Stumped
On Finding Oneself Trapped Inside a Tree Stump
It was an ordinary hike in the mountains of San Diego County. Yes, San Diego County has mountains. It has a national forest – the Cleveland National Forest – named after a supporting character from the popular animated series Family Guy, who went on to earn his own spin-off show. Also, there is a Brazilian metropolitan city in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, famous for its opera. Google it. Anyway, it was an ordinary hike in San Diego. I was twelve, hiking along the Wooded Hill trail with my dad. About an hour into the hike, we noticed a hollow tree stump on the side of the trail. It was a standing tree stump, about my height.
My dad said, “Why don’t you see if you can fit in there?”
I said, “Okay.” Then I climbed on top of the stump and lowered myself in, down to my armpits. My feet did not reach the ground inside. They were dangling. So there I was, in the tree stump. My dad and I, we had a laugh. He commented that I did indeed fit inside the stump. Then we decided to continue with the hike. Only one problem. I could not get out of the stump. I was wedged in there, like a cork in a wine bottle. I should have known better than to act on any suggestions my dad offered while hiking in the wilderness. See this earlier Heavy Breathing Smalldoggies column for additional evidence.
What can I say? Time heals all wounds. It had been a few years since my father had placed me in peril and I thought that was the end of it. But no.
I was now trapped in a stump, unable to move from my armpits down. When I informed my father of this predicament, he laughed. Not out of cruelty, but because he thought I was kidding. I emphasized that this was no joke despite the fact that the sight of me with my arms flailing while my torso protruded from the stump was comical. Upon trying to pull me out of the stump, my dad finally realized the severity of my situation. He grabbed a tight hold of me and pulled forcefully. When I felt my arms coming out of their sockets, I asked my dad to stop pulling. He did. I appreciated it.
I was still stuck inside the tree stump, so that was a problem. It would have been easier to deal with if my feet were on the ground. But they were still dangling and that put undue pressure on my armpits. All things being equal, I would have preferred being at Disneyland riding on It’s a Small World. My dad tried other methods of freeing me from the stump.
At one point, he found a stick and attempted to leverage the stick in between me and the stump in an effort to somehow loosen me from the tree stump’s grip. Yeah, that was a bad idea. It didn’t work and it hurt so I got the worst of both worlds on that one. My dad pushed, pulled, cajoled, squeezed, willed, gripped. Nothing worked.
After making every seemingly possible attempt to get me out of the merciless tree stump, my father decided he was going to have to get help. This meant he was going to have to hike the trail back to the parking lot, get in the car, drive to the Mount Laguna Fire Station and ask the forest rangers for help. This meant he was going to have to leave me alone. This meant they were going to make a movie about me some day, starring a young James Franco type. It would be called Approximately 6 Hours and it would be a movie about an isolated kid trapped in a stump.
Only I didn’t have a digital video camera so I wouldn’t be able to film myself saying things like, “Don’t worry about me, Mom and Dad. Live your lives.” Figuring out who would play me in the movie version was the least of my worries (hopefully not Justin Bieber – if you’re reading this in the year 2054 and don’t understand the reference, my apologies). I had more pressing, immediate issues.
As my dad headed down the trail, I thought of how vulnerable I was, lodged in that tree stump. If a mountain lion discovered me, I would have a terrible time defending myself. Unless the mountain lion approached me from the front. Then I could punch it in the face and I'd be fine. But if a mountain lion approached from behind, I was pretty much a goner. Sure, I could try to throw some punches over my shoulders and that might work. But more likely, a mountain lion would be able to gnaw on my neck like I was beef jerky. I didn’t want that to happen because I imagined it would be painful. I didn’t see or hear any mountain lions as my dad started down the trail, but I remained on alert.
I also was on the look-out for fellow hikers. We hadn’t seen any since we began, but that didn’t mean other people wouldn’t show up at some point. My contingency plan was to play it cool. In the event a fellow hiker walked by, I’d simply nod my head and say, “Hey, what’s up?” It would be too embarrassing to explain the situation or to ask for help. Then of course there was the possibility of a freak summer lightning storm. What if I was struck by lightning, or that lightning started a fire? I had nowhere to run. I could run in place inside the tree stump, but that wouldn’t help. This was not a good situation.
What would my dad tell the forest rangers? “I need you guys to come back with me to the Wooded Hill trail. My son is in a tree stump and can't get out." The rangers would bring all their equipment. A news crew would also show up no doubt. I'd be a breaking story, like one of those drunk babies that falls down a well. Only I would not be America’s Sweetheart. I’d be America’s Idiot. My rescue would be transmitted across the world like those guys in the Chilean mine (if you’re reading this in 2054, again, my apologies).
The mountain lions and random hikers passing by I had come to terms with. But becoming a national television star was too much to bear. Not like this. As my dad began to disappear in the distance, I attempted one last time to free myself. It was the possibility of national humiliation that gave me the strength I needed. With every ounce of might left in my body, I twisted and turned until, finally, my dangling feet hit the ground. I was still inside the stump, but I was thankfully mobile. I was free. Slowly and carefully, I pulled myself up and out of the stump. Then I ran down the trail and caught up to my dad.
There were scratches and abrasions on both sides of my rib cage, as if I had been attacked by hundreds of angry domestic cats, but they only attacked my sides. I didn't care. I was happy to have been released from the grip of an evil tree stump. That experience taught me a valuable lesson, one I had obviously not learned the first time. Don’t listen to Dad while on a hiking trail.
There have been no further incidents.
* * *