As I gouged at the ice packed beneath the left front tire of my rig with what remained of my snow shovel, a gesture as futile as trying to dig a well with a soup spoon, I realized that at long last I was stuck.

And this was no temporary loss of traction, easily remedied by pushing a bit harder on the gas pedal.

I was going to sweat before we got free.

If we got free.

Which in that moment seemed improbable.

I had gotten cocky and complacent, those close cousins that so often lead us astray.

My wife, Lisa, and I bought our 2008 Toyota FJ Cruiser 17 years ago.

In all those years the four-wheel drive vehicle, augmented with a locking rear differential (to ensure both rear tires get engine power even if one is off the ground or otherwise deficient in traction) has never left us, or me, stranded despite the boulder-strewn roads and bumper-deep snow we’ve often subjected it to.

The Cruiser has been impeded briefly a few times, to be sure.

The combination of deep ruts and 18 inches of snow up Elk Creek a few years ago, for instance, prompted me to contemplate who I would call for help should that become necessary.

(I was alone, something that might well have contributed to the predicament.)

But I gave the Cruiser another chance and it pulled me out, snow spewing in a cold white cloud as the tires finally found purchase.

The FJ is hardly omnipotent, of course.

I’ve always known that I could get seriously mired if I overestimated the rig’s, and my own, abilities.

Probably I’m a trifle less adventurous than when I was driving the FJ’s predecessor, a 1973 International Scout that was nothing like as capable as the Toyota.

(I once had to abandon the Scout and walk home, a journey of about seven miles, after I got into trouble in a snowdrift. This was also up Elk Creek; indeed, within sight of the spot where the Cruiser extricated itself from a similar situation. Elk Creek is the iceberg to my Titanic, you might say.)

Although the Cruiser’s unblemished record ended on the early afternoon of Feb. 16, after Lisa and I had finished snowshoeing on the North Powder River Road in the Elkhorns west of Haines, the blame lies not with the vehicle but with me.

The failure was not complete, fortunately.

“Stuck” is a relative concept, not an absolute one.

The worst situation, as happened to me on Elk Creek, is when you surrender to your fate and walk away from the rig, as a cowboy would abandon a horse that fell dead on a trail ride.

The middle ground, as it were, is when you have to summon help — ideally someone with a robust vehicle and stout tow hooks.

The ideal outcome is that you get loose on your own, whether through ingenuity or, as is typically the case for me, dumb luck and drudgery, usually involving shoveling with something other than a shovel.

That’s what happened to Lisa and I.

But it took 45 minutes or so, during which I produced sweat and profanities in ample, and roughly equal, volumes.

What happened is that I misjudged the Cruiser’s turning radius — how much room it needs to swap directions.

We parked in a wide spot that a snowplow had gouged at the intersection of the North Powder River road and a private driveway. The main road is flat but the driveway descends at a modest grade.

When we finished our hike I figured I could back up onto the driveway a short way and then drive straight out on the main road.

This was, like many of my hastily conceived plans, a poor one.

The Cruiser couldn’t turn sharply enough to get onto the driveway. Instead I plunged the rear bumper into the berm left by a plow. When I tried to go forward the tires spun helplessly. I pushed the button to lock the rear differential. Now all four tires spun helplessly.

I had misjudged more than the turning radius.

The slope was steeper than I thought. Worse still, the snow was damp and easily compressed to an icy slush with about as much friction as hot motor oil.

(I wished for the subzero temperatures that prevailed a couple days earlier. Dry snow, generally speaking, gives better traction than slush.)

Digging, it was obvious, was required.

I was initially optimistic because I had, for the whole of this winter, stored a plastic snow shovel in the Cruiser.

Mostly it got in the way. I never had reason to use it.

Lisa reminded me that the shovel’s blade was cracked.

I retrieved it anyway. My first thrust, in front of a tire, scratched away a scrim of snow and snapped the shovel in half. A scrap of red plastic slid across the snow like a poorly designed toboggan.

I continued to hack away, doing superficial damage to the snow but dislodging chunks of the shovel with each blow. The snow was soon littered with shards, as though I had driven over the tool, or dropped it from a great height.

I grabbed all four of the Cruiser’s rubber floormats and wedged one in front of each tire for traction.

Lisa collected branches for the same purpose.

I let some air out of the tires to increase their footprint, so to speak.

After several fruitless tries, I asked Lisa to drive so I could push the rig from the rear.

I didn’t expect much — my vertebrae aren’t what they once were — but Lisa, with a more deft right foot than mine, managed to forge ahead a few feet.

Far enough, or so I gauged, that we could return to the original plan and back up to the driveway.

This worked.

Eventually.

In between there was a great expectoration of expletives and much ineffectual digging with a snowshoe.

(All by me. Lisa was waiting for me to try something that might potentially be useful).

I had by now given up on the shovel, which consisted of a handle and a residual piece of plastic, about the size of a garden hoe, at the bottom. This was about as effective in moving snow as a yardstick would be.

Finally, with Lisa again at the wheel and me pretending to shove, the Cruiser was firmly on the driveway.

I swapped places with Lisa and, as so many vehicular exploits in the woods do, “got a run at it.”

I feared that one of the slushy, hip-high ruts we had gouged would yank me in, like a riptide savaging a surfer, but the Cruiser had regained its momentum and plowed up the hill and onto the main road with alacrity.

My sweaty shirt stuck to my back, a clammy and unpleasant embrace.

Snow had gotten down my water-resistant pants.

But I felt exhilarated in spite of the discomfort.

It’s the unique feeling that happens only in the few minutes after you’re no longer stuck.

I suppose a person who, after blundering about in the woods for a few hours suddenly sees a familiar road ahead, feels a similar balm of relief.

Jayson Jacoby is the editor of the Baker City Herald. Contact him at 541-518-2088 or jjacoby@bakercityherald.com.