll stick with that story to my grave.  The shift from no-way-in-hell to virtual\ninevitability was amazingly quick.  The\nquestion then became how much to drink. \nShould I just wash out my mouth (not giving the germs access to my\nstomach) or should I take the deep, long drink my body craved?  The latter won out and every last bit of\ncaution was thrown to the wind.  For the\ncurious, a dead jackrabbit does not at all affect the taste of stock water, and\nat least this particular rabbit added no deadly germs to the tank.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those of you who haven\u2019t really been paying\nattention might think that, having been humbled by the experience, we changed\nour ways and starting acting less cocky. \nYou would be wrong.  You naturally\nforget that nobody else saw this adventure, other than the dead rabbit, so\nnobody needed to know.  It was back to\nlife as normal.  We got a lunch with\nample ice water at the Caliente diner, where I won big at the dime slots.  Then it was an hour drive back to camp, where\nwe jumped out of the van (\u201csmiles, everybody, smiles\u201d), got our running shoes,\nand took our usual Saturday afternoon run. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s\nit.  There is no over-arching moral.  Just a simple story.  I was glad I drank the jackrabbit soup in\n1980, and I remain glad to this day.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

An archaeologist, Chris Espenshade branched into creative writing in 2017. He\u2019s had creative non-fiction accepted by The RavensPerch, , Georgia Outdoors News, The Raven Chronicle\u2019s Journal, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and the mobile app of Life in the Finger Lakes magazine. Chris lives with his wife, Linda, in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":113,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-110","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/06\/bailey-starner-1290022-unsplash.jpg?fit=4000%2C6000&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/110","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=110"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/110\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":112,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/110\/revisions\/112"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/113"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=110"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=110"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=110"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}