Until I heard that chukar hunting
was better across the Snake River
from Wawawai Canyon where I had
hunted most of my life, I never had
to worry about backing a boat trailer
down the Wawawai Landing boat
ramp.
My boat was in a slip at Loon
Lake, compliments of my son
Matt, who had a cabin there, and if
I wanted to fish or hunt ducks, it was readily available. I was
spoiled; when I wanted to use my boat, I walked down to the
dock and hopped in. Fishing and hunting were good at Loon,
and I knew all the honey holes – no point going elsewhere. Plus
the responsibility of pulling a boat and trailer intimidated me.
With the encouragement of my friends Mike and Eddie,
however, and a vision of hillsides crawling with chukars, a
couple of Octobers ago I pulled my 16-foot boat out of the water
and up the friendly 60-foot-wide ramp at Loon and trailered
it 120 miles to a steep, narrow, nefarious launch on the Snake
River.
When we pulled into the parking lot at the launch, the siren
song of our red-legged quarry across the river enticed me to
hurry. With considerable trepidation, I eased my truck through
the parking lot, made a big loop and straightened up in front of
the ramp. Dawn had broken, and I was first in line, but almost
immediately, the line grew by six vehicles. The problem was
not trailering a boat trailer forward a long distance down the
highway; it was maneuvering the trailer and boat backwards
down a ramp with barely six inches to spare on either side. With
my old truck, which had no backup guidance on the dash, this
would require using my side mirrors and twisting my neck until
the vertebrae popped.
I later reasoned that with an automatic transmission
and a flatter ramp, I could probably have easily gone
straight back, the boat and trailer easing into the water
amid thunderous, adoring applause from my hunting
companions and appreciative applause from the other
hunters and fishermen waiting in line to launch. As it was,
I couldn’t see the river over the crest of the incline. My
trailer went five feet back, hung a left and tried to jump
the dock. I began a silent prayer interrupted by nervous
cursing and pulled forward to try again. Some children
and dogs scrambled to safety as the trailer jackknifed,
pulling loose the wiring. My friend Mike – who was
“helping” me by providing hand signals resembling those
used by an Air Force ensign on crack trying to direct a
carrier landing – quickly deserted me in embarrassment.
My other friend Eddie sidled over to the dock and joined
the rest of the gawking masses, denying my acquaintance
and, in fact, contributing to the head-shaking and general
sarcasm.
I tried a second time, killing the vehicle.
There in that world of mirrors where left
was right and right was left, nervous sweat
slid in sheets from my forehead. My glasses
began to fog. Now there were at least four
people standing behind me, all grinning
viciously and motioning me to try once
more. The third time, one trailer tire made
the water, but the other mowed down the
NO WAKE sign on the dock. Other boat
owners were swarming to the launch to
observe the spectacle, all waving their arms.
Some were taking pictures.
Another try. The smell of burning rubber and burning
clutch. I got out to view the situation from a different angle,
trying to appear nonchalant but betrayed by the stains under my
arms.
A leering, homely man yelled from the crowd: “Been
drivin’ long, Bud?” Then laughter. I wanted to kill him.
“Yeah, pal,” another voice called. “Where’d you learn to
back? Bumper cars at Fantasyland? Yuk, yuk.” It was Mike.
I returned to the vehicle, contemplating just putting it in
gear and heading for home. Leave them all – Mike and Eddie
included – at the dock. Someone knocked impatiently on the
window of my truck. “You gonna put that thing in the water or
not, fella?”
There were now a dozen rigs in line. Okay. One more try.
Back, back, back. Crank furiously left, then right, then left
again. Easy, easy, THERE! A collective cheer was heard as the
boat slid from the trailer into the Snake – the slapstick routine
had ended. Triumphantly, I drove the trailer up the ramp while
Eddie pulled the boat to the back of the dock and approached,
smiling. “That was real special,” he said. “I think you were
starting to get the hang of it there at the end.”
I smiled in relief and appreciation until his next words:
“Hey, did you put the drain plug back in the boat?”The problem was not trailering
a boat trailer forward a long
distance down the highway; it was
maneuvering the trailer and boat
backward down a ramp with barely
six inches to spare on either side.