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What Price, Freedom?
Sophia was eighteen months old
when I signed up for a five day quilting retreat. Alone. I
could hardly contain my euphoria.
The air felt exciting as I headed
east on Highway 80, destination, Lake Tahoe. A friendly
wind tittered the leaves. Clouds began to form.
"Atmosphere," I told myself.
Ahead of me an immense pregnant
gray mass hung over the Sierra foothills, probably dumping
rain by the gallon. Okay, I thought, trying not to lose my
sense of optimism and fun. I've driven through rain and
snow before, and had even remembered chains. I cranked up
the oldies station, singing to "Desperado." I needed the
time away so badly, I was determined to have a blast.
It wasn't long before the real
weather settled in. When I hit traffic near Sacramento, it
started to pour.
By six o'clock, my projected
arrival time, I was barely halfway there. I traded the
oldies station for the weather channel, which informed me
that Highway 80 was closed a few miles up due to snow
drifts. The recording urged me to consider alternate
routes.
I consulted my map. The only
alternate route into North Lake Tahoe was the rural
highway along the perimeter of the lake. I doubted it
would be more accessible considering the weather, since it
was a local road. I decided to stick with the big highway.
Since it was the main artery into and out of the west for
truckers, I believed it had a good chance of reopening.
But by eight o'clock, it hadn't.
I was boxed in with a thousand cars and trucks. Traffic
stood still. It was about 25 degrees outside, pitch black
and snowing. The highway was officially closed somewhere
ahead of me, but cars continued to ease forward, pause for
ten, twenty minutes, then ease forward again.
Endless lines of cars and trucks
were shrouded in steam as the exhaust hit the frosty air.
Pairs of rear lights stretched ahead of me in glowing red
strings and every so often there was the swoosh of truck
brakes decompressing. To the rear were inky silhouettes of
drivers and passengers against the backdrop of headlights.
The highway was scheduled to
reopen at eight thirty, then nine, then ten. Each time I
checked the weather channel the opening time was extended,
until I decided to ignore what the weather lady said and
just watch the road. I was still moving slowly, then
parking, then moving again.
Three teenagers wearing big
sloppy pants sauntered between the cars, singing in that
joyful, high pitched way that only boys can. A woman took
the opportunity to walk her cocker spaniel in the middle
of the freeway. I came alongside an enormous cattle car
once, and a dozen black noses brushed against the metal
sides as puffs of vapor streamed out the vent holes.
Eventually the traffic moved
along, and I found myself negotiating the highway and snow
at thirty miles per hour, which seemed like racing. I
pulled over to put on chains and help a woman in an SUV
with hers. I made good time for the next hour or so,
stopping only to remove my chains when the snow thinned.
My back ached. I was weary of the night, the snow, the
cold. I wanted a bed, any bed. I had forgotten my seminar,
my supposed freedom.
The snow pelted straight at the
windshield, which had a mesmerizing affect something like
watching the opening to a space fantasy. I tried not to
watch the snow. It relentlessly froze my wipers to the
windshield. I sprayed the windows with washer fluid until
it was gone, then for miles leaned with my nose almost on
the dirty window.
Besides the snow, my vision was
compromised: "too tired" triggers sent fireworks shooting
across my field of vision. I blinked constantly, shook my
head to clear it, and repeated the whole thing over and
over.
Even still, I missed my exit. The
turn around was twelve miles down. I was so fatigued I
contemplated pulling over and sleeping, but knew that I
would be frozen in a half hour. When I finally got on the
right road down into the lake area I sighed with relief.
It was long, dark and slippery, and completely deserted. I
scooted into the Hyatt parking lot at a little after one
in the morning, twelve hours after I'd left home. I could
barely feel my legs, much less recall my joy.
Who was it that said that freedom
has its price?
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