Faith | A descent at Hatley’s Gulch steered him from a false sense of security

Descending Hatley’s Gulch in the Blue Mountains was a daunting thing, even in full daylight. At night, with snow and wind howling, tearing at the old Willys Jeep, it was a whole different animal.

At 15, I’d faced my share of heart-pounding moments, but that November night was different—etched in my memory as a lesson in misplaced trust.

My uncle was driving, and my friend and I hunched in the seat, clinging to anything solid through each sharp, stomach-churning curve. The Jeep’s dim yellow beams barely pierced the darkness, revealing only the next twist flanked by steep, timbered ridges. Knuckles white, teeth clenched and heart racing, I squinted through the smeared windshield, dreading every bend.

I knew Hatley’s Gulch all too well. If we could survive the tightest curves just up ahead, the road would straighten, and I could breathe again.

My uncle, ever confident, chuckled, “We’re fine, boys. Just hold tight.”

Passing the last curve, my grip loosened; my pulse slowed. My friend let out a shaky laugh.

“We’re good,” my uncle said.

That’s when it happened.

The Jeep hit a patch of mud and ice, skidding into a rut beside the mountain. The Gulch was to our right, invisible in the dark. My uncle jerked the wheel as the old Willys launched itself up the steep bank. The world tilted, then spun.

The Jeep rolled—once, twice, three times, until it slammed to a stop on its roof, wheels still spinning.

Dazed, I found myself on the road, blind in the dark. Snow stung my face. I stumbled over to my friend—his breath ragged from bruised ribs. Then we heard a moan from the Jeep. My uncle was still inside! We pulled him out onto the snowy mountain road.

“You boys okay?” he croaked.

We were bruised and banged up, shivering from the adrenaline dump. But we were still alive.

The three of us worked together on the uphill side of the Jeep, heaving the old Willys back onto its wheels. Its roof was crumpled like a battered pop can, but the engine started, and we somehow limped down the mountain.

We’d survived the worst curves, and I’d let myself believe we were finally safe. I’d convinced myself that clearing the last sharp turns meant smooth sailing to safety. But I was wrong, and the experience that night taught me a valuable lesson about a false sense of security.

It’s a truth that echoes through history.

In 1940, the French trusted the Maginot Line’s fortifications, only for Germany to blow right through them. The “unsinkable” Titanic sank in 1912, a monument to overconfidence.

The Bible offers stark examples: Jericho’s citizens boasted of their mighty walls as impenetrable—until they weren’t (Joshua 6). Samson trusted his strength and Delilah, only to be betrayed and destroyed (Judges 16). The church in Laodicea bragged, “I am rich; I need nothing,” yet Jesus called them spiritually bankrupt, urging them to repent (Revelation 3:14-22). The rich fool in Jesus’ parable (Luke 12:16-21) planned bigger barns for his bumper crops, saying, “Take life easy; eat, drink, and be merry.” God called him a fool, for his life ended that night, and his hoarded wealth went to someone else.

These stories warn against trusting in wealth, walls, personal prowess, or our own personal perceptions.

A true sense of security lies elsewhere.

Jesus offers an unshakable promise in John 10:27-29: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand.”

Even on the darkest, stormiest nights down the Hatley’s Gulch of life, Jesus’ promise holds. His security is no illusion—it endures when mountains and men fail.

Rev. Micah Smith is president and founder of Global Gateway Network (globalgatewaynetwork.org). Questions and comments should be directed to editor Lucy Luginbill in care of the Tri-City Herald newsroom. Email lluginbill@tricityherald.com.