He called them “Instantaneous Trips” because they were spontaneous adventures born of his desires to travel by thumb through the mountain country of the American west. He’d made such trips since he was 14 years old. Over the years his parents had given up trying to control him, and were tending to the ulcers resulting from their worries and his need for freedom and adventure.
One random evening he would be smitten with yearnings for the highway, lie awake scheming in the dark, then come early morn he’d walk the handful of miles to the legendary Interstate 80 with his guitar, extend his thumb confidently, put on a winning smile, and be on the road again. Headed west! Usually with only five or ten bucks in his pocket.
On this trip the weather was fair the morning he set out. Rides were reliable but the weather reports he heard on radio were forecasting snow. ‘Never-mind,’ he thought. ‘I have my mummy bag!’ After two days of travel his last ride deposited him on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains just west of Denver. It was close to sunset and the temperature was falling while the winds were increasing. He climbed toward the treeline with hopes of making camp before darkness arrived. Light snow started falling and blowing, so he started re-thinking his movements. All manner of fears were stalking him now, so he decided to return to the highway and travel on to somewhere else with no snow.
As he descended the side of the mountain he found himself in an unstable shale field, while just below the loose rock lay a steep drop-off in the slope. Disaster for sure if he were to lose his footing, and he wasn’t in the mood to make the jump to oblivion yet. As he traversed the rocks he felt movement around him and realized that he was sliding in symphony with the shale, careening toward the precipice. ‘Damn!’ he cursed as events moved at warp speed. His backpack and guitar were going to take him down and he had to ditch them quick if he had any chance of surviving.
The pack along with the guitar were jettisoned and fell with the rockslide over the cliff edge. The terrified traveler was saved! He carefully made his way down the slope, pumped with adrenaline and joy at being alive. He found his backpack damaged but intact, his guitar apparently still playable, then hiked off toward the highway.
‘To hell with this!’ he muttered to himself as the snow fell harder. His nose was frozen, while his icey thumb waved as he stood by the road praying for deliverance. A car stopped, cautious introductions were exchanged, and he was on his way eastbound in the early hours of a blizzard.
“On my way to North Platte,” the driver explained. “Blizzard forecast all night, but gotta get home!” he stated with confidence and excitement.
“I’m going to Iowa, so if you don’t mind the company I’ll take the ride,” he replied, thankful for a warm place out of the snow and cold.
Just outside North Platte they parted ways at a freeway rest area, where he decided to hunker down. The conditions were deteriorating quickly and he had to bed down for the night. He unrolled his mummy bag beneath a picnic table, pulled off his mountain boots, and entered the warmth of the bag. Temps were dropping and the snow was thick and blinding. Somehow he fell asleep for a few hours.
He woke breathing snowflakes, his beard a frozen yet slushy mask. ‘Damn it’s cold!’ he cursed. Mummy bag completely covered in snow, he’d become part of a snowdrift underneath the picnic table where he’d snoozed. Snow was blowing sideways and the cold was cutting through viciously. His mountain boots were frozen slabs of ice. He beat them against each other and finally had functioning footwear. “Time to move on!’ he mused as he shivered awake.
“Hey! Hey you!” his ears discerned through the din of the blizzard as he trudged through parking area snowdrifts. He looked over at a waving arm extended through the window of a sports coupe buried in snow. A woman smiled and shouted, “Did you sleep under that table last night?”
“I did indeed. It was cold!” he shouted back.
“Are you crazy? I have a proposition for you if you’re interested. Come sit inside where it’s warm and we can talk.” she said with some enthusiasm. “I’m on my way to Chicago, but I’m too scared to drive in this blizzard,” she said to him as they sat in the warm car. She was an attractive older woman, curiously trusting enough though to welcome him into her vehicle, given the circumstances. He was confused but intrigued.
“I like driving in snow and I’m good at it! I won’t let a blizzard have too much power over me!” he said to her. “I’m on my way to Iowa City and can drive you that far. Chicago is a few hundred miles farther east, but by then the storm might be done. Are you sure you trust me?”
“I don’t feel like I have a choice,” she responded. I can’t drive in these conditions.Watching you emerge from under that snowdrift was like seeing a miracle unfold. Let’s get going young man!”
There were few other vehicles on the highway and numerous stranded cars and trucks in the ditches. They made time while the blizzard, moving easterly, helped propel them forward in their journey, while they told stories to each other and laughed. After they had lunch in a packed truckstop filled with storm refugees they were off again plowing their way eastward, as the blizzard slowly abated around sundown.
Near midnight they pulled up to his doorstep, where they sadly said their goodbyes and hugged like old friends.
“I believe in Angels now!” she said with a smile.
“Me too!” he replied, as he hoisted his backpack, cradled his guitar, and waved goodbye.
CP Butchvarov 2024