More road trip horror stories from our readers

— -- In 2005, my wife, Susan, and I and another couple decided on a Scandinavian driving trip vacation. We would fly to Helsinki, ferry to Stockholm, drive to Gothenburg, ferry to Denmark and finish our road trip there.

Our first 100 miles traveling west was uneventful. We then slowly drove into the quaint, beautifully restored foundry village of Fiskars.

I parked the car on the top of a small embankment. We toured the town for about an hour, then it was time to be on our way. I started up the car, stepping down on what I thought was the brake — but it was really the clutch. The car would not stop, and slowly we began to go over the embankment. Our spouses screamed, and my friend grabbed for the car ceiling, hoping to control his fall. I expected the car to tumble front first onto its roof.

Suddenly, the car stopped, the two front wheels in mid-air. A large rock, meant to keep the embankment wall from deteriorating, had come loose and had wedged its way under the car, stopping the vehicle. We all got out, very carefully, at the same time. We assumed the car would ultimately flip over and be severely damaged.

We headed for the Fiskars Factory Store. The manager quickly understood our predicament — he had only to look out his front door — and began to make phone calls. While there was a Finland Auto Association, their trucks were either tied up with a large accident or not available. The store manager called the town engineers, and they sent out a truck driver in about an hour.

After the truck driver surveyed the situation, he came back to us, shaking his head. He needed help. He returned with another driver and a fork lift. The fork lift approached the car from the front, to lift and level it with the rear wheels and to ultimately put it back into the original parking space. Up into the air and back the car went. No damage could be found, even when the under carriage was examined. All efforts to reward our new-found Finnish friends were refused. They waved as we left (I was not driving this time!)

—Ronald Drucker, Wayne, Pa

Around March 1984, my husband Frank and I were discussing what we wanted to do on vacation. I suggested a cruise. He had heard about Colorado River rafting trips through the Grand Canyon. This was not really what I had in mind — I worried about bugs and snakes — but I agreed to go for it. He talked our friends, Larry and Karen, and his brother Jim and sister-in-law Jo into going also.

We started off down the river and it was very peaceful. In the afternoon, we came to a category seven rapid, and we had so much fun going through it, we went back two more times. But on the third trip, they got a little too close to the rocks and one of the pontoons burst, causing the raft to overturn.

At first I wasn't aware we were any danger (one is accustomed to rides at Six Flags or Disney World), but I soon realized that the raft was not going to right itself. I was stuck underneath the raft in an air pocket, and knew that I needed to get out. So I kicked off from the bottom, found the guideline on the side of the raft and grabbed hold. Jim saw me hanging on, reached down and pulled me up on the top of the raft. I asked him if he had seen Frank but he said he hadn't.

After we got down to the makeshift camp, the Forestry Dept. came in with a search helicopter to look for Frank and a missing guide. About 45 minutes later, they radioed in that they had found them, but Frank needed to go to a clinic. I was able to go with them.

When we climbed into the helicopter Frank was sitting in the seat next to the pilot. He looked like he had been in a really bad fight, and his life jacket was in shreds. He said when he came up from under the raft, he got caught in a whirlpool and by the time he got out of it our raft had already gone down river. Every time he tried to pull himself out of the river, he would get pulled back in.

About six weeks later, my neighbor called to tell me she had signed for a UPS package that smelled so bad she had to take it outside. We opened it and inside were all of the clothes from the raft. They had not even bothered to dry them, and they were covered in mildewd. While the river company did not reimburse us for our trip, they gave us a voucher for another trip the following year. Yeah right — like I was going to go again.

Since that trip we have not allowed Frank to plan any of our other vacations. He now goes where I tell him to.

—Sandra Murphy, Stockbridge, Ga.

We were excited about our anticipated trip to Rocky Point, Mexico on the Gulf of California, a sleepy little beach side escape from the Arizona heat. Our children — Kim, 13, and Aaron, 8 — shared the excitement. I had our SUV serviced before just to make sure the vehicle was up for the trip.

The excursion was uneventful until we crossed the border into Mexico. We were on a two-lane road isolated from civilization when the car begin to shimmy. I looked in my rear view mirror and watched my back right side tire following me down the highway at about 60 mph. I told everyone to "hold on" and steadied the SUV as best I could.

We landed upright in a ditch. Every one was fine, and we crawled up the embankment. There was not a car, or person, or even a coyote in sight.

We waited about a half hour by the roadside when a Mexican bus came down the highway. I flagged the bus down and the kind driver opened the door and rescued us. My wife speaks Spanish so she conveyed our story to the bus driver. We were told that the closest village was about another 30 minutes ahead.

We were dropped off at a roadside cantina. A new Mercedes was parked in the dirt lot along side the adobe building. My family and I entered the cantina and noticed two businessmen sitting at a corner table. I asked them for help, and was told to wait my turn by a not-so-friendly American.

After finishing his business, the American walked over to me and my frightened family and asked what we needed. I shared our story. He took control of the situation. He said he was an American who owned a mining company in Mexico. He said I needed to get back to my car as soon as possible or it would be stripped. He said he would drive me to the that location and that my family should stay at the cantina. Before I knew it, I was back at the accident site, left alone, as he drove off to arrange for a tow truck to pick me up.

I couldn't believe what had happened. How did I get us in this mess? Would I ever see my family again? Why did my wife marry such a bonehead? As I continued to beat myself up, I saw a tow truck coming down the road. It picked me up and we headed to the village to retrieve my family.

All four of us now sat in the tow truck drivers' cab. It was not air conditioned, and the desert temperature was about 110 degrees. Not only that, he only had half a floor in his truck. My family still talks to me but I don't know why.

—Rick Miller, Scottsdale, Arizona