The Making of an Adventure

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Earlier today, I had a telephone conversation with my daughter. I regaled her with my experiences, so far.

I told her about the blizzard that swept through the mountains as I climbed higher and higher. I described climbing a long, steep grade covered in deep snow. I had reservations about this challenge, but the alternatives were few. I built up a “head of steam” as I approached the incline. The car tipped upward like one of those air show jets and began to climb. I felt my velocity fall and increased the pressure on the throttle.

Still, the speed fell. I had plenty of throttles left, so I spurred the machine onward and upward.

About halfway up, I glanced in the rearview mirror. In the white-on-white background stood two rooster tails of snow. I reckon they were ten to fifteen feet tall.

“Dang!” I was impressed.

I kept the pressure up and after about six months, I crested the hill. I turned down the heat on the engine and began prying my fingers from the steering wheel.

“You sure did not plan your trip very well,” my daughter chided.

“Nothing turns an adventure into a mere trip faster than over-planning,” I replied.

She sighed deeply, tolerating her nutty Dad. We chatted awhile longer then said good-bye.

I aimed the nose of my car at the apex of the next icy hairpin turn and increased power. We slid authoritatively through the turn and sped on toward the day’s end at the summit.

Heh, heh.

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