Silver Vans

The first inkling of trouble was not so much the normal lack of subconsciously feeling any vehicles passing in the opposite direction with their sleep-inducing noise passing rhythmically through the atmosphere. It did not quite disturb my road sleep, which, like a nursery tune, was soothing and peaceful in that place within the mind where the purring motor presence tells you that you have not left the road and crashed. The lack of noise that crept into that reassuring space of "Are we there yet?" world of car sleepers awoke me rudely from an on-again-off-again deep sleep. So I began to arise from slumber in the passenger seat of our black Dodge Nitro. Widespread Panic's Live in the Classic City CD played to the rapping beat of someone's hands that were not mine upon the wheel.

Arising from slumber and opening your eyes is a major commitment to accepting that there may be a reality you awake to that may not be a warm, cuddling feeling. No, a bad feeling that all was not well awoke me from some inner space of escape from such revelations, and I guessed I should have just accepted that moment of cosmos foretelling and prepared myself for what was forthcoming.

After all, many times in the past, I had understood that something, not necessarily what, was going to happen prior to it becoming a reality. It was a mixed blessing that worked upon its own schedule and not when I willed it to, like picking a winner at the racetrack or slowing down just before a speed trap. No, my gift was more a sporadic intrusion, and it now was intruding.

I, now semi wide awake and not wanting to leave the peace of sleep yet with eyes open, scanned the road, saw no approaching traffic, and felt relatively safe from any head-on collision occurring.

I said, "Hi, hon," speaking to my wife who was driving or at least tapping intensely upon the steering wheel with the focus of a professional driver bodyguard escaping a terrorist trap. "How it's going?"

It seemed a pretty lame question to ask, but I was a concerned passenger, interested in her driving well-being and wondering what had pulled me out of an enjoyable road nap on a summer afternoon. After all, weren't road nap outcomes supposed to be "Are we there already?"

"Damn silver cars," was the only answer I received back.

This muttering of annoyance from my wife totally woke me to the fact that we were slowing down to that point of full slowness, that state of one hoping things would speed up again but looking like it was going to become full-fledged stopping. That hopeful thought was entirely lost as we came to the untimely stoppage. I mentioned an untimely stop for anytime you stop while still in your lane on a highway. It was untimely and indicated that something was wrong up ahead, like a traffic jam or a driver dying within a vehicle and requiring immediate first aid.

At the same time, we had rapidly caught up to the vehicle in front of us, a silver van from Alberta, according to the red and white license plate. It had braked for the stopped B-Train chip truck in front of them, who was trying to air horn its way out of the way of whatever was in front of us all blocking the road. The mass of the chip truck blinded us to any visual heads-up of what was happening. Because this all was taking place just short of the crest of a hill, I assumed more vehicles were stopped in front of us upon the famous Crows Nest Highway.

While I could discern little from the passenger seat, I did notice large numbers of crows and magpies sitting upon the power wires, a sure sign of free wildlife food nearby. It was easy enough to find upon this stretch of road, where various suicidal animals from deer and rattlesnakes to wild turkeys threw themselves in front of all manner of vehicles clipping along at a hundred kilometers an hour.

Did someone hit one of the suicidal deer that offered itself up to replenish the ravens, mocking birds', coyotes', and bald eagles' appetite daily while destroying dinosaur-powered vehicles? I wondered.

Whatever was stopping us, the B-Train chip truck blocked our view like the closed curtain upon a stage awaiting the start of a play. The fact we were stopped in a non-passing zone only added to the drama. The wife added to the tempo of her steering wheel drumbeat, much to my dismay. So with the wisdom of husbands worldwide, I awaited for the curtain to rise.

Traffic from the west whizzed by us in the opposite lane, mocking us with their passage with that "Hey, nothing wrong with our lane, suckers!" dipshit smile, unhindered passing vehicle drivers and passengers gave to stalled or stopped vehicles as they raced to their next unknown junk food destination.

Generally, this twelve-mile strip of highway from the lake to town flowed like the wind without any stoppage, but today, we had reached a foreboding event and had now come to a complete stop in our lane with all forward progress stilled.

Silence filled our Nitro even over Widespread Panic playing loudly about a chainsaw to the spouse's impatient tapping upon the now-useless steering wheel. When one was driving, the steering wheel was like an anchor that kept you solidly within your seat through turns and swerves, while the passengers moved side to side as if on an amusement park ride, a ride my wife had pointed out to me many times from the passenger seat that I subjected her to on winding country roads. Now the Nitro's steering wheel was more a stress release object in danger of being abused.

So as my wife swore as only she can, intoning her mantra that some Albertan driver in a silver van coming to buy up BC land was causing the whole thing, and since we stopped directly behind such a silver van, I decided that silence was a blessing for me to continue with as a strategy right now until we could see what had occurred.

Then with husbandly wisdom, I would move us on, offer to drive while she relaxed, or take care of the problem in that way of husbands everywhere. Getting her out of the driver's seat was unlikely because it was her metaphor of the steering wheel being an anchor, and once she was anchored, I had to be very fast to regain the driver's seat. Generally, this occurred in that age-old drama of "My bladder is larger than yours." After a quick move during a piss break, the anchor was mine.

We had stopped at one of the many scenic spots along this stretch of the Crows Nest Highway, the provincial road now leased to a private company to maintain in that version of private contracting that leaves one wondering if the road would be there once you head back home.

The company that maintained the highway under an owner who did not live here acted sporadically for the care of the road when they felt like it. In fact, we had stopped directly opposite the entrance to the company's gravel pit. Here established for many years was a much deeper pit that was used to dispose of animals that did not cross the highway in a safe and sane manner. This carcass pit had the dead carcasses in it for the whole Boundary area and attracted scavengers of all kinds to a natural buffet of roadkill.

If you would get stopped on a highway, it was a good thing to at least be able to observe the interaction of man, machine, and animals, all working together for their common good. Obviously, the...