That Time I Drove Into an Asparagus Field

I looked up and caught my breath. The dust from my skid on the dirt road still swirled around me. Looking through the windshield, everything was asparagus, green stalks stretching for acres. The engine was still running. I put the car in reverse and stepped on the gas, but the front-wheel drive only managed to dig the tires further into the loose soil. I was stuck in the fields of Walkerville and very much alone.

It was 1989, well before most people had heard of cell phones. My options were to leave the car and walk a couple of miles back to camp or wait for someone to come by. I didn’t want to return since I had borrowed the baby blue hatchback from the program director, never mentioning my lack of driving experience. 

I did have a license and had driven some. My Driver’s Ed instructor had grudgingly approved my road test. The class was part of my high curriculum, and I took the test in June. Failure meant disturbing the instructor’s summer. 

I didn’t have access to a car in high school or college. Then, when I arrived at Aharah for the summer, someone would ask me to drive the dented brown maintenance truck or the blue camp van. These drives were minor moves from one spot in camp to another. Once or twice, I drove the big blue van full of luggage from Kalamazoo to Walkerville. 

My co-counselor, Knuckles, was the one who knew my limits. I had given her a few scares on the road during our outcamping adventures. Most memorably, there was a game of chicken with a logging truck while trying to pass a slow car on a two-lane highway in the Upper Peninsula. The truck won.

My drive in the asparagus field started with a kind offer from Dave, that summer’s program director. Romantic pairings between staff members were part of the summer fabric. Often, those partners wanted to turn their weekly night out into a date night. However, three counselors were off each evening, resulting in a classic third-wheel situation. Dave knew I was alone that night and had no means of transportation. He offered his car for a ride into Ludington.

Soon I was on the way, headed west on Winter Road, breaking through the woods and into the farmland. I was grateful to be on the drive. As much as I loved Camp Aharah, it was a relief to enter civilization for a night to watch a movie, eat at a restaurant, or get a cone at the House of Flavors. The road curved as it followed various property lines through the countryside. 

About two miles from the camp, I hit a downhill slope followed by a sharp curve. I was so enjoying the freedom of the little car on that sunny afternoon that I did not notice how I had picked up speed on the slope. I failed to brake for the turn and hit it too fast. The car skidded off the road and landed with its front half in the field.

I got out of the car the assess the situation, but the pushing and pulling I could manage was no solution. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait too long before more power arrived. A local farmer came driving down the hill in a good-sized truck. I noticed how he slowed to take the turn. He saw me and stopped, asking if I was all right. He got out of his truck and looked at the car, walking around the vehicle, taking it in silently as I have found that farmers are wont to do. He said something ominous about a broken tie-rod but then figured it would be best to get the car out of the field. 

He strapped a strong chain between his truck and the car. We put the car in neutral, and he towed it right out. Now free from the dirt, the farmer circled around the car again, looking high and low. He declared, “Look’s all right.” I thanked him for his kindness. He shrugged and drove away.

Such sweet relief. The car was fine. The engine turned over without issue. No warning lights appeared on the dashboard. All was well until I reached the end of Winter Road, about to make a right turn onto 144th Avenue. The blinker would not blink or click when I signaled. It just turned on and stayed on. It seemed like a minor flaw in an economy vehicle, but it would certainly be a sign that something had happened to the little car. There had been some shock to its system. Eventually, I would have to tell my story of the asparagus field, and I would never drive the car again. 

This realization was all the more reason to continue to Ludington and enjoy the time apart. I watched a movie. It may have been the original Batman with Keaton and Nicholson. I had my dinner and walked to the lighthouse. I stood in the long House of Flavors line and ate my cone. Somewhere on the return, I drove over some train tracks with a double thump, and just like that, the blinker started blinking on its own. 

I never told Dave of my detour into the stalks. After I returned, he asked how it went and told me he forgot to mention how the right-turn blinker sometimes froze after a bump. I said, “I guess I must have bumped over something out there.”

Call it karma, but a few weeks later, I spent a worrisome half-hour at a rest area just outside of Kalamazoo. Dave had asked me to drive the car back after the staff dinner. I didn’t leave Walkerville until almost midnight, powered by an hourly can of Coke for the three hours home. 

Although I was only 20 minutes from my house, my bladder could wait no longer, and I pulled over. When I returned to the baby blue car, it chugged and groaned but refused to start. It was three in the morning and again, the cell phone belonged only to the likes of Gordon Gekko. I waited for the engine to cool because I had heard there was such a thing as overheating. Perhaps the car, like me, just needed a rest because, after some time, it started right away. When I spoke with Dave later, it turned out that this need for a cool down after a long drive was another habit of the car that he forgot to mention.

So you have my confession, though I don’t think there is a strong moral here. Perhaps I should have told the story sooner, or maybe you can file it as one story among many about camp counselors and college students driving junk cars and making do.