Angel on a Snowmobile
Behold, I send an
Angel before thee,
to keep thee in the
way,
and to bring thee into
the place which I have prepared.
—
Exodus 23:20
Some corporate spouses get to go to
luxury resorts for meetings in Florida, Hawaii and the Caribbean.
But I got to go to Canada . . . in January.
At least it was Quèbec. I speak a little French. My husband
doesn't. This made for high humor. He could only smile nervously as I told
people, in French, what color underwear he had on, and what pattern.
Everyone looked at him and roared with laughter, and he could only smile wanly.
On the last day, we had a
recreational choice:
• Aromatherapy and a relaxing massage at the hotel;
Or . . .
• Strap on ice cleats and portage a canoe over the frozen
St. Lawrence Seaway (yeah, right);
Or . . .
• Go snowmobiling in the scenic Laurentian Mountains. Excuse
the pun, but . . . COOL! We signed up.
It started off badly. I slipped on the ice in the parking
lot, threw up my arms for balance, and delivered a powerful uppercut to the
chin of a Quèbeçois woman, knocking her to the icy pavement.
"I can't take you anywhere," my husband hissed,
helping her up and charming our way out of an international incident.
It got worse. We had to put on these
enormous black snowsuits and Paul Bunyan boots, with helmets and goggles. We
looked like East German border guards.
They were putting people on the snowmobiles two by two, but
Dave wanted his own so that he could go fast with no backseat driving advice.
That meant I had to have my own. I was the only female driver in a group of
about 20.
"Gas, à gauche," the helper shouted over the
engine. "Brake, à droit. Vite, vite!"
So much for driver's ed. Everybody
roared off, vite, vite. So I did, too.
We went up the mountain in the pristine forest, although
everybody went 'way too fast for the goofy dame from the Nebraska Flatlands. At
the top, there was a picturesque chalet, which in the Nebraska Flatlands we
call a "bar." We socked down the schnapps.
But then came word: a whiteout had arisen from the St.
Lawrence Seaway. We had to get back . . . vite, vite.
Everybody roared off, again, too fast. I slipped to the end
of the line. Dave motioned me to speed up. Vite, vite!
I tried. But they kept zooming around those hairpin curves
in the worsening fog. I was afraid I'd plunge over a cliff or bash into
someone. The taillight wavered in and out of sight . . . and then disappeared.
I stopped and idled.
The fog got thicker. I waited. And
waited.
And panicked. They wouldn't realize I was left behind 'til
they got to the bottom. Then how could they ever find me? I was lost! I was
going to die! I was going to freeze to death! I would be . . . a stiff!
No, I wouldn't. I couldn't freeze in that enormous snowsuit.
They'd find me in the morning. Maybe. Please, God! Help me! But there was only
silence and whiteness.
I got a lump in my throat. Tears fogged my goggles and froze
on my cheeks. I wasn't crying because I was going to die in my big, black
snowsuit. I was crying because I was going to die . . . and I LOOKED SO FAT!
Just then, a snowmobile appeared. Its driver motioned me to
follow. My eyes jutted out, focusing on that taillight. It led me back to the
crowded dressing room where I planned to bonk my husband for abandoning me to
save his own hide.
But first, I wanted to thank my hero. Everyone was still in
their identical black snowsuits. I went around asking, "Who came back for
me? Who saved me?"
Nobody would take credit. They just
smiled and shrugged.
It must have been an angel on a snowmobile sent to save me .
. . vite, vite.
