The avalanche hotline report forced a change in our snowshoe plans. The route near Leavenworth was too dangerous.
News of unsafe snow conditions was disheartening, but not enough to make us turn back.
Rolling the truck on its side two miles shy of the trailhead was.
The thought "This could really mess things up" flashed through my mind as the truck slid around the icy turn, briefly gained traction, slid again, and then collided with a low snowbank, pirouetting briefly before slapping over onto its side. Silence hung heavily.
"So time really does stand still" was the next thought in my head, as I gazed at the road from a now-sideways position.
But not for long. The dog jumped out the back and ran around trying to make sense of the new, bewildering adventure while the four of us climbed out the driver's side window and began to mutter awestruck expletives.
Too many chase scenes have made roll-overs seem like routine occurrences. Gazing at the undercarriage of my 4x4 for the first time, it struck me that that this maneuver fit perfectly in a AAA winter-driving-tips brochure titled "How Not to Drive Your SUV on Ice." Standing around at my own accident felt far from routine.
The local Chelan County sheriff thought otherwise. He said it was the kind of accident that "just happens" under these particular half-ice, half-dry pavement conditions, so he didn't issue a ticket. In a kindly gesture, he dropped us off at the best restaurant in the area to await a tow.
Time accelerated from a standstill to a crawl. AAA didn't have any trucks in the area. It could be hours, they said. We ordered another round.
Finally, at the stroke of midnight, the biggest, brightest tow truck in the world steamed in, a neon cross ablaze on its grill, bullhorns stretching the length of the hood, and a "Midnight Cowboy" sticker plastered across the windshield.
A God-fearing cowboy had come to tow us home. We were saved—and we hadn't even prayed.
"Got to get going," the spark-plug-sized driver shouted as he swung down from the driver's seat and set up the tow cables. "It's bad up there," he thumbed toward Stevens Pass.
For three hours we crawled over the pass at 10 miles per hour, mesmerized by the whiteout conditions and by Robert, our chain-smoking cowboy, who entertained us with stories about semi-trucks and fatal accidents. A few hours later, the pass would close due to—no, not a car accident—a helicopter crash, of all things.
Back in Seattle by sunrise, our Midnight Cowboy nodded goodbye with a word of caution: "Nope, the ice don't care what you're drivin'."
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