A White-Knuckled Lesson on a Mountain Pass
The rain had been sprinkling on and off all day as we drove up 285 from Pagosa Springs to Denver. My sister had told me we would go over five mountain passes, but I lost count as our eyes feasted on the postcard perfect scenery that we saw out our windows:
Tree-lined roads winding past rippling streams. A side trip to a waterfall. The smell of fresh air from opened windows. Hawks circling overhead.
It was day two of a four-day road trip with my seventeen-year-old son. We are a marching band family and when Zach expressed interest in the Academy Drum and Bugle Corps perform on their tour across the United States this summer, I agreed to go to one of their shows. We decided on Denver because we could stay with my sister on a night there and back and it was a great excuse to escape the Phoenix heat.
After stopping for gas, Zach agreed to drive so I could catch a quick nap. I positioned the pillow against the side window and was soon asleep.
The sound of rain woke me.
Not just a few sprinkles, but a pounding deluge. I straightened in my seat and looked at my son. Zach's eyes stared straight ahead, following the taillights of the truck in front of him. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Visibility was almost zero. We were climbing a mountain pass.
"Keep your eyes on the white line so you don't swerve into the oncoming lane," I said. "Can you see the white line?"
"Barely." The words terse. Brief.
The rain fell in sheets.
My ten white knuckles matched the ten white knuckles of my son, gripping the steering wheel. He had had little experience with driving in inclement weather. We lived in a desert, after all. I squinted out the foggy windshield and turned on the defrost. I wished I had changed the windshield wipers before we began our journey.
(Wipers are a bit of a joke in the desert. The only time you notice you need to replace them is on the rare day it rains. After replacing them, the sun rots them, so when it rains again, the wipers have deteriorated.)
The wipers couldn't move fast enough to keep the rain off the glass.
I peered to the right. The shoulder was narrow.
"There's no room to pull over."
My son nodded. Silent.
Inch by inch. Mile by mile. Zach drove in the pounding rain for 1 1/2 hours. We maneuvered through rain-flooded Denver streets and finally made it to the stadium.
The event was canceled due to rain.
Our view much of the trip. Photo by Zach Hartke, taken when he wasn't driving!
You've seen the commercial:
Two tickets. $46.
Two hotdogs, two popcorns, two sodas. $27.
One autographed baseball. $50.
Real conversation with your eleven-year-old son. Priceless.
Mastercard produced their "priceless" commercials for 9 years and made 160+ ads. They used professional athletes like Peyton Manning and animated characters like the Vlasic Pickle stork. The commercials always ended with the predictable "priceless" line, conjuring up warm fuzzies of family times and perfect memories.
This is what I was going for when I got in the car and started the four-day road trip. I figured a few adventures, some tame side trips, and some moments of Wonder and The Loud of Joy.
It didn't turn out like I planned.
It turned into a white-knuckled, hold-your-breath, don't-look-over-the-side moment of terror.
Kinda like parenting.
As a parent, I've done everything in my power to protect my kids.
Certified car seats. Plastic covers on the electrical outlets. Locks on the cabinets.
Cleansers and medications out of reach. Bicycle helmets. Elbow pads and knee pads for roller blading.
Conversations of who they will be with and when they will be home. Bedtimes. Curfews.
Then the teen years hit, and I felt my protection slipping. And on a mountain pass in a pounding deluge, I discovered again what all parents know: we do all we can to keep our kids safe, but the time comes, when you give them the keys, slide over, and let them take the wheel.
And as much as you want to tell them to pull over and to let you drive, there is not room and you can't. You are no longer in control.
It is in these white-knuckle moments that you discover if the lessons taught on dry desert streets have been learned as your child takes to the mountains and encounters a storm.
For me, to see my son pass the test: Priceless.
At our destination, before it was canceled due to rain.