#17 Your Shower is Ready

Nathan wanted to go to the snow. It was after Christmas, and I can’t find the energy anywhere, did I leave it under the couch? Why does everyone want to go everywhere all the time?
It came down to a Wednesday, winter break is ending, it’s the only day during our break that we could do it, and it’s raining here so it’ll be snowing at the snow. Nathan is 15 and he wants to see it snow. So we go.
Pouring rain and I have 5 kids and the dog in the car, and one other mom for comic relief. It’s raining so hard on the 5 fwy that I can’t see the road in front of me. My other mom says, the one who took her kids to Europe on no money for almost 3 months, she looks for danger, for adventure, she looks at me and says maybe we should turn around?
What??
Certainly not. Let’s just get some food, once I can find the road, let’s get some food and then we’ll just keep going. You got me off my couch, dammit, where I wanted to read by the fire for like the rest of my life, but instead here we are now and we are going.
As I’m changing lanes to get off, the rain is suddenly THE WORST EVER, in fact when we get home we will see on the news that the rain is in fact A FLOOD but we are in the middle of unknowing anxiety bliss, and the car is hydroplaning, so I am going at 45 miles an hr past Six Flags Magic Mountain while people are whizzing past me but what the heck, I am not going to kill 5 kids.
We slosh across an intersection hoping to see a place we can eat and drive through Ass in the Crack (Jack in the Box), and everyone’s having the jumbo platter so I’m passing back trays of eggs and bacon and syrup and hash browns and the guy is talking to the other guy over the loud pounding rain about how they called him and told him NOT to come into work today because of the weather, because of El Nino, because it’s dangerous. And I’m thinking, as we take in our wet cups of water and wet sausage biscuits, I just need a little food, it’s just rain it’s not a blizzard.
The rain eases up enough to see the freeway so we get back on and breakfast shoved in face and two hands clutching wheel and we head for hopefully drier roads.
We make the climb to Frazier Park and suddenly there is a patch of blue sky and then a snow covered mountain and then there’s our exit and kids are shrieking and we’re climbing up that road and the blue sky is maybe a shade of grey now (not the dirty novel, just the color) and we pass some people sledding on a really steep hill and we think about stopping but I don’t really think about it because I want to get all the way to Pine Mountain Club where our friend has a cabin, and I know where the sledding is, right next to her house, even though we can’t go in because she isn’t with us, we will have exclusive hill privilege.
So the road is getting bendier and people have to pee, and then it’s snowing, like magical, and it’s Disneyland but real and nature, and the kids are so happy, big fat flakes, silent beauty.

But then I haven’t driven in snow in awhile and the snow seems to be getting pretty thick. Do I turn around? Of course not. I can see the road, it’s a little white, I haven’t driven in snow for ten years maybe but what’s the diff, the road is curving, and there are little hills and I don’t get to look out the windows to enjoy because suddenly this has become a treacherous path.
When the road turns brown white and slushy, I don’t like the feel of it so we pull over right there on the road, not actually over that much because there’s nowhere to pull over, but I’m not going down that little hill that goes around a bend without the chains on. Which I have never put on. In my life.
The kids pile out of the car because it’s SNOWING! And the dog goes, and they’re insanely happy, throwing snow, in the wrong boots, in rain boots, with garden gloves, the wrong gloves, the wrong pants because we couldn’t find the snow pants. Nathan and Noah take out the chains and we try to figure out how to put them on and after about 20 minutes we realize Oh, these chains don’t fit these tires. It’s like trying to put a baby diaper on a grown up. We keep pulling up but the butt is too big.
So we try the OTHER set of chains we brought and these will surely work. But no they don’t fit either. Kids are sledding down the opposite hill into the street. Perfect. The snow is lighter now, so maybe well it looks like for sure we are going to have to go on without the chains. A guy in a furry cap with steaming coffee in a jeep stops to talk to us and make sure we’re okay. He’s heading the same way we are. He has glasses and looks like a teacher so we assume he’s smart. He tells us if we keep it in low gear and don’t use the brake we should be okay. It’s only curvy for an eighth of a mile.
So we pack everyone up and all the chains too now strewn underfoot, and head slowly down the little hill and then back up and around and every time I am hoping this is finally the town and why do I always think it’s right around the corner, we’re almost there, why do humans have to repeat things because they like the comfort and safety of doing what they’ve done before, the cabin we know, the sledding we know, the familiar?
We make it into the town. It is thick with snow. We try to head up the hill to where the cabin is but our car starts to slide down. I draw the line at the sliding down the hill. This is not a good feeling, car making its own decisions with movement involved on slick roads and kids and dog and wrong boots.
We make one of the first good decisions and turn around and go to flatter crappy sledding area. We park by the golf course and dump everything out of the trunk and take our terrible gloves that are like wearing saran wrap and make your fingers feel like frozen Vienna sausages and the kids are running off ahead and the snow is falling and it is beautiful. Becky the dog jumps immediately in the slushy lake and we yell at her and she jumps out and runs around, black dog on white snow and this is beautiful. My frozen hands take a few frozen pictures as they look for hills to slide on, and I look back at the car, and up at the sky, which clears for seconds, and then thick brown cloud rolling in behind it. I look at the road and think there’s no way we can get off this mountain, this is like storm after storm, but first things, pictures and kids happy.
I have no snow pants so I do not sled, but video them falling and sledding. This is maybe the best part, the wide white expanse, the lack of L.A., the lack of constant people and noise and dirt. Here there is space and no one and laughter.
What I also like best is the Beck, she bounds across the snow, she runs with the kids down the hill, but in true trail dog fashion, she always looks back, she checks where I am, she is my team, she doesn’t leave me. It looks like she leaves me because she frolics, but if turn to go, she is there by my side. Checking in.
I have taken enough pictures and my hands are cold and we see a break in the clouds and then behind that the grey that is the thickness of another storm. Rebecca looks at me gravely. Yes, that is not just fog, dude, she is saying. Storm. Break. Storm. And then pretty soon no breaks. And then pretty soon dark, I know, because in these pointy mountains the sun falls behind the cracks so fast your wet pants will freeze to you.
So I say enough pix, I’m heading to the car to put the cameras away and then we should head the hell out of here.
Becky is with me, yay, walk, she thinks, and rambles alongside, up ahead, back to me, up ahead, the car is still there, the cameras are shoved inside, I’m looking for dry socks I know I brought a bunch of extra dry socks. I get the cups for icees that I brought, plastic cups to dunk in the snow and then fill with grape juice. The kids are coming back tumbling around, sleds thrown under feet, freezing toes, freezing fingers, they’re mad with sledding glee, the snow is their blanket of joy. The car is like a giant wet foot locker, everything is thrown in. We see the guy from the mountain again, his jeep pulls up and his spectacled face is peering out with his steaming cup of coffee.
The other mom and I look at him for signs of warning, and he is fresh with them, oh, you need chains now. The mountain is going to freeze soon, of course you can always stay in my bed and breakfast, the Old Bear Inn, right down the road. Are you the Old Bear, we say. Yes I am, he says. And grunts a bit forebodingly.
We drive across the slushy road to the general store, since the boys have run off to the auto repair store and came back reporting it closed. Of course it’s closed. It’s a snowstorm, and we needed them.
So we go to the general store and inside is one dark haired dude and a bunch of chains and overpriced produce like we are in Siberia and not ten minutes up a windy road from civilization.
Noah the 10 yr old and Nathan the 15 yr old are looking through all the chain. The regular car chain doesn’t fit, we already have two of those. Let’s try the SUV chain, even though it looks like serious bondage. $129 dollars. Bargain.
We go out to the slushy parking lot, with our bad boots and no gloves and try to put chains on. First we do it by half-reading the instructions and moving the car onto them and getting confused. Then Rebecca holds the instructions like she’s a Justice of the Peace, and Noah Nathan and I scurry under and around the car as she dictates the orders, and our fingers are red and freezing and the chains are huge and there’s these little mofo springs that keep falling off but we finally get them cocooned around the tires, tires all hammocked up we can finally go I finally don’t have to think about the car sliding off into the mountain ditch, we all pack up I say NO ARGUING to the kids in the back who have had a dance party under a blanket in the backseat while we were struggling.
Up the mountain thump thump and now the roads are clear. Of course. So I go so slow because whap whap the chains are destroying the car but I inch up the hill because I know around the corner it will be snowy again.
Whap whap inch inch. Do I take off the chains? We cannot take off the chains. We have to just go slowly til we get through the pass. Why, since I had kids, is life this long series of baffling things I have to figure out ON THE SPOT, with people watching me and depending on me, for safety, life and wit, and I feel constantly like I have NO IDEA what I’m doing. In fact I’ve passed that sign so many times it doesn’t make sense anymore, I’m way beyond that into pirate territory and I just don’t have the clothes for it frankly. I never know what I’m doing, and yet they keep serving up a fresh serving of TAKE THIS, and I just LOAD it onto my tray, because there are other younger people in the line, and they’re waiting for me to hurry up and figure it out. AND get them a sandwich.
The car sounds terrible. Then Nathan says firmly “The tire blew.” I’m like, thump thump, no it didn’t.
I can hear it, Mom.
I hear thump thump. We’re almost to the top of one of the curves.
No, it’s just the chains. Mom it’s the tire. The tire is popped. It’s popped.
I pull off at a little crossroads because the thumping is terrible anyway, and I get out of the car to check because I’m convinced it’s all fine, we can’t have TWO things go wrong, we’re all full up currently with the chains and then I walk around the front and see the one tire, heroic, see I told you and the other tire, slump, flat, motherfu##*(@*.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. The tire is saying. And waving goodbye.
Should I call Triple AAA, the sensible mom says, hushed.
Sigh, heck no, we’ll change the tire. We have a spare. We can make it down the mountain.
Noah and Nathan jump out. I’ve never changed a tire, but it looks like here’s my chance.
Here’s where the 10 year old is amazing. He’s jacking up the car. He weighs like 50 pounds, and look at him. Nathan is taking off the Frankenstein bolts that hold on the tire. We wrestle out the spare which is under wet clothes boots old chains, soaking rug. Nathan leans on it. It’s flat mom. No it’s not. Shut up Nathan.
We’re putting on the spare happily, like Snow White with little birds on our fingers. This tire will save us, spare tires might be a little LOW, but they won’t be flat because they are here to save us. They are in fact for emergencies like this. I’m tightening bolts and thinking thank god there is in n out after this. There will be ketchup and fries .
A little truck stops and a guy gets out. He’s young and with his girlfriend. Do you need any help, he says like a champion. Maybe you can check our bolts make sure they’re on tightly we say.
He grabs the crowbar wrench thingie and he’s tightening them all. He knows what he’s doing. We’re so happy they stopped, we tell them everything that’s happening, our series of mistakes and then Noah is lowering the car and as it’s lowered, the spare is flat. No just low on air. It’s not full of any air.
We call Triple A on their phone that works. Half an hour they say. Only two people can fit in the tow truck, they say. I look at our 7 people. And the dog. It’s Sophie’s Choice time. I look at the sun lowering. I say to our young couple, can you guys take a bunch of kids down the mountain?
Our hero says lemme move some stuff around. He’s heading to his truck. His girlfriend (who is perfectly made up and is dressed amazingly) says he has a bunch of work stuff in the back.
We haggle about who gets to go and who stays. Nathan, who would never miss a tow truck ride, wants to get the hell out of here. So when our Hero comes back, he says he can fit three. We send him down with five, all piled up. Emma and I stay up in the van. I pull it off so it’s right by the crossroad sign. At least we are in a good place. We wait. Waiting takes longer when it’s completely silent and there’s ice outside and your only boots are wet.
A guy with a load of wood stops and I tell him if only we can fill the spare with air, maybe we can get back down the mountain. He looks agonized, like trying to decide if he wants to help. Like I would look if someone asked me for help. He says he will come back with an air compressor. There are suddenly all these strangers. Like in real life you never talk to strangers. When you’re in trouble, suddenly strangers are in the middle of your struggle, just like walking around in your personal mess.
Emma and I sit in the van with the heat on as it’s getting colder. We have gas. We have dry socks. It is a pretty view. We see a tow truck and the guy passes right by. We sit there for an hour. She is getting jittery without her wifi. I say casually, hey, do you think they made it down the mountain? You don’t think the stuff he “had to move around” in his truck was dead bodies do you?
I realize I never got his name. And I didn’t take a picture of the license plate. I sent my family with some stranger who might be making them into lamps right now. What if I never saw them again.
Compressor guy comes back and he and his eskimo dressed girlfriend hook some wires up to the battery to start the compressor and they hook it to the tire and I think yay and then we see that the spare is off the rim. There is no way the spare is going to work. It’s like throwing an iron life preserver to a dead guy.
I think about what Nathan said when we were jacking up the car, why did I make us come here this is so terrible. And I told him look, we are just not used to things going wrong. Nothing ever goes wrong for us. The spare tire has never been used in 12 years. This is a good thing. Not right now, it’s a bullshit thing right now but later in reality, this is maybe the best thing ever to figure out.
Compressor guy leaves. Pine Mountain security comes by almost at dusk probably to help us but probably mostly to make sure we get off their mountain. I use her cell phone. Nathan doesn’t answer. Because he’s probably a lamp. Triple A does answer and they say the guy is 10 minutes away.
I get back in with Emma. The tow truck guy who passed us an hour ago pulls in.
Suddenly we’re free of our van mountain prison.
We are in the cab of the tow truck which is like a small apartment building. We could fit a Guatemalan family in here. We have Becky with us. The heat is on so hot it’s like Bermuda. It’s a mini vacation, that heater, all on its own. Emma is dying. It’s SO HOT.
He gets the van loaded up in like FOREVER time, it’s like we died already and they had to call Triple A to load the van up to the Afterlife. Then he gets in and we’re heading ON THE ROAD and it’s so pretty because I’m not driving, and those trees are so thick with snow and he says you know it’s 10 dollars a mile after 7 miles and I’m like LOOK MAN, my family is at the bottom of the hill. I HAVE TO GO THERE. What are you going to drop me like 7 miles closer and leave me there? I’m just sayin he says.
He tells me chains are hard on tires and they pop all the time. He’s probably lying but I don’t care. I’m not driving on the snowy road, he’s our $80 rescue troll andsuck it up, we are almost done.
We get to the bottom of the mountain in the dark and the cold. There are a flurry of phone calls, there is no tire place open because it’s after 5. Do we leave the van. Do we stay overnight at the Motel Sicks. We have to wait on the Motherbird back at the house. Who will come rescue us, 7 people and the dog can’t fit in one car.
We find our family at the Flying Fart I mean Flying J truck stop plaza. I use plaza but depot with a side of skid row banquet hall is really a generous way to put it. It is like if you zoomed into a petri dish in a science lab growing gonorrhea bacteria, like zoomed in a billion percent, you would see the map of this place, and the vagrant truckers and tattooed people circulating in and out.
We get Subway from a Subway gas station and go back to the Flying J and hang out in the back room on a bus station bench, Rebecca Emma and I all crammed onto it, eating starvingly, while the kids run the dog around in circles in the weird lobby with giant staircase and everything is cordoned off with yellow caution tape so you have space but you can’t really use any of it.
We are staring at the men’s bathrooms and listening to the loudspeaker that announces things randomly.
“Number 17 your shower is ready,” we hear.
You can buy a shower at the front of the store, Rebecca says. By the gum counter. Truckers were lined up.
#17 passes us on the way back. Or maybe he’s going in the back to self-inject some anti-freeze.
“Nathan, wanna take a shower,” Noah says earnestly.
Rebecca says to me, “At the front they told me anyone can take a shower. Not just the truckers.”
We sit on our bench while the little kids speed by us with the dog. We are warm dry and fed, our car will get fixed tomorrow. Tim and Barry come to pick us up in Tim’s new truck (Nathan goes there) and Barry’s car. We split the human load. Bigger kids in truck. Moms and wee ones and dog with B.
On the way home we are passing Six Flags Magic Mountain, and we get a call from the truck who is ahead of us and has passed it first, because Nathan says we HAVE to take a picture of the sign.
We take a picture as we pass. Some of the lights are out on the sign and it says SIX FAGS in huge red letters. We are laughing so hard and we tell the little kids it’s funny because a fag is a cigarette. So they say “Six Cigarettes! That’s funny!” And they start laughing.
Then we are stuck in traffic because there’s an accident, someone skidded or spun around and we are sitting still in the middle of traffic but we don’t care because we are rescued and we are done with all that. Grateful is what you get when you scrape all the rest away. All the kids are warm and safe. The snow stopped snowing. There are cars all around us, and we saw it snow and we lived to the end.
Who was that guy, I finally asked Rebecca. The guy who saved us on the mountain? I don’t even know his name, she says. He works construction in Valencia. They just drove up to the snow to see it. Then when they were coming down they saw us stranded, and his girlfriend said “He looked over at me with this look in his eyes, like…can I stop? And I said sure, let’s stop.” So they pulled over.
We tried to give him money but he wouldn’t take any money. Nathan said when I’m older, I’m going to do that. I’m going to stop and help someone.
All seven of us said we would stop. We are on the lookout. One good guy made seven good guys.
The next day Barry and Tim drove new tires up the mountain, replaced them on the van, and came home. All in one piece. All fixed. Total cost of sledding trip: $500. Total sledding time: 25 minutes. Total obstacles overcome: still picking up the bodies
Would we do it again? If most of life is sitting on a bench in a Flying J, you better really love the people on the bench with you. And the nice stranger who shows up when you are most desperate.
Because the snow is beautiful but the people are everything.