That could have been much worse,” I told my friend Trevis as I picked my trailer hitch’s ball mount off the road. A passing West Wendover policeman saw us and pulled over to help. In spite of our predicament, I had to smile at the amusing combination of the desert night, the police cruiser’s blinding light bars, and the Christmasy scent of fresh-cut pine wafting from the bed of my utility trailer, which now clung to my receiver hitch only by the backup chains.
I was relieved — after feeling a sudden jerk and hearing the trailer’s tongue scrape along the asphalt behind me — to discover my rear bumper still intact. Looking back, had I not ever-so-slightly gunned it while pretending to race the Larsen van, I might have lost the trailer later on the highway at 75 mph. I made sure to mention that to Trevis and his wife, Grace, several times.
Seven-year old Bridger monitored the situation from the back seat of our mini-van, updating Trevis’ 9-year old daughter, Kara, via walkie-talkie: Pshh — “They’re taking my dad to jail” — pshh — “Or maybe they’re just helping him” — pshh.
“The day was going way too smooth,” Trevis joked. “I should have known something was bound to happen to you guys.”
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