Earlier that day, I got my car stuck. Somewhat foolishly, without thought, I attempted a three point turn on a snowy country road that didn’t seem to be going anywhere. The deep snow adequately disguised where flat road ended and ditch began, and, in an instant, I realize one rear wheel hangs off the edge, resting in nothing but snow. The front wheels spin uselessly on an undercoat of ice, powerless to bring even this one wheel over that small hurdle and back onto the road. I turn my wheels. I rock the car from forward to reverse and back. I try a little gas. I try too much, spraying plumes of snow and mud high above my windows. I have done this before. I know the car will not move, except to fall further backwards into the meter-deep snow of the ditch, where it will beyond all hope of recovery, save with a 4x4 truck and a winch. I am in the middle of nowhere. That precious cell-phone, friend of stranded motorists, shows no bars. I am a very long walk from any known outposts of civilization. Even so, it is warm. The sun is bright. It is midday. I am in little real danger. But I have no intention of spending my day in this fashion. I am not leaving my car here. I simply do not accept the situation. This lack of acceptance is not gracefully expressed. Curses are uttered. In multiples. At high Volumes. There is no one to shock and offend but the trees. The honor and intrinsic worth of my automobile are called into question in most impolite terms. I open my door and push. The car is small. I can rock it substantially without the assistance of the engine. Surely, it only needs just a little bit more…I am in the ditch, snow up to my waist, sharp metal cutting my hands, trying, as if it were possible, to lift the offending wheel back into the road. I am back on the road, viciously attacking snow with a flimsy plastic shovel. I am cut, drips of blood staining my pants. I am covered in mud. I am heedless. I try many things. I have sharp bundles of metal “wool”, shred from the lathes at work, in the back of my car (for my own reasons). I reason these ought to provide traction- but the wheels fling them, without hesitation, into the ditch. I also have, (for my own reasons) a heavy, flat chunk of rough, rusted steel. Eventually, it dawns on me to try jamming this down in front of one wheel, and sure enough, with a mighty (engine) roar and a high plume of snow, the wheel lurches forward over the piece of steel and pulls its rear fellow back onto solid ground. Wheels spinning, the little car fishtails back and forth in the wet snow till it falls into the relative safety of ruts worn by the last foolish visitors to pass this way. Panting, bloody, mud spattered, hoarse from shouted obscenities, flushed from defiant fury, but triumphant, I get out and walk back down the road to retrieve the faithful chunk of steel and the shovel hurled away for in the heat of my rage.
I stand on the lake. I watch the storm come towards me. I see the ominous cloud building, slowly obliterating the sun, moving across the lake like a fat, lumbering beast. I see its dangling, wispy tentacles and know they bring wind and stinging snow. I do not move. I do not run back for the warmth of the fireplace and the hostel, I do not run for the car to make good my escape before this monster arrives. I stand there, on the lake, wind chilling my ears and my bald head, snow whipping past, waiting for it…waiting …daring it to move me.
And here I am, watching squirrels chase each other, atop the shining, crusted snow, through the silent trees, beneath the afternoon sun…
At the eleventh hour, in the morning, I come out to you, walking on the lake. I begin to be afraid, I start to sink, I reach out to you…
you smile and say “Why did you doubt? Next time, use the snowshoes…”
