That could have been much worse,” I told my friend Trevis as I picked my trailer hitch’s ball mount off the road. A passing West Wendover policeman saw us and pulled over to help. In spite of our predicament, I had to smile at the amusing combination of the desert night, the police cruiser’s blinding light bars, and the Christmasy scent of fresh-cut pine wafting from the bed of my utility trailer, which now clung to my receiver hitch only by the backup chains.

I was relieved — after feeling a sudden jerk and hearing the trailer’s tongue scrape along the asphalt behind me — to discover my rear bumper still intact. Looking back, had I not ever-so-slightly gunned it while pretending to race the Larsen van, I might have lost the trailer later on the highway at 75 mph. I made sure to mention that to Trevis and his wife, Grace, several times.

Seven-year old Bridger monitored the situation from the back seat of our mini-van, updating Trevis’ 9-year old daughter, Kara, via walkie-talkie: Pshh — “They’re taking my dad to jail” — pshh — “Or maybe they’re just helping him” — pshh.

“The day was going way too smooth,” Trevis joked. “I should have known something was bound to happen to you guys.”

He was right — both about the day and our famous bad luck. All right, fine — so it may have been a good idea to check my ball mount pin after the dirt road or the ridiculously huge speed bumps at West Wendover’s charming strip mall. But there’s no need to get over-technical about it.

In fact, let’s get back to that smooth day, shall we? Popping over to Nevada to cut our family Christmas trees was the Littlefield’s idea. Chad and Lisa had lived for a time in Wendover and have returned to cut their Christmas trees in the nearby mountains ever since. We’d bundle up the kids — 12 of them from the three families combined — and caravan out to the Toano Mountains across the state line.

“I don’t see no Kissmus trees,” remarked 3-year old Coulter as we passed the Knolls exit on I-80. It made sense that the higher mountains past Wendover would be peppered with pinyon pines, but it wasn’t difficult to see his point. When I think festive conifers, Wendover doesn’t typically come to mind, and the only tree-like object anywhere along the barren corridor is the cement “Metaphor Tree” (or “Gumball Tree” as the kids call it) at mile marker 26.

We stopped at the Utah Port of Entry and purchased BLM tree permits for $3 each, then continued through town and toward the Toano Range. It wasn’t particularly cold outside and there was no snow to be found, even on the peaks. Still, the holiday spirit graced our little convoy as we drove past the Pilot Range, tracing the old Hastings California Cutoff.

The kids used the walkie-talkies to broadcast samples of the Christmas music playing over their respective car stereos to each other. I think I heard a little Bing Crosby from Trevis and Grace’s van, and they heard some of the Polar Express soundtrack from ours. The soundtrack felt appropriate as we climbed over 5,875-foot Silver Zone Pass — the highest point on the Western Pacific line between Salt Lake City and San Francisco — where Western Pacific Rail tracks wind in an impressive near-helix at a place called Arnold Loop.

We exited west of the pass and followed a dirt road, which climbed into the foothills and forked into a coniferous forest. An ATV trail traversed dry creek beds and gullies and toward an unnamed peak. The vegetation, a strict juniper-pinyon mix, was captivating in its simplicity. The forest was short but shadowy, and dense enough that we needed to keep close watch on the kids.

Chad and Lisa staked their claim first. They chose a tall tree that was modest, but handsome. For us, the boys chose a rugged, semi-uniform specimen. Once we had all claimed our prizes, Chad hauled us each back to the cars to tag and stow them. We loaded up the winded children, snapped pictures of the sunset, and talked dinner.

The little Mexican place in the strip mall had closed, so we settled for McDonalds before embarking on our journey home. I usually enjoy that drive at night because it’s straight, mysterious, and there’s little chance of hitting a deer — though were there some crazed lost deer frolicking within a 50-mile radius of this salty road, no doubt my front end would eventually find it. Such is our luck.

So we weren’t the least bit surprised when, after revving at the stop sign, our trailer slid clean off the hitch.

“I wonder if one of my guys has a bolt,” the policeman said. I hoped he could find one, because I couldn’t imagine finding a hardware store open at that hour. I had always wondered if that big pin could get knocked loose on a nice bump. Yes, it turns out, it could. As cool as I played it, I couldn’t help but feel a little like Chevy Chase’s character in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Fortunately Chad had a bolt in his toolbox. It was skinny, but it would have to do. I followed Chad and Trevis followed me.

Gumball Tree, Clive, Lakeside, Dell — the sky was amazingly clear. A layer of clouds hung low and heavy, and lights from Salt Lake Valley made the horizon glow orange. Our Christmas tree whipped as we drove, nervous and steady, like the conductors on the Polar Express during those dangerous stretches. Skull Valley, Grantsville — Chad’s lucky bolt was holding.

I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel when we rolled up in front of our house. We stayed up late trimming and mounting our Christmas tree. Securing it was much tougher than picking a pre-packaged fir from a store, but our journey across the desert was one we’ll giggle at and treasure as friends for years to come.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.