The Drive Back

The Drive Back

    Something about being on the road early, as in starting out at 4:30 in the morning before the commuters; at that time the road is lit only by the headlights of a few cars, the silence and darkness almost one, the dashboard lights inside your car an eerie yet somehow comforting presence.  But we had packed and loaded the car the night before and now we were off, my brother heading back to his home and me to mine.  I was a bit ready to make the journey, long as it might be, for the weather was once again predicted to be quite nasty, rain and snow accumulating in the Sierras beginning the night before.  But as we left that morning, the rain hadn't arrived.  The skies did look threatening, but not enough to cause me to rush while filling my car with gas.  Better to have a full tank should I hit the traffic or the snow, or have to return to town to purchase chains (even with a four-wheel drive).  Darkness was my friend now, but within a few hours, its accompanying chill might prove my adversary.

    Hitting the forest, I was once again struck at the amount of time it took to get through, especially at the speed at which I was traveling.  This was a relatively new range of mountains, these Sierras, at least geologically.  And the amount of visually mature trees were actually fairly young, perhaps closer to my age than to the centuries-old redwoods along the coast (their need for dampness and moisture limits their range of growth).  And still they kept coming.  I could only think of the effort to clear the way in order to make this highway, a rambling stretch of concrete that first meant planning the route of least resistance (good luck with that, for the forest that I could see looked unwilling to provide a natural path other than an occasional stream), then the cutting of a path (the trees were possibly larger then, for I had no way of telling when or if this forest had been harvested and replanted, today's trees designed to grow exceptionally quickly) and the clearing of the path and the amount of gravel and sand and concrete (which holds up far better than asphalt when faced with a barrage of heavy vehicles wearing chains on their tires) that had to come, bit by bit.  A mile's progress must have seemed impressive.  I was traveling over a hundred of those just to reach the summit of this forest (then there was the forest --the same one, really-- on the other side of the summit).  A dump truck of gravel, an hour's ride up full, then an hour's ride back empty, over and over.  The engineers, the workers, the concrete pourers, the inspectors, the placing of road signs, the electronics (for the overhead signs that will warn you almost menacingly of the icy conditions ahead), the communication lines.  And me, blazing through it all in darkenss as if all of this had always been here.  What's the problem?

    The splattering on my windshield began with a mild tick at first, then a bit louder, then plops of rain and then...silence.  The snow had begun.  I was still climbing.  But I had been going uphill for quite a bit, so surely I was near the summit.  Perhaps I had managed to beat the snow after all.  Then came the slight swerve, my 4900-pound behemoth moving a few inches away from my control in an instant, the slush catching even the adjusting sway-controls of the car's computers off guard.  The signs lighted up.  Icy road conditions ahead, 40 mph MAX.  I slowed down to match the speed (I was only doing 50), my eyes constantly looking for that rest stop at the summit.  The snow began coming in force.  Would I need chains up ahead?  Cars were still passing me (the fools), I was still passing the semi-trucks (their drivers likely muttering the same thing, "the fool"), and the snow continued.  Then, a sign, next rest stop 1 mile.  Could it be?  I slowed to 30, the road now like a slush pile with only the tire tracks ahead of me making a visual path.  My car was on full alert, no more lights on to signal traction control but it was ready, its computer making thousands of more calculations than my solo-cup of coffee-brain could do at this (or any) hour.  And then...Donner Summit rest stop!  Like a gift from heaven.  I pulled off, almost thankful to see an old friend, a place I had been before during my drives.  Getting out and there was more slush, more than my boots could discard, and the snow was still coming.  A quick potty break, a shake of the hands and feet to relieve the tension, and I was back in the car.  And even though I was now heading downhill, I could see in the mirror the dark sky and the snow flurries, stopped as effectively as a shore of sand forcing back the strongest wave.  Ahead of me the sun was coming, its rays already warming the road and melting what few brave flakes managed to make it through the pass.  It was Gandolf all over, the sun gentle yet backed by a recognized intensity telling the storm, "You shall not pass."  And my drive, my real drive, had once again begun.

    Now there was time to think of all that had happened, from spending a final night in my parents' home to bringing back what few items I could to my mother, trinkets really, pieces of her life, a life now moved and yet removed from all that she knew.  It was rather like spotting the lone tree in the plain, a sight I would see often.  The tree, tall and gallant and yet bare, alone in its spot, no other tree for miles and miles.  Was it just the winter that caused its starkness, or was it slowly giving up the fight, the last of its kind patiently waiting for new growth somewhere and yet, after so many years and decades, not seen anything arrive.  There was still beauty in its majesty, a sight for my eyes, a recognition of its enduring pride; and yet, how many eyes had not seen, their vehicles zooming past in a state of hypnosis, the lines of the highway more interesting or more boring thatn some silly old, probably dead tree?  And more so, how many blank non-stares had the tree witnessed, perhaps even as far back as when cars could only move slowly, or before there was even a highway?  Perhaps then, the tree was surrounded by other trees, a thriving forest of its own, lost in its own non-staring and non-caring world.

    I couldn't help but think of that tree and the others I would see.  Sometimes I'd see several trees, each spaced about a mile apart, but few others as if tracts of land had been cleared and then followed by a change of heart.  Not the right place for us, was the decision.  Or perhaps these trees were the only ones strong enough to make it through the tough conditions of the soil and the saline water and the wind and cold...these were perhaps the hearty ones making a new stand, the next generation ready to carry on the role of the aged relic spotted an hour ago?  Perhaps that would soon be me, either the hearty survivor or the aged relic...it was difficult to tell.  When I first entered my massive rental car, I felt that I was ready.  Music lectures and favorite albums now concisely packed and put in order, ready to enter the CD slot and make my drive time slide by.  This was all new for me, the lighted screen, the controls all there visually from individual temperature controls (driver and passenger and back occupants) to heated steering wheel (now that was an odd feeling if your not used to it, as I wasn't...something had gone wrong with the heater was my first thought).  Then onto the audio, this after feeling virtually every crevice within reach and still not finding a slot for my CDs.  There was the usual radio, AM, FM, XM, and the USB and aux, even an SD card slot.  But nothing for CDs.  And then it dawned on me that the magazine articles were true...CDs were passe.  I may as well have brought a boxload of 8-tracks (hey, I even remember 4-tracks) or cassette tapes.  The newer car manufacturers all knew this and now it was my turn to catch up or at least realize that time had moved on.

    Perhaps this was how my mother was feeling, surrounded by all the comforts of home but this new place, modern as it was, was anything but her home.  Her home was now gone, up for sale and soon to be the joy of another family ready to begin their own life journey.  And despite all of the company and the meals and the outings, there were likely large periods of loneliness now coming  in like a fog, a slate of time maybe only relieved with the grace of dreaming.  Sleep, my dear, sleep.  For me, seeing those scattered and lonely trees, I wondered if that was how my mother was feeling (she had written to her neighbor --but not to any relative-- of how lonely she felt now that all of her siblings had passed away), a lone giant still standing tall but perhaps ready to give up the waiting and the fight.  Now it was a time of just letting eyes zoom past, hidden in a rest home, another enclave imprisoning these majestic beauties in a location far removed from stores and neighbors and life.  It was for their safety, we were told, but really it might be meant for ours.  For we were now the ones in the comfortable new car, looking or not looking, and yet slowly realizing that not much further ahead, we would prove little more than those outdated CDs, riding (no longer driving) to our own "independent living" facility, an expensive prison for the elderly.  Expensive, brightly decorated, and well-equipped...but a prison nonetheless.  And yet somewhere out there, standing tall, would be a series of lone trees, defiant for a few more years...if only someone would look.