Ski Trip From Hell - part 1

I skied for the first time with my best friend Mickey. We both worked at Cities Service Oil Company during the middle seventies. Mickey and his wife Nancy were expert skiers. My wife Gail and I had never tried it. They were our friends and convinced us we should take a weekend ski trip to Red River in New Mexico.

“We’ll leave Oklahoma City right after work and drive straight though to Red River,” Mick said. “We’ll get there in time to ski the whole day and then rest up a little before party time begins.”

We were all younger then and the plan sounded plausible. We left OKC before six and headed west on I-40, soon aware our plans had already begun going awry. It started snowing around five, I-40 becoming increasingly impassible by the time we reached Amarillo and stopped for a hamburger. Gail and I are both from Louisiana and not used to snow, much less the amount that had fallen and was continuing to fall.

Gail and I had our first new car, an Oklahoma State University orange 1973 Saab. It had a heated passenger seat and front wheel drive. The salesperson had assured me that no car was better in snow or on ice than that particular automobile. His words gave me little comfort as I had struggled to keep it on the road for the past six hours.

“Let’s get a room here in Amarillo, I said. “The Interstate is a mess.”

“Not in the plan,” Mick said. “We keep moving. Conditions will improve.”

Famous last words. Mick and Nan slept in the back seat, Gail in the passenger seat as I plodded through a blizzard worse than I could have ever imagined. When I finally made it to Dumas, I pulled into the first motel I found. Mick was less than enthralled.

“We can’t stop here. We’ll miss an entire day of skiing.”

Mick, Nan and Gail, having slept most of the distance from Amarillo, had no idea of the weather conditions. On the other hand, my eyes were almost blind from trying to discern the pavement from the ditch – all solid white - for the past two hours.

“I’m stopping,” I said. “If you’re serious about heading on to Red River, I’ll call you a cab to the bus station.”

Mick glared at me but followed me to the office of the motel. There was one room left, thank heavens, and Mick and I flipped a coin for the single bedroom. He won. He and Nan spent the night on a real bed, Gail and me on a lumpy couch. It didn’t much matter because exhausted, I fell asleep almost immediately.

It was no longer snowing when we awoke early the next morning. Mick questioned my manhood as we ate breakfast at a nearby truck stop. I ignored him, all the way to Dalhart. We were in town when he began yelling.

“You’re on a sheet of solid ice and driving way to fast. Slow down, Wildman. You’re going to hit that truck in front of us.”

Driving on ice is one thing. Stopping quickly on ice is something else altogether. We braced ourselves, and held our collective breaths as we plowed into the back of a stationary pickup truck.

CONTINUED TOMORROW

Eric'sWeb