"Oh, that's not meant for us", my navigator/mother confidently assured me. The flashing red sign warned that all vehicles exiting off Colorado's route 70 must be equipped with tire chains. I was commandeering a white, 15 passenger van that drove like an armored tank. Loaded inside were some of my most prized earthly possessions (4 of my 5 children and my niece). Mother was riding shotgun, and while I have always had the utmost faith in her ability to read a map, I should have followed my gut on this one and flat out refused to "cut off an hour of our travel time" by exiting onto Loveland Pass.
Pass.
Just the word alone should've been sufficient warning, but hailing from southeastern Pennsylvania, it wasn't a familiar enough term to trump naiveté. It is now.
We'd been in colorful Colorado to attend my brother's wedding the weekend before and on a whim, we decided to drive to Keystone resort to surprise the male family members who'd left earlier for a ski day. It was an impulse we should've resisted, our decision to forge ahead being a bad one on so many levels, but having a free day and wanting to see more of the high country, we trekked out, eagerly anticipating our adventure into the unknown.
Breezing right past the red flags, both figurative and literal, it was not long until I knew we were in over our heads. There was no turning back by the time I realized that those flashing signs were indeed meant especially for us.
I'd readily accepted my mother's direction in spite of the glaring warnings otherwise because she has a long history of getting it right on the road. As the oldest daughter of a small town Ford dealer, one of her first jobs was to transport cars or deliver parts outside the local area, all without the benefit of GPS. She has always had a great sense of direction and seemed to enjoy her uncanny ability to find her destination using the shortest distance and time possible.
On paper it was true that the exit would save us an hour of travel time, but I wondered if it really mattered much since we were probably going to die trying. Unbeknownst to us, Loveland Pass had only opened shortly before we approached the exit off 70, and the road was still snow covered. As I rounded the first turn at the base of the mountain, a friendly young man on top of a snow bank waved us on enthusiastically.
"Isn't that sweet?" I thought to myself, only to immediately conclude that his greeting was more of a "you- go-girl-thumbs-up" kind of salute. Instantly I knew I was facing the longest uphill drive of my life. A few seconds later my previously animated navigator drew the same conclusion and suddenly, albeit momentarily, she fell deadly silent.
"Turn around, Carla!" she screamed. Turn around? Are you kidding? I was trying to maneuver a chainless, small bus on a freshly snow-packed single lane plodding north. Where, pray tell, was I supposed to turn around? The higher we ascended, the louder the groans emanated from the seat to my right.
Janet Irene was almost completely bent over on the floor in fear, her face resting in her hands. If ever she was prostrate before the Lord, it was then.
Oblivious to the serious nature of our predicament, the kids were having a gloriously great time laughing and enjoying the view from the back seats of what I was sure would become their winter tomb. I could only imagine our white van veering out of control, gaining speed while forming into one giant snow ball as it tumbled down over the embankment, only to be found during the spring thaw. I could read the headlines in my mind, "PA family found frozen at mountain base--no chains on van".
I have always been taught to respect my elders, but doggone it, she got us into this mess, and she was going to pull herself together and help me out of it. I calmly reported that, despite my "deer in headlights" expression and obvious death grip on the steering wheel, I had complete control over the van. I could feel the tires traction on the road's packed surface and if everyone just stayed calm and did not panic, we would be okay.
Until we hit alpine level, that is.
Nothing quite like the feeling one has when making a blind turn into nothing but white at 11,000 feet above sea level. Just before rounding the bend, I parked along an interior pull off to gather my senses and rally the troops for the last leg of our journey. Before I could share the plan, the side door whisked open and the kids started bailing out to shoot some pictures of the breathtaking view. Mother had opened her door as well, but not to capture the moment for posterity sake. Her plan was to jump ship and catch a ride with the more experienced driver (she assumed) of the gas tanker that was headed up the hill behind us.
'Who is this woman?" I thought to myself. The same one who had always warned us never to take rides from strangers was now functioning in full blown panic mode and ready to do that very thing! Her logic for abandoning her family for a stranger was that her beloved Harold needed her back home. No matter how wonderful a caregiver she was for my ailing father, I determined that if it came to it, she was going to go out with the rest of us.
"Everyone, back in the van NOW!"
I guess my tone was threatening enough to inspire immediate compliance because we were all safely strapped in for the duration in record time. After a brief assessment of our situation and a quick, but genuinely heartfelt prayer, we were back on the road again.
The mood was subdued by now, but I wasn't sure I would ever regain the full use of my hands once they were pried off the steering wheel. The blood flow had been completely restricted 2 turns back, but as we slowly rounded the last curve, I felt them relax as I pulled to the side of the now level road at the mountain's summit. I put the van into park and we all just sat there for a moment, taking it all in and grateful to be relatively no worse for the wear. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as I read the plaque on the stone monument to our right.
Pass.
Just the word alone should've been sufficient warning, but hailing from southeastern Pennsylvania, it wasn't a familiar enough term to trump naiveté. It is now.
We'd been in colorful Colorado to attend my brother's wedding the weekend before and on a whim, we decided to drive to Keystone resort to surprise the male family members who'd left earlier for a ski day. It was an impulse we should've resisted, our decision to forge ahead being a bad one on so many levels, but having a free day and wanting to see more of the high country, we trekked out, eagerly anticipating our adventure into the unknown.
Breezing right past the red flags, both figurative and literal, it was not long until I knew we were in over our heads. There was no turning back by the time I realized that those flashing signs were indeed meant especially for us.
I'd readily accepted my mother's direction in spite of the glaring warnings otherwise because she has a long history of getting it right on the road. As the oldest daughter of a small town Ford dealer, one of her first jobs was to transport cars or deliver parts outside the local area, all without the benefit of GPS. She has always had a great sense of direction and seemed to enjoy her uncanny ability to find her destination using the shortest distance and time possible.
On paper it was true that the exit would save us an hour of travel time, but I wondered if it really mattered much since we were probably going to die trying. Unbeknownst to us, Loveland Pass had only opened shortly before we approached the exit off 70, and the road was still snow covered. As I rounded the first turn at the base of the mountain, a friendly young man on top of a snow bank waved us on enthusiastically.
"Isn't that sweet?" I thought to myself, only to immediately conclude that his greeting was more of a "you- go-girl-thumbs-up" kind of salute. Instantly I knew I was facing the longest uphill drive of my life. A few seconds later my previously animated navigator drew the same conclusion and suddenly, albeit momentarily, she fell deadly silent.
"Turn around, Carla!" she screamed. Turn around? Are you kidding? I was trying to maneuver a chainless, small bus on a freshly snow-packed single lane plodding north. Where, pray tell, was I supposed to turn around? The higher we ascended, the louder the groans emanated from the seat to my right.
Janet Irene was almost completely bent over on the floor in fear, her face resting in her hands. If ever she was prostrate before the Lord, it was then.
Oblivious to the serious nature of our predicament, the kids were having a gloriously great time laughing and enjoying the view from the back seats of what I was sure would become their winter tomb. I could only imagine our white van veering out of control, gaining speed while forming into one giant snow ball as it tumbled down over the embankment, only to be found during the spring thaw. I could read the headlines in my mind, "PA family found frozen at mountain base--no chains on van".
I have always been taught to respect my elders, but doggone it, she got us into this mess, and she was going to pull herself together and help me out of it. I calmly reported that, despite my "deer in headlights" expression and obvious death grip on the steering wheel, I had complete control over the van. I could feel the tires traction on the road's packed surface and if everyone just stayed calm and did not panic, we would be okay.
Until we hit alpine level, that is.
Nothing quite like the feeling one has when making a blind turn into nothing but white at 11,000 feet above sea level. Just before rounding the bend, I parked along an interior pull off to gather my senses and rally the troops for the last leg of our journey. Before I could share the plan, the side door whisked open and the kids started bailing out to shoot some pictures of the breathtaking view. Mother had opened her door as well, but not to capture the moment for posterity sake. Her plan was to jump ship and catch a ride with the more experienced driver (she assumed) of the gas tanker that was headed up the hill behind us.
'Who is this woman?" I thought to myself. The same one who had always warned us never to take rides from strangers was now functioning in full blown panic mode and ready to do that very thing! Her logic for abandoning her family for a stranger was that her beloved Harold needed her back home. No matter how wonderful a caregiver she was for my ailing father, I determined that if it came to it, she was going to go out with the rest of us.
"Everyone, back in the van NOW!"
I guess my tone was threatening enough to inspire immediate compliance because we were all safely strapped in for the duration in record time. After a brief assessment of our situation and a quick, but genuinely heartfelt prayer, we were back on the road again.
The mood was subdued by now, but I wasn't sure I would ever regain the full use of my hands once they were pried off the steering wheel. The blood flow had been completely restricted 2 turns back, but as we slowly rounded the last curve, I felt them relax as I pulled to the side of the now level road at the mountain's summit. I put the van into park and we all just sat there for a moment, taking it all in and grateful to be relatively no worse for the wear. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as I read the plaque on the stone monument to our right.
We may have just conquered the great Continental Divide, but it felt more like we went to the moon and back. All that was left for us was a little trip down the other side of the mountain. Chains not required.
