The tires slipped once again, fighting a losing battle for four-wheel-drive traction on the ice. A sudden gust of wind from right-to-left lurched the lightweight Toyota a foot or more across the pavement.
I squinted through the windshield into the sideways snow. It was a furious, white army of snowflakes suddenly on the attack, made angry by incredible winds at the top of this mountain road.
Despite the cold, my fingers slipped with sweat on the steering wheel. Dimly I could see the shine of ice collecting on the asphalt, reflected in the glow of the headlights. I felt myself swallow hard as I studied the impenetrable whiteness before me.
* * * * *
North to Alaska
When I had seen the email invitation forwarded from my boss months earlier, it seemed a fitting way to close a career in the high-tech emergency communications business. There was a springtime conference in Anchorage. They needed a workshop speaker. I would be in front of a small audience of telecommunications professionals to explain my recent Lower-48 projects.
Consulting my calendar, I decided I could shoe-horn the trip in between other pressing engagements. I had already declared a retirement date. My schedule was now dominated by closing out projects where I was the lead. There was no temptation to leave half-finished initiatives half-finished, if there was any way to wrap them up.
For good or ill, I have always been haunted by the specter of leaving undone things behind. Maybe it’s a commendable attribute, to see that others are well-served. Or maybe it’s an undue, grasping pride, born of envy for a good reputation.
Whatever.
One way or the other, there was lots to do in preparation for my departure. But I thought I could manage the Anchorage gig, adding another feather to the resume of accomplishments that existed primarily only in my mind.
I searched airline schedules and booked the trip.
The segment of the industry in which I operated was small, and most of the operators knew each other, or at least knew OF each other. My employer dominated much of the buzz that existed, and like any multi-billion-dollar commercial enterprise, we had a perpetual stream of aggressive, energetic and creative competitors chipping away at our business.
They thought I was an expert…
There were two national trade shows each year, plus smaller regional conferences. For our mammoth company to agree to send a senior (albeit mid-level) manager to the modest Alaska event would be a gift to the organizers of that remote organization. They were delighted to have me on the agenda.
Go figure.
The conference was in February, and coincided with the start of the Iditarod run, an annual dog-sled race of some 70 miles. Anchorage in February… I had to think about that, but only for a moment. It would be an adventure; I could slip in a couple of vacation days; the company expense account removed the obstacles.
My anticipation grew, and I was not disappointed.
The host hotel for the conference was the Hilton, downtown. It was tempting, because of the loyalty points, but I opted for a bed & breakfast 5 miles outside of town in the Chugach National Forest.
My landlady was a delightfully irascible 80-year-old Australian. She kept retired Husky dogs, and one day invited me along to exercise them on a snow-packed forest trail.
You don’t get much of that in Kansas.
As was my usual travel routine, I flew in two days before my presentation. A million-mile-flyer on American Airlines, I had enough experience to know the frequency of delayed flights. In those days, it was about a 1-in-10 chance of delay or re-routing: Aircraft maintenance, weather at origin or destination, crews tardy from flights arriving late.
Most of my professional work was on a laptop, which could be done from almost any location. Meetings were by audio conference bridge. It still left plenty of time for sight-seeing.
Business before pleasure. Sometimes.
I spoke to the workshop audience. It was small, but included several subject matter experts who were trying to duplicate new technologies my organization had pioneered in our Texas market. Contacts were made, business cards traded, ideas exchanged: The usual fare for such meetings, and was, I believe, profitable for them.
As for me, I was on my way out of the business. Still engaged, but with a different perspective. I graced them with my wisdom. (Sure I did…)
With one of my new buddies I witnessed the start of the Iditarod, which was the attraction for having the conference at this time of year. The race is a commemoration of the historic Anchorage-to-Nome dogsled freight route. A hundred years ago, a portion of this route was followed in the famous 1925 Serum Run, successfully — and incredibly — delivering diptheria serum to a thousand isolated residents; 674 miles in 5-1/2 days.
After the conference, that left an entire day free for sightseeing before my flight home. With my rented Toyota 4-Runner, I decided to explore the Kenai Peninsula.
Road trip!
Scaring up a hard-copy map (there was only spotty cell service on the peninsula) I drove south from Anchorage and up into the Chugach Mountains. It was a gorgeous drive along the coast.
And then we climbed into the mountains. And then into the clouds. Rain pelted the windshield of the Toyota and the highway became slick. The temperature plummeted.
No problem. I’m a farm kid.
We gained altitude somewhere along the highway. I would like to say where, but at a certain point the snow began, the wind whipped up, and I refused to take my hands from the steering wheel or my eyes from the road.
Mercy sakes. This was beginning to look a lot like a blizzard.
I could see the guardrails on the sides of the road, shiny steel gleaming dimly through the snow, so I knew we were high up… someplace. I slowed, conscious of being struck from behind by a less-alert driver. Then it occurred to me that I had seen no traffic for some time.
I was alone on the road. My palms began to sweat.
That was when the wind shrieked across the roadway and moved the Toyota sideways. I came to a full stop.
Wind roaring. Eyes wide. Heart pounding.
Out of the white darkness there appeared a wide spot in the highway before me, broad shoulders of gravel on either side. I cautiously maneuvered the car off the pavement. Below the howling fury of the wind I sensed, more than heard, the crunch of gravel under the tires.
Death waits in the ice
Unbidden, the sudden thought came to me: You read news stories about people like me all the time. “Tourist dies in Alaskan blizzard; frozen body preserved, found by springtime hikers.”
What was he thinking!
Then…
Turn around now! Get thyself off this god-forsaken mountain! Thou hast no business out here!
With a quick glance at the snow-crusted outside mirror I wrestled a clumsy U-turn across the highway and pointed back the way I had come. The visibility was no better; the winds remained fierce, screaming across the car. But the snow was now flying left-to-right, and with every slow yard the Toyota and I descended.
In half an hour we were back in mere drizzle, and then, incredibly, sunshine along the coast road.
I made my way back to the B&B, said good evening to my Aussie hostess, and packed up for the next morning’s flight back to Kansas, where there were flat wheatfields and dusty roads.
* * * * *
Theological contemplations
“The wise man sees the evil coming, and hides himself from it,” says the Proverb. “The simpleton from the lower-48 presses on, and is found months later in a desolate, high ravine, frozen solid.”
That is not exactly how the passage goes, but it seems an appropriate transliteration for this story.
* * * * *
Now that I have solidly entered the fourth quarter of my time on this intriguing planet, my perspective has undergone a metamorphosis. I find I am not nearly so concerned with chasing career success energetically as I am with constructing durable memories effectively.
I have been contemplating the nature of legacy through storytelling. To that end, I spend long moments asking myself: What are the big lessons of your life? What are the takeaways? And importantly, what events in your life can be used to communicate important things in a poignant and lasting way?
Will those who follow me benefit from such tales? Or even care?
I do not know. But of course, that would be up to them, not me.
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Knowing When You're in Trouble on the Kenai Peninsula