Ski Trip From Hell - part 2

I had the brakes nailed to the floorboard but the bright orange Saab slowed not a mile-per-hour. The pickup truck in front of us had stopped for a red light, a naked engine block in its truck bed to supply rear-end ballast on the icy roads. The four of us had an eternity to brace ourselves for the ensuing impact. It seemed like forever as we finally experienced the sickening thud that followed.

The very low speed impact had no effect on us physically, or on the truck that we hit. It did peel the hood back on the Saab and bend the radiator backwards. The Texas farmer just smiled and shook his head when we offered to call the police, or at least exchange phone numbers.

“You hit that old engine block. You did not touch my truck. You don’t owe me nothing and it was your fault, so you’ll have to pay for the damages on that orange whats-it of yours. I don’t see any reason to call the police.”

Neither did I. We quickly decided there was no mechanical, only structural damage to the car and continued the final two-hundred-fifty miles to the Red River Ski Resort.

The remainder of the trip went without incident but it was late afternoon when we reached Red River – not enough time to ski so we got the keys to our condo instead and then stopped at a ski shop to rent boots, skis, etc. It was dark when we pulled into the front of the little condo, Mick frowning and less than a happy camper.

“This condo is nice, and at least we can eat dinner at a nice restaurant and catch up on a little nightlife.”

Mick’s frown and silence had accompanied us practically since leaving Dalhart. “I don’t know about dinner,” he said. “I’m feeling a little sick.”

“Don’t be that way, Mick,” I said. “I did the best I could.”

Mick was glancing around for a bathroom, his right hand shaking in time with his head. His other hand was at his mouth. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’m sick and think I’m gonna puke.”

CONTINUED TOMORROW

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