I suppose I’ve always held an
exaggerated sense of the word terror and an exaggerated sense of my own safety.
Still, I do recall one dark night thirty years ago when I realized some of the
big things might not go well. It was during a family trip to celebrate Christmas
in western Colorado. Packed into our VW Jetta, we left our home in mid-Missouri
stopping overnight at my parents’ home in central Kansas. The next morning we
continued on our way with my sixteen-year-old son Michael driving. I wanted him
to experience driving on a long trip since in my teen years I did the same
thing. I recall that while driving those long hours I had become used to where
the car was on the road and no longer had to calculate its position by keeping
the white marks on the right of the lane lined up with a certain point on the
fender. It worked for me and I hoped it would for him. He drove well, but on
our approach to Limon, Colorado, a light snow began to fall. “I’m not ready to
drive in this,” Michael announced, so he and I switched places. Like a good
navigator, he tuned in the radio for more information about the storm. Since it
was moving toward the southeast, I decided we should change from our plan to
drive through Colorado Springs and continue on I-70 through Denver and over the
mountains. I couldn’t imagine crossing the high plains country on US-24, a
two-lane highway that had always seemed rather narrow. I didn’t want to risk
getting stranded out there with its few small towns and few snowplows. Certainly
I didn’t want an accident. I hoped by going northwest we would drive out of the
storm.
The snow picked up just west of Limon
in that high country known for its terrible winds and difficult driving
conditions. In fact it became so bad we saw lots of semi’s jackknifed in the
ditches along the road. I had driven in snow many times, so confidently and
carefully we continued west. As we neared Denver the snow on the road got
deeper and deeper and the Interstate became nearly deserted. Since I didn’t
want to get stuck in Denver for Christmas, I proposed we stop briefly for
gasoline and a quick meal.
We got back on I-70 as evening darkened.
The snow kept falling, the driving conditions steadily worsened. As we started
into the foothills, I said to my family, “I’m going to follow that tan 4-wheel-drive
vehicle. Its big tires should keep a track open for us.” My idea worked well
enough. Then we were climbing the incline past Georgetown, still in the tracks
of another SUV. Entering the Eisenhower tunnel at the top of the divide gave me
a great sense of relief. With no snow falling, the windshield warmed up and I
felt calm; that is until we emerged into a whiteout with 20-miles-per-hour
winds and a minus 20° F temperature. Immediately the windshield frosted over.
All I could see were the out-of-focus red lights on the car in front of me. “See
those lights?” I told my family. “I’m going to follow them and hope for the
best.” That road is steep, a fact I was all too well aware of as I downshifted and
said my prayers.
We made it safely to the bottom of
the incline, exited the road at the first opportunity, and pulled into a
service station with a restroom. I ran inside only to find a long line of
people impatiently waiting to use the all-too-inadequate toilet facilities. The
terrifying ride into Denver, up the divide, and back down was bad, but the wait
in that line with the prospect of wetting my pants was for me an even greater
terror. By the time I got into the restroom, I was shaking. Some minutes later
more relaxed, a thankful man emerged. I ate some unhealthy but comforting snack
food, drank a Coca Cola, filled the gas tank, and gathered the family again to
travel on to Battlement Mesa. Thankfully the snow gave out on Vail Pass. The
snowplows kept that part of the road passable. We spent the night at the home
of one of my wife’s relatives before driving the rest of the way to Montrose the
next morning in full, dazzling, comforting sunlight.
That’s about as close to terror as I
have come, and I freely admit it was quite enough for me. Furthermore, I
realized far beyond the fears of driving snowy roads that needing to pee and
not being able to do so presented a new threat of terror to a middle-age man.
Now as an old man, I have known that terror way too often.
© 28 Oct 2014
About the Author
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs
at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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