Had a chance this past week to see some parts of Oregon that
I’d never seen before. I suppose that was nice but it wasn’t really a planned
outing so it was a little aggravating too.
I’d gone to my son’s house to help him with a project and
was returning home. I’d made it only about forty miles when all traffic was
routed off the freeway. The sign said “Road Closed” with no explanation as to
why. Heading back to the nearest truck stop, I went inside and learned the road
was shut down due to fire. There was no estimated time of re-opening.
I waited for a half an hour to see if they would update the
travel information and when they did not, I decided to use an alternate route.
Sometimes a wildfire can keep a road closed for days and I wanted to get home.
When I started my pickup, the people parked beside me—with Kansas plates on
their car—perked up, asking if the road was open. I said no and told them I was
going around. Immediately, they wanted to know how far it was to take the other
road and if they could follow me.
I said I had no problem with them following me and when I
told them it would add about 125 miles to get to the next town, a town that was
only 65 miles down the freeway, they seemed excited. But when I clarified it
would take about three hours due to switchbacks up and down the mountains, they
didn’t seem so thrilled.
“Could be longer too, if you get behind someone going slow,
there ain’t a lot a room to pass up there. It the vehicle in front is going ten
miles an hour, everybody will go ten miles an hour.” I didn’t want them blaming
me when their trip turned into four hours or more.
They eventually decided against taking the detour. “We’ll
just wait for the main road to open. This is our first time in the mountains,”
the guy explained. “I’m not comfortable driving on a mountain road with
switchbacks. Especially one I’ve never been on before.”
I said okay and took off.
Thing is, I’d never been on the road either. Not all of it
anyway—I had been on the switchbacks before. But then, even if I hadn’t it
shouldn’t make a difference, one set of mountain switchbacks is about like any
other. Of course, I grew up around mountains so it all seems normal to me. For
the folks from Kansas, I guess I can see why they’d be leery.
After I got up there, I was glad they hadn’t followed. There
were no guardrails in most places, it was getting dark about the time I reached
the summit, and parts of the road were needing repair—the sides were crumbling.
Not a good place for someone new to mountains and if they’d been behind me, I
might have felt obligated to go slower so they could keep up. Then that would
have made me a bit cranky. This little detour was already costing me a few
hours.
Thinking all this, I was happily cruising along, when ahead,
I see a semi. It took only a couple of minutes, if that, to catch him. And
then, I followed the taillights of the truck—at ten miles an hour! Yep, ten
miles and hour, just like I’d suggested earlier. And that was our top speed!
For the next six miles! If I’d known my words were going to be prophetic, I’d
have padded my estimate, by 45 miles an hour or so! That would have gotten me
home a lot sooner.
As for the people from Kansas: Although I didn’t see them
again, the freeway was opened shortly after I left on my alternate route, so
I’m sure they beat me to the next town by several hours! Oh, well, I eventually
made it home—and got to see some parts of Oregon that I’d never seen before! ~
Bruce
A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey,
Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS
and
paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders
is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.
______________________________
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