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Comfort and joy on the Sea to Sky

Rest? Dismay? Where did that come from? One of the joys and frustrations of always having music play in your head is that you never know what numbers have been punched in your cosmic juke box.
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Rest? Dismay? Where did that come from?

One of the joys and frustrations of always having music play in your head is that you never know what numbers have been punched in your cosmic juke box. The melodious, sweeping musical orgasm of the angelic choir in Beethoven’s 9 th , growing from the lone, overstuffed baritone, “O Freunde, nicht diese Tone!,” bleeds into the repetitive syncopation of Captain Beefheart growling out the opening line to Frank Zappa’s Willie the Pimp, “I’m a little pimp with my hair gassed back,” and trails off into… God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen?

It must be Christmas. Nearly? Soon?

Rest and dismay fill my tiny space, a cocoon of muted sounds and heavily filtered light and darkness. I contort myself, seeking a joyless comfort and disturbed sleep in a space meant for neither. Despite the feeling many drivers you meet on the road are, in fact, asleep at the wheel, sleeping in a driver’s seat is no kind of sleep at all. I’m mentally booking appointments to see the Goddess of Physiotherapy or the Masseuse to the Stars, possibly both so thoroughly pretzeled will I be when I finally ooze out of this most uncomfortable of beds.

Seven hours ago, I left Squamish. It was snowing. Hard. I’d been trying to “beat” the storm all day long. Beat it out of Vancouver. Beat it past the endless construction. Beat it through the canyon. Beat it home to pick up Zippy the Dog — who in doggy psychobabble has developed separation anxiety since I left him with his second family for six weeks last spring — and log some therapeutic couch time.

When there was still hope — hours ago — I played music, listened to the radio, read the paper in the faint, yellow glow of the interior light, filled the cocoon with coherent sound to quell the cosmic soundtrack.

Then they — and who exactly are “they”? — closed the highway. “If you’re stuck on the highway, tough noogies. The RCMP aren’t releasing any information.” Oh well, I guess that’s at least unambiguous. You’re stuck; suck it up.

? Remember Christ our Saviour

Was born on Christmas Day. ?

Well, he wasn’t. Not really. Not even close. But it’s still the best excuse for the holiday and, at this late date, we wouldn’t want to start changing all the carols. Suspend our disbelief. Peace on earth….

Peace checked out a couple of hours ago. Now we’re pulling out all the Zen tricks to keep rage at bay. From Squamish, 3 p.m. more or less, to the initial End of Movement, 4:40 p.m., I saw two snowplows, both heading south, near the pullover where no one bothers to mount their chains, preferring the West Coast Technique instead, which is to say waiting until they’ve slipslid to a complete stop on a hill too steep and installing them then, assuming they haven’t slid backward into the seething traffic behind them.

I passed what I assumed was the source of all delay shortly after 6 p.m., an ugly looking head-on at one of the nasty curves just north of Brandywine. Someone with too much speed, bad tires, inattention and who knows what other distractions from the basic business at hand — driving — slid into someone else, presumably the innocent victim.

Both cars were cut apart, doors lying neatly at the side of the road. I wondered if the people who’d been inside were dead. I wondered if the rescue guys really needed to use the Jaws of Life to cut them out. I know if I had the Jaws, I’d use them even if the accident victim could open the door, get out and dance a jig. Why not? Wouldn’t you? Of course you would.

I still cared at that point. Even thanked the RCMP people directing traffic around the scene, ghosts in the snowstorm. I wondered where the damn plows were. Hadn’t seen any since those first ones… hours ago.

Home free. Road’s gonna open up, be home by 6:30, 7 at the latest.

? To save us all from Satan’s pow’r

When we had gone astray. ?

Watching 7 p.m. become 8 p.m. become 9 p.m. become….

What now? Another accident. Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn at this point. The well of human kindness had dried up. Sweep their lifeless bodies off the side of the road and get this freakin’ traffic moving.

I recall another snowy night, search for details to drown out the music in my head. Sacramento to Lake Tahoe. The road over the mountains makes the Sea to Sky Highway look like the Trans Canada across Saskatchewan. Just before beginning to climb there’s a road check, all cops and flashing lights and congestion. Cars pulled over, cars turning back, cars moving forward. The cops are checking tires and cars. Good tires, four-wheel drive? You pass. Good tires, chains? You pass. Questionable tires, no chains, no four-wheel drive? Go home, loser. No one stuck on this hill. There’s another stop, just like this one, on the Tahoe side. Smart.

I’m eating dry granola, Christmas oranges, cashews. The bounty from a quick grocery stop in Squamish. I’m relatively warm. Run the car now and then to clear the windows — in case we ever move — and take off the chill. No worries, mate; gassed up before I left. Zippy’s blanket from the back seat enhances the cocoon feeling… and smells like dog. He’d be enjoying this.

A girl walks down the line of snow-covered cars, imploring, begging for anyone with a can of gas. No siphon hose. It’s winter. There’s been storm warnings all day long. Put a brain on. Gas up.

? O tidings of comfort and joy. ?

All hell’s breaking loose. Lights, rumbling motion, steel scraping pavement. Oh good lord, they’ve finally figured it out. Yeah guys, it’s the big trucks with plows on the front! Duh.

I jump in eight cars behind the plow, head stuck out the side window until the windshield stops playing Misty. Zoot alors, it’s past 10 p.m.! I’ve been sleeping. Radio back on, Mt. FM says this is the plan.

One hundred metres… 200… that’s it. Stuck again. Carumba! The Perimeter bus in front of me is slipping. Slam it into four-wheel low and pull into the 20cm lane and get around him.

Finally, crawling we see the problem. Some moron in a tank truck jackknifed on the next hill. Looks like he experienced negative traction on the way up, slid backwards, cranked the wheel over to keep from hitting whatever behind him and jackknifed… going uphill.

This is why I’m against capital punishment. I’d favour dragging his… whatever.

Nearly 1 a.m., home. Christmas cheer flows freely. Mental note to keep “emergency” liquids in the car. Think kind thoughts about humanity. Comfort and joy… comfort and joy.

Merry Christmas.