by Mark Tufo
“Nowhere to go, brother.”
“Maybe back?”
“No place to turn around. You want me to back down this thing?”
“On second thought…I’d get you a beer, but I’m petrified, Talbot.”
“What makes you think I could spare a hand to grab it?”
“I can appreciate that.”
And as if this weren’t screwed up enough, want to know what happens in the mountains a lot in the afternoon? Crazy ass storms, that’s what happens. There was a range of peaks off to our right and the sky over them had turned a steely dark tone; a wall of thick clouds releasing torrents of rain was coming our way.
“What the fuck is that, Talbot?” Dennis asked.
“Trouble,” was all I could manage.
“What do we do? What do we do?” he repeated it quickly like maybe the answer would miraculously come to me the second time around.
I did the only thing I could. I kept moving up. There had to be a way out of this, or we’d be seeing multiple wrecks down at the bottom of the chasm; of course, we couldn’t see the bottom of the chasm. We watched in fascination as the curtain of rain marched toward us. It was just starting up the side of our mountain when I finally came to a widening in the road. When I say “widening,” I mean a slight bulge. In the narrowest way possible, I did an eighteen point turn around, getting us headed back to sanctuary. By this time, the first fat droplets began to hit the windshield and I prudently decided to stay put in the relative safety the bump out afforded us. The droplets became a steady rain, and then a monsoon beat down. We weren’t moving, and my wipers were on fast but could not keep up. Driving was out of the question. Want to know what we could see before the buildup of water on the window made it impossible to look out? Sure, you do. Our trail home was eroding. The deluge so vicious it was taking dirt and rock with it. Maybe it was attempting to show us our own, upcoming fate.
“That’s probably not good,” I said aloud as I pointed it out.
“How attached to this Jeep are you?” he asked. He wanted to walk out; I understood the sentiment, but we were pretty deep in the clutches of the Rocky Mountains and it would be many long hours in inclement weather attempting to break loose of her hold.
We held on until the rain stopped and the sun came back. The weather was acting like nothing at all had happened, but we’d witnessed her little tirade and wouldn’t soon forget it. Dennis got out and I scooted over the gear shift to exit out his side as mine was up against the mountainside. We walked down the path a little; the ground wasn’t too bad but I swear an inch or two had been shaved off of our precarious perch.
“Bud, if you want to wait behind the Jeep, that’s cool. I’m going to give it a go,” I said, looking at Dennis and to the next front rolling in.
“Seriously, Talbot?”
“How many choices you think we have?”
“Hypothermia doesn’t sound all that bad when I’m looking at that cliff,” he answered honestly.
“It’s going to be in the thirties tonight. Might snow. We have long sleeve shirts on against the elements. It’ll be a lot quicker this way.”
“Really man? That’s your fucking reasoning? Our deaths will be quicker?”
“My death will be; you’ll be behind the Jeep, remember? You can hike out and, if you don’t freeze to death, you can tell my wife where I ended up. Maybe we should hide the empties though, she’ll be pissed if she thinks I was drinking.”
“They’ll do a toxicology report on you.”
“Shit, what do you think we’d blow right now?”
“Definitely over the legal limit.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m drunk enough I’m going to get in the Jeep with you, and I can’t imagine doing that fucking stone-cold sober or anywhere near it. Plus, man, if you die, I’m dying.”
I got in and buckled up. Dennis followed behind, shut the door, and immediately grabbed the fuck me bar.
“Buckle up for safety,” I told him.
“Will it make a difference?” he asked as he grabbed the belt.
“Doubt it,” I answered as he clicked in.
“The next time you want to invite me to go four wheeling, don’t.”
“Roger that.” I started the Jeep and began to creep forward. I had such a tight grip on the steering wheel the friction between my hand and the rubber covering was squelching. The next storm was barreling down on us; it was safe to say that at the two miles per hour I was traveling we weren’t going to outpace it, but we could ill afford to be on the road as another inch was shaved off our path. As it was, three quarters of my driver’s side tire was now hovering in space. No doubt we were on the verge of defying some laws of gravity or quantum physics, we just weren’t smart enough to know that.
Another switchback and I was attempting to hug Dennis’ side so much that my side view mirror was scraping up against the mountainside. At first, it was startling and I was somewhat upset at what I was doing to it, then I realized as long as I was still hearing that sound it meant we were still on the trail. The rain was trailing us this time, heavy droplets smacked on top of the plastic roof; it was loud enough to be hail. It swept over the front windshield, hood, and then onto the path where it started its relentless beating.
“Fuck, Talbot. This isn’t how I wanted to go out.”
“Who the fuck does,” was what I answered without ever turning to him. I don’t even think I was blinking, too afraid of what I might miss in that fraction of a second as my eyelid came down.
The squall was much smaller, but what it lacked in size it made up for in tenacity. It passed over us pretty quickly, but was taking chunks from the roadway. I watched as a pie-shaped wedge about a foot long dropped off the edge to settle some thousand feet below.
“We’re not going to make it.” Dennis was looking at the same thing I was. Like he was precognizant, the Jeep jolted and dipped down on my side. The edge was crumbling–we were going to go over. I did the only thing I could. I gunned it. At first, nothing, as I believe the wheels on my side weren’t even touching ground. Then suddenly we lurched forward. Not sure if you’ve ever had the pleasure of driving a Jeep or riding in one, but even on the newest of roads it’s somewhat like being in a washing machine with an unbalanced load, if that gives you a fair idea of what my vision looked like as we bounced and bounded over rocks and uneven terrain. We shouldn’t have made it, plain and simple. The trail was maybe for mountain-biking; in any case, it wasn’t wide enough. We were bouncing around like a super ball with a chunk out of it and I was going much too fast for the conditions. Tough to say which of us was paler when we got to the bottom–yeah, we got to the bottom. Dennis’ hands were shaking as he handed me a beer. I popped the top off that thing, took a huge swig, and then started laughing my ass off. Dennis at first wanted nothing to do with it, but eventually, he joined in on the fun. We didn’t say much on the ride home, both of us had just faced our mortality head on and were dealing with what we’d seen.
He gave me a hug when I dropped him off at his car and then flipped me off as he drove away. That very next week, I did something I hadn’t done in ages: I bought the Sunday newspaper. No idea why. But on, like, page seven, there was a small article about two men that had died up on Waldorf pass; their cherry red Jeep had rolled from the top to crash land into an outcropping of rocks the size of a herd of elephants. I think on that sometimes. Had death felt cheated the day Dennis and I escaped? Had I somehow doomed those two men who died a few days after us? Like, maybe at the last minute I switched doors with them. Sometimes, things happen; they cannot be explained by you or any wiser source. Maybe those things are better left unsolved; the mysteries of life, its unpredictability, is what makes it all worth doing.
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