The Fear Factor

Mom and I went on a drive over the weekend. There were three cities she wanted to visit so we mapped out a loop around/through them and headed off. Everything was great, and I will definitely visit the cities again, with or without company.

But there was bad, too. Little did either of us know that the state highway that we took on the way back was a death trap. It started out like any normal two-lane route through residential areas, a few curves, a bit of up and down. Then we rounded a curve and death was there waiting for us.

Not really, but it sure felt like it.

The state highway is also a mountain pass that had only been open for a little over a week. The roads were cleared but dangerous. There were actually parts of the route that went to one lane around hairpin curves. One lane. With no way to know if anyone was coming from the other direction. Oh dear Lord, what were the civic engineers who created the road thinking?!

There were some beautiful areas and some pull-offs for scenic overlooks. (Or for me to reaffirm my belief in safety.) Full rivers breaking over the boulders. People rock climbing. And lots of safety, until we had to venture back out on the road hoping for the end of it all. Hoping at least for guard rails!

Each turn was more terrifying than the one before. Each climb was steeper. Each descent ended with a hairpin turn. We reached a point where the speed limit actually increased to 45. And guard rails, even on the straight portions. Mom and I were both relieved (me considerably more). Then we looked across the valley to our right. "Look at the road at the top of the mountain," Mom casually remarked.

OH. DEAR. LORD. That, THAT, is the road that we are on. That is where we are headed. Way up there. Steeper climbs, sharper turns. Oh get me out of here! I began praying, "Please God, build another road. Now. Straighter. Flat. Soon!"

No luck. We were stuck. We climbed and climbed and climbed and ... Oh my word! We are at the very top of the world. The peak of the mountains. There was nothing above but clouds. There was a big parking lot with a sign: Continental Divide. We got out, grabbed the jackets that Mom had packed (We won't need those ... HA!), and took the path out to the overlook. Walking over and through the two feet of snow at the top of the world in June. The overlook view was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.

Until I looked to the left. "Mom, look at those cars. They are creeping down that hill. They are creeping around that curve. Aren't we through this yet?!"

A woman standing nearby spoke up. "You didn't come from that direction?"

"Nope. We came from the north, back there." I pointed to the dreadful road that we had just experienced.

"Then no, you aren't through yet. We came from that way and it's about another 40 miles to civilization and flat roads."

Dying. That's what I was doing then. Dying inside. Why couldn't there be a heliport to take me away? Why couldn't the road suddenly flatten? Why didn't anyone have any anesthetic to knock me out to get me back below 12,095 feet?

We got back in the car, warmed up our hands, and I said a quick prayer. We made it back safely, and the woman at the top had been wrong: it was really only about 25 miles to civilization. But on roads like that it felt like 100. We made it back to the world of gas stations and guard rails and straight, flat roads. Mom laughed about it all, but I still can't laugh about it.

Instead, I've found that fear I needed to unblock a scene I was writing. I've never really had a moment of fear, a moment of dread, a moment of imminent death in my life. I didn't know how to write the scene that I needed to move my story forward. As soon as I walked in the door of my apartment (kissing the ground outside!), I turned on my computer and wrote and wrote. Complete. The scene was complete.

I knew there had to be a reason that I was put in that awful situation. Mom said that when I need to write like that again, I should find another mountain pass, or revisit that one.

Erm, no. I think I'll just recall this trip. I don't think that fear will be leaving me anytime soon.