There is a certain amount of helplessness that comes with being the only car on the road other than semi-trucks on their mission, aggressive, on the worst pass on the Continental Divide, in a car that was not made for snow conditions: a rear wheel drive 1972 Camaro. This was how Joseph’s mother began to feel, the isolation, the loneliness; a weaker woman would be on the brink of panic. That is when they stopped. The tires needed chains, and the snow was not going to let up to help them put them on. It was up to the little man, 11 years old, to be the man of the house and in this case the car, be the man for his mom and sister: to put the chains around the frozen 70 series radial tires.
Wolf Creek Pass was hairy on its very best days in December. A 6% grade incline led to the summit. That meant at least a 6% grade downhill, on ice, in a Camaro over the Continental Divide in Colorado. This was the Rocky Mountains, and the snow was coming down unusually wet and just as thickly as typical to the point that one couldn’t see their hand in front of their face let alone the curves in the road as they passed beneath the tires. Thinking they were off the road completely, leaving the engine on lest it die in this frigid cold, they exited wearily, chains in his tiny grasp, no gloves, and the semis only inches away as they blew past.
It was Christmas, and they made the journey to Alamosa from Golden even though the family should have been coming to them as Ms. D was the Grandma, the matriarch of the family. Everyone had their own obligations though, so she trekked with her two youngest children and a Lawn and Leaf Hefty bag filled like Santa’s deep red, velvet sack overflowing with presents. The plastic stretched like black, rubber gloves over chubby hands, almost giving way to the contents, the presents showing through the thin material and peeking out of the top.
Joseph, however, was far away in both mind and body from a warm comforting Christmas time fireplace. He stood, shaking, being almost knocked over every time a semi would blow by.
“Pammy!” He yelled, “Help me!”
“You’re gonna get run over! Wait until it stops snowing! This is so dangerous!”
The man began. As his mother made sure that oncoming traffic could see them, it helped that she was donning a lime-green, polyester pant suit, he struggled first to lay the chains out on the ground without them getting instantly buried in powder. His sister was helping now, and all four of their little hands were already beginning to stiffen and ache. They began to wrap the tires. The bungee cords were stiffening just like their tendons and muscles. Suddenly, their mother realized with a stone-heavy heart how cold they really were and made them get back into the car with the heat blasting, unable to figure out what to do but knowing that her children’s warmth was the only priority at this moment. She pressed her forehead against the leather of the steering wheel and began to pray. She turned to the one man who never left her, and she remembered her late husband, who reluctantly did, and his words to her:
“I’m making believe that you’re in my arms. Though I know you’re so far away.
Making believe I’m talking to you, wish you could hear what I say.
And here in the glow of my lonely room, we’re dancing like we used to do.
Making believe is just another way of dreaming, so till my dreams come true-
I whisper good night, turn out the light, and kiss my pillow making believe it’s you”
(excerpt from The Mystery: Chapter 2)
Pam whined, the little man bellowed, their mother waved her hands ferociously, but eventually, the tires were chained, and the Camaro wound its way through the Colorado pines, another journey and the family, if anything, safe and together.
-FPA Staff Writer, Kelsey B.
Tell us your winter road trip adventures, especially the treacherous, in the comment section!
