I have heard it said that a bear’s only natural enemy is a meteorite; perhaps the same is true of snowplows. On Prince of Wales Island, snowplows move fast on the narrow, unlit roads, sporting a vast array of blinking colored lights, outlining a shape vaguely reminiscent of a Star Wars pack animal. Sometimes they travel in synchronized pairs. Did I mention that they move fast, and also that they get irritated when obliged to slow down? When one of these things materializes behind me in the snowy darkness, it moves into flawless tailgate formation, multi-colored lights blinking and flashing to warn of danger or perhaps to induce a seizure. If I manage to pull over without the creature having been forced to alter its rhythm, it rewards me with a cloaking spray of wet snow, such that all visibility is briefly lost.
Once many years ago in Anchorage, I tangled with a snowplow. In my defense, I was pulling up to a stoplight in the dark, and the road diverged into no less than four lanes, one to turn left, one to turn left or go straight, one to go straight, and one to go straight or turn right. The fresh snow had neatly obliterated all the lane markings, and the other vehicles seemed to be following no discernible pattern while waiting for green. Apparently, I drifted about four inches in front of the snowplow’s blade, and was rewarded with a solid chunk, in which I lost a taillight and was booted into my proper lane. Nobody was hurt; and the nice policeman tried to hide his snort when I mentioned plaintively that the plow had hit me, not the other way around, and didn’t being so big impart some extra responsibility? I even made it on time to my student-teacher-placement interview, which eventually led me to a teaching position in Craig.
It does make one ruminate: if the accident had been serious, say I had been in a body cast in traction for a month or so, how might my life’s trajectory have changed? Would I have found my way to teaching and raising a family in the shadows of this magnificent forest? Or would I have found myself living out my days in a place with no salmonberries?
Well, who knows? And as for the snowplows, they are all business, and unlike other non-carnivorous monsters, they are smart enough to know that the likes of me pose no threat. But they do hate it when I get in the way.
For your further edification:
Ah, snowplows. Once, during the fabled Winter of 96, we kept another couple’s children while they went down to Tennessee for a training seminar. On the day they were to return, I went down with shovel and carefully cleaned out the end of the drive where the snowplows had thrown snow in while scraping the road. They still had to walk up our long drive, in the interim the snow plow returned and refilled the end of our drive with snow.
Heedless creatures, indeed.
More on snow plows. In a different winter, but snow almost as deep, William went out with our snow plow to kindly work on the road and neighbor’s driveways. When he returned he was releasing the plow and it fell on his finger. I have often considered an emergency, can I take care of this myself or do we really need to go to the emergency room? This was one occasion that I took one look, grabbed a towel, gave orders to the children, and headed to the ER.
I remember hearing about that! Glad he was able to keep said finger. I probably would have simply fainted.
Well, the ER Dr. was a field military surgeon, and gleefully showed me just how off the finger was. I definitely felt a buzz.
Charming bedside manner, I would say.