The Mud at Moab: Big Bertha Meets Her Match

by

Seven weeks into our trip, Lucy and I had conquered a roof leak, a dust storm, and a tire blowout. We were seasoned veterans now. Road warriors. Nothing could—

“Don’t say it,” Lucy interrupted. “Every time you get confident, something breaks.”

She had a point.

We were headed to Moab, Utah, which every RV forum on the internet had warned us about. Not because it’s dangerous—because it’s crowded. September is peak season, and getting a campsite without a reservation is about as likely as finding a Walmart without an RV in the parking lot. But we’d snagged a spot at a BLM dispersed camping area about fifteen miles outside town. Free camping with a view of the La Sal Mountains. Zero amenities, but hey, we had solar panels and a full fresh water tank.

“Turn right in 500 feet,” the GPS announced.

I turned onto what the map optimistically called a “road.” It was more like a suggestion of a road—two dirt tracks with a grass stripe down the middle, rutted from years of trucks and RVs grinding through.

“This is fine,” I said, navigating Big Bertha around a pothole the size of a hot tub.

“That’s what you said before the tire blew out.”

“That was different. That was a highway.”

The road—and I’m using that term loosely—wound through sage brush and red rock formations for about three miles. We passed a few other campers: a couple of vans, a small Class C, and one absolutely massive Class A motorhome that looked like it cost more than our house. Thing had to be 45 feet long, with slide-outs on both sides and a paint job that screamed “we have money and we want you to know it.”

Our spot was at the end of the road, tucked up against a cliff face with a killer view of the valley. I started backing Big Bertha in, using the backup camera I’d installed after our third near-miss with a tree in Colorado.

That’s when I felt it.

The back tires sank. Not a lot—maybe two inches—but enough that I knew immediately we had a problem.

I stopped, put it in drive, tried to pull forward. The truck’s wheels spun. Big Bertha didn’t move.

“Are we stuck?” Lucy asked.

I got out and walked around to the back of the fifth wheel. Both rear tires had sunk into what looked like solid dirt but was actually a mud pit disguised as solid dirt. The recent monsoons had saturated the ground, and the thin crust on top had been just strong enough to trick me into thinking it was safe.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re stuck.”

—

Here’s the thing about getting stuck with a fifth wheel: you can’t just throw it in reverse and gun it. You’re connected to the truck with a hitch that weighs 300 pounds, and if you try to muscle your way out, you’ll either break something expensive or dig yourself in deeper. Or both.

I tried the obvious stuff first. Put the truck in 4-wheel drive, tried to ease forward. The wheels spun, throwing mud everywhere. Tried rocking it back and forth. Nope. Tried putting our leveling blocks under the tires for traction. They just sank into the mud.

“We need help,” Lucy said, which was the understatement of the week.

We’d passed that big Class A motorhome about a quarter mile back. I started walking.

The motorhome was even more ridiculous up close. It had a satellite dish on the roof, an outdoor kitchen that slid out from the side, and custom wheels that probably cost more than Big Bertha’s entire suspension. But what really caught my attention was the bumper sticker: “If you can read this, you’re too damn close.”

A woman stepped out—mid-thirties, Asian, with a thick Southern accent that caught me completely off guard. She was wearing a tank top with an American flag on it and cutoff jean shorts. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had a cigarette hanging from her lips.

“Well hey there, sugar!” she called out in a drawl that could’ve been from anywhere between Georgia and Texas. “You look like you’re having a day.”

“Stuck in the mud about a quarter mile up,” I said. “My fifth wheel’s sunk in pretty good.”

“Oh honey, we’ve been there.” She turned toward the motorhome. “Pate! Get your ass out here! We got a stuck RV situation!”

A man emerged from the motorhome—tall, balding, probably fifty, wearing a “I Void Warranties” t-shirt and oil-stained cargo shorts. He was holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Despite the redneck appearance, there was something sharp in his eyes.

“Name’s Pate,” he said, offering his cigarette hand since the beer hand was apparently sacred. “This here’s my wife Jenny. Heard you got yourself in a pickle.”

“Yeah, backed into what I thought was solid ground. Turned out to be mud.”

Pate nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Tale as old as time. You know what the difference is between ignorance and confidence? About three inches of mud disguised as solid ground.” He crushed out his cigarette. “Looks like you just got your PhD in humility.”

Jenny smacked his arm. “Bless your heart, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day.”

“Fair point.” Pate took a swig of his beer. “Alright, let’s go see what we’re dealing with. Jenny, grab the recovery kit.”

“Which one? We got three.”

“The big one. This boy’s hauling a fifth wheel—we need the serious equipment.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Pate was walking around Big Bertha, beer in one hand, occasionally crouching down to look at the tires. The man moved like he’d diagnosed a thousand problems just like this.

“Here’s your situation,” Pate said, straightening up. “You got mud under the fifth wheel, rock on both sides. Can’t pull you forward without kissing that boulder, can’t back out through six inches of soup. It’s what I call a geometric problem with a muddy solution.”

“So what do we do?”

Jenny was already pulling things out of the tote. “What we always do, sugar—we improvise and cuss a lot. Mostly we cuss.”

Out came a massive kinetic recovery rope—one of those thick, stretchy tow ropes rated for 30,000 pounds. Then a pair of heavy-duty recovery boards (big plastic traction mats), a shovel, work gloves, and what looked like a small winch.

“First rule of extraction,” Pate said, handing me the shovel. “The mud’s got to go somewhere, and it ain’t gonna move itself. Start digging around those tires. We need clearance and we need prayer—mostly clearance.”

While I dug, Jenny positioned the recovery boards. These things were serious—bright orange, probably four feet long, made of some industrial plastic with aggressive teeth on both sides.

“Got these MaxTrax boards on Amazon for $300,” Jenny said, her Southern accent making every word sound friendly even when discussing expensive equipment. “Best money we ever spent. Pate gets us stuck approximately once a month, bless his heart.”

“That’s a lie,” Pate protested, cracking open another beer. “It’s more like twice a month. But you know what they say—experience is just another word for all the stupid stuff you survived.”

Twenty minutes of digging later, we had the recovery boards wedged under Big Bertha’s rear tires and Pate’s massive motorhome positioned about twenty feet behind us. He’d hooked the kinetic recovery rope between his rear hitch and Big Bertha’s frame.

“Now listen up, because this is the part where physics meets prayer,” Pate said, holding his beer like a professor with a pointer. “When I say go, you ease on that gas pedal—and I mean ease, like you’re petting a cat that might scratch you. No heroics, no spinning tires. I’m gonna pull from behind, and that kinetic rope is gonna stretch like a rubber band and then snap you forward. Newton’s third law with a redneck twist.”

“How violent are we talking?”

“Somewhere between a carnival ride and a car accident. If your wife’s inside, tell her to hold onto something bolted down.”

Lucy had been watching from a safe distance. “I’m staying outside!”

“Smart woman,” Jenny said, lighting another cigarette. “First time Pate tried this solo, he launched a coffee pot clean through the windshield.”

“In my defense,” Pate said, “the laws of physics don’t care about your interior decorating.”

Pate got in his motorhome—this massive diesel pusher that probably had 500 horsepower—and I got in the truck. Jenny stood to the side with her phone out.

“If this works, it’s goin’ on TikTok!” she yelled in that thick Southern drawl. “If it doesn’t work, it’s still goin’ on TikTok, but with more cussin’!”

Pate eased his motorhome forward until the kinetic rope was taut. Then he stopped, backed up about ten feet to give it slack, and yelled, “On three! One! Two! THREE!”

He hit the gas. The rope stretched like a rubber band, and then—SNAP—Big Bertha lurched forward. The tires grabbed the recovery boards, found traction, and suddenly we were moving. I kept gentle pressure on the gas, and Big Bertha rolled right out of the mud pit like she’d never been stuck at all.

“WOOOOO!” Jenny screamed. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Lord have mercy, that was beautiful! Like my meemaw used to say, ‘When in doubt, yank it out!'”

Pate was unhooking the recovery rope, grinning. “Your meemaw said that about a loose tooth.”

“Well, it applies here too, don’t it?”

—

We spent the next hour getting Big Bertha positioned on actual solid ground, which Pate identified by walking around and stomping on different spots like he was testing a frozen lake.

“See, here’s what most people don’t understand,” Pate said, demonstrating his technique. “Ground’ll lie to you. Looks solid, feels solid when you step light. But you put six tons on it?” He stomped hard. “That’s when the truth comes out. If it sounds hollow, there’s water underneath waiting to ruin your day. If it thuds solid, you’re good. I call it the stomp test—simple, free, and it works every time unless you’re too lazy to do it.”

“Which I was,” I admitted.

“We all learn the same way—by getting stuck once.” He took a drink from his beer. “The difference between a rookie and a veteran is the veteran remembers to stomp first.”

Once we were set up, Lucy and I walked over to their motorhome with a six-pack of beer as a thank-you.

“Y’all didn’t have to do that, but I ain’t gonna say no,” Jenny said in her thick drawl, already cracking one open.

“You just saved us from calling a tow truck and waiting six hours,” I said. “Least we can do.”

We sat outside their motorhome—which they’d named “The Land Yacht”—and listened to stories about their eight years of full-time RVing. Pate was a retired diesel mechanic from Wyoming. Jenny had grown up in Alabama, worked at a casino in Reno for ten years before they met, married Pate three months later, and convinced him to sell everything and hit the road.

“Best decision we ever made,” Jenny said, her Southern accent making it sound like a blessing and a command at the same time. “I tell everyone: life’s too short to stay in one place pretendin’ you’re happy when there’s a whole country out there waitin’ on you.”

“Words to live by,” Pate agreed, holding up his beer. “That and my personal philosophy: if the RV’s rocking, there’s probably something loose. Go tighten it before it falls off at highway speed and becomes someone else’s problem.”

They showed us their “Oh Shit Kit”—which turned out to be three separate kits for different emergencies. One for mechanical issues (tools, spare parts, fluids), one for getting unstuck (recovery rope, boards, shovel), and one for medical emergencies (way more comprehensive than our basic first-aid kit).

“See, here’s the thing about RV life that nobody tells you in the brochure,” Pate said, opening his third beer of the afternoon. “You can’t prevent problems. Breakdowns, weather, getting stuck—it’s all part of the deal. But what you can do is be ready when it happens. Most people panic because they’re unprepared. We just pull out the appropriate kit and get to work.”

Jenny nodded. “It’s like my mama used to say: ‘Hope ain’t a plan, sugar. But hope plus a toolbox gets you pretty far.'”

Before we left, Jenny wrote down their phone number on a napkin in loopy Southern cursive. “You run into any more trouble, you call us, hear? We’re headin’ up to Colorado for elk season, so we’ll be in the area another month or so.”

“Also,” Pate added, “get yourself a recovery kit. You made it this far on luck and borrowed equipment, but luck’s got a way of running out right when you need it most. Trust me—we’ve been stuck in mud, sand, snow, and one time in Quartzsite, we got stuck in what I can only describe as ‘angry dirt.'”

“The hell is angry dirt?”

Pate took a long pull from his beer, considering. “Don’t rightly know. But it had opinions about us being there, and those opinions were negative.”

—

That evening, Lucy and I sat outside Big Bertha with the La Sal Mountains glowing pink in the sunset, making a shopping list on my phone.

“Recovery rope,” I said, typing. “The good kind, not the cheap hardware store crap.”

“Recovery boards,” Lucy added. “MaxTrax or equivalent. Three hundred bucks is steep, but so is a tow truck bill.”

“Better work gloves. Ours are falling apart.”

“A real shovel. Not that camping shovel we’ve been using that bends if you look at it wrong.”

“And we need to reorganize our storage. Pate and Jenny had three different emergency kits. We’ve got random stuff scattered everywhere.”

We spent the next two hours on Amazon, ordering supplies. A 30-foot kinetic recovery rope rated for 30,000 pounds. A set of recovery boards. Heavy-duty work gloves with grip. A proper camp shovel with a fiberglass handle. And a big plastic tote to keep it all organized, which I would absolutely label “Oh Shit Kit” in permanent marker.

Total damage: about $650. Cheaper than a tow truck. Way cheaper than the stories we got out of meeting Jenny and Pate.

The next morning, they rolled out early—headed for some dispersed camping spot near Telluride that Pate swore was “flatter than a communion wafer and twice as reliable.” We exchanged waves, and Jenny yelled out the window in her thick Alabama drawl: “Remember, sugar—test that ground before you commit! That goes for campin’ spots AND life choices!”

Big Bertha now had four battle scars: a patched roof from Montana, an awning that survived Arizona, a new tire from a Utah blowout, and mud splatter from getting yanked out of a hole by two rednecks with more recovery gear than sense.

But we also had new friends, new knowledge, and a much better appreciation for the phrase “Oh Shit Kit.”

The Essentials That Saved Our Bacon (Round 4)

The Products That Made the Difference:

Sometimes the difference between a disaster and a great story is running into the right people at the right time—preferably people named Jenny and Pate with a motorhome full of recovery gear and questionable life advice.