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fiz-zle (fiz’ el)

intransitive verb (informal) — To fail or end weakly, especially after a hopeful beginning.

noun (informal) — An unsuccessful effort; a failure; a fiasco.

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Her name was Tina. It was a first date.

Some years back, I found myself divorced and on my own again. It was an eerie feeling, but I got over it, and before too long, started dating again.

I wasn’t on a mission or anything, but I made some acquaintances, and I went out fairly regularly, and I had a succession of casual relationships. A couple of them lasted for a year or so.

You know how it is. Sometimes, things fizzle out after a date of two. Other times, all goes well, and you keep doing stuff together. You can’t predict what will happen.

The truth is, all of my relationships ultimately fizzled. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. But it explains why I am a single dude today with a dog for a roommate.

But I digress.

Tina was an outdoorsy girl whose friend, a co-worker of mine, just KNEW we were a good match. After all, we both were into hiking, backpacking, kayaking, and such. It was perfect!

Tina and I got together one spring Saturday in the late 1990s. The plan was to drive up to Rabun County in North Georgia, have lunch someplace, and hike a short trail to a nice waterfall. That would give us time to get to know each other, plus get some light exercise. Wouldn’t want to overdo it.

To appreciate what happened that day, you have to know a little about the car I was driving.

It was a 1989 Geo Tracker, a wonderful little vehicle that was my trusty ride on countless exciting weekend adventures. I’ve mentioned it a time or two on this blog.

The Tracker was Chevy’s version of the Suzuki Sidekick. It was all-new that year — a compact, two-door “mini-SUV” convertible with four-wheel drive and a five-speed stick shift. Mine was a beauty: bright red with a white top.

My dog Kelly in the Tracker, waiting patiently to hit the road.

Two things were notable about the original Tracker/Sidekick. First, it had the engine and chassis of a light truck. Everything about it — springs, axles, transmission, drive shaft — was much more durable than most vehicles of its size.

The little thing belied its looks; it was surprisingly tough and durable, as I discovered many times.

Second, it featured an extra-wide wheelbase. All four tires stood out noticeably from the body. The reason? It replaced the Suzuki Samurai, a tall, narrow model from the early 1980s that Consumer Reports tested and famously found to be prone to rollovers.

When that happened, Suzuki freaked out and sued the magazine. The case eventually was settled out of court. But meanwhile, Suzuki made the wheelbase of the Sidekick seven inches wider than that of the Samurai. Coincidentally, of course.

So, our transportation that Saturday was my beloved Tracker, which I had owned for several years. The Tracker and I were veterans of forest roads throughout North Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee. My, how I loved that car.

That morning on the drive north, Tina and I got along just fine. The weather was pleasant. So was our lunch at Henry’s Restaurant, a Rabun County institution to this day.

Our destination that afternoon was Minnehaha Falls, a beautiful cascade on Falls Creek near Lake Rabun. The waterfall is both picturesque and easy to reach, a fine choice for the occasion.

Minnehaha Falls, incidentally, is named for the wife of Hiawatha in Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha.” In the poem, Hiawatha calls Minnehaha “Laughing Water.”

Now, it’s a fact that Rabun County, with an average annual rainfall of over 70 inches, is one of the wettest places east of the Mississippi River. A given day may be calm and sunny, when suddenly, clouds roll in from behind the mountains, and the deluge begins.

The deluge hit while we were having lunch. We sat there, watching the alarming downpour outside the restaurant, lamenting the fact that our plan to see the waterfall probably was shot.

But, as often happens in the mountains, the storm rolled southward as quickly as it arrived. By the time we finished lunch, the sun was out again, and everything was peachy.

To reach Minnehaha Falls, you first proceed down Lake Rabun Road, which is a narrow, winding, paved road along the north side of the lake. Then you turn onto Bear Gap Road, which is a narrow, winding, gravel road along the south bank. About a mile down Bear Gap Road, the trail to the waterfall begins at a small pullout.

As we drove along, evidence of the recent deluge was everywhere. The streams tumbling down the mountain slopes were at high flow. In some spots, we had to creep through water flowing across the road in sheets.

I wasn’t too concerned while driving on the pavement, but Bear Gap Road was more worrisome. Georgia red clay is notoriously slippery when wet, and fast water can do unexpected, erosion-related things to a gravel road. I always trusted my sturdy  little Tracker, but proceeded with caution nonetheless.

Tina didn’t seem overly concerned. But it was Tina who yelped for me to stop when we rounded a curve and saw a small river of water flowing across the road ahead of us.

We had reached a low spot where the road crossed a small ravine. A corrugated metal pipe ran under the road, but the sudden rainwater runoff had overwhelmed it. A six-foot-wide band of slowly-flowing muddy water covered the road from side to side.

We sat there quietly, peering at the situation through the windshield.

“I don’t think it’s very deep,” I said finally.

“How do you know that?” said Tina.

I pointed to the right side of the road, the uphill side, where the top of the corrugated pipe was visible above the water.

“I was judging by the pipe,” I said. “The road can’t dip any lower than the top of the pipe. On the left side, the water is probably a foot deep. On the right, a little less.”

“But you don’t know for sure,” she said.

“No, but maybe I can find out.”

I got out of the Tracker, grabbed my hiking pole from the back seat, and walked down to the temporary river.

My boots were waterproof, so I waded a step or two into the flow and began to probe the bottom with the pole. Methodically, I worked my way across the road from left to right.

As I had guessed, the water was 10 to 12 inches deep on the left side, a few inches shallower on the right.

Satisfied, I returned to the car and climbed in. “The bottom feels solid,” I said. “We should be fine if I stay close to the right side.”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “They say you shouldn’t cross moving water if you can’t see the bottom.”

I politely agreed, but assured her that the Tracker and I had crossed a lot worse, many times. This was a minor thing. Trust me, we would be safely across in a few seconds and on our way. For sure.

“I don’t like it,” she said as I put the Tracker in gear.

The depth of the water was no problem. But almost immediately, my right front tire dropped into a sizeable hole hidden by the muddy water.

The front end of the Tracker dropped forward and pitched to the right. Both tires on the left side came off the ground. Tina and I were flung forward against our seatbelts. We both cursed with great feeling — although, I would wager, for different reasons.

I put the Tracker in reverse and tried to ease backward out of the hole. Even with four-wheel-drive, I couldn’t get traction. It was hopeless. I shut off the engine.

A pall of silence fell over the cab of the Tracker. I remember looking across at the floorboard on the passenger side, the low side. Water was slowly coming in under the door, obliging Tina to lift her feet.

(For the record, the Tracker had taken on water before. My remedy was to drill a series of holes in the floor, so the water drained out as fast as it came in.)

Even though water was on the floorboard, and we were stuck in a hole and going nowhere, the situation was stable. With some difficulty, I opened my door and climbed out. Tina struggled across to the driver’s side and hopped out behind me. Neither of us spoke.

At the top of the hill behind us, only a few hundred yards away, we had passed a house with several cars and trucks parked out front. It was a Saturday. The residents probably were at home.

I told Tina I would walk back to the house and get help. Would she like to go with me? No, she wouldn’t.

Ten minutes later, I returned with a nice gentleman in a pickup truck, who tied a chain to the towing ring on the Tracker and pulled it free. Except for a small scrape on the front bumper, the Tracked was unharmed and cranked easily.

I offered the man $20 for his trouble. Proud mountain fellow that he was, he declined and went on his way.

By then, the water had subsided and no longer flowed across the road. We were free to proceed to Minnehaha Falls.

After that, normalcy returned. The waterfall was in full flow and quite spectacular. Tina, seeing it for the first time, was impressed and delighted.

For the rest of the day, she was gregarious and pleasant. Charitably so, I thought, under the circumstances. Never once did she mention the incident, or bust my chops about it.

But we never had a second date.

Beautiful Minnehaha Falls.