As we travelled between Pella and Sully over the holidays through not-so-pleasant weather I was reminded of this little episode from the mid-90's.
The suggestion of exaggerations was mostly a cover from parents who might be reading and stunned by our ignorance when I posted it on my former website. It was truly a heart pounding experience and happened on this day a decade-ish ago.
Funny thing is Rachel (the high school girl causing my delusional decisions) was working in Pella and not due to arrive at the festivities until much later in the day. I stayed behind to wait for her after the incidents and later took a very long and slow ride to Sully that killed most of the time left in that New Year's Eve day.
December 31, 1994...or 95
It was a treacherous day in the Midwest. The eve of a new year with an ever increasing blanket of snow falling over field and road. A good day to stay cozy inside, to be sure. No reason to challenge the elements. No reason except the most powerful force in the lives of two high school boys…two high school girls.
It was early in the afternoon of the 365th day of the year. Our itinerary included a slow trip to the rural hills for some sledding, a slowing of the not-so-gentle snowfall and a safe return home in the early morning of a new year. Or not.
This story involves all the great elements of the grandest of adventures. A car chasing itself down a hill, deer in large quantities, innocent (but ignorant) young men cheating death and shear uninhibited terror. And perhaps a small bit of exaggeration. It has been some time since the day of the actual events. It all seems so fresh in my mind, but stories do seem to grow over time.
Our first error of the day was the choice of our getaway car. Snow all over and a choice to be made: Do your drive your own rear-wheel drive vehicle or the front-wheel drive chariot of your best friend? Error number one came in our conclusion in that selection—rear-wheel drive. Errors number two and three? Temporary insanity mixed with loud music.
When the elements prevent you from seeing the road you choose to travel, one might choose to slow their journey. One might not be two high school boys undoubtedly sliding (we’ll get back to that) along a winding rural road with the radio far too loud. When signs on curves read 45 it’s a friendly suggestion to relax the gas pedal while navigating the turn. When a blanket of fresh snow lies between the tires of a rear-wheel drive vehicle and a curving country road, 45 is 25 too many. When tires start sliding and the road is winding you must learn to steer while looking out the back window of the car.
Two full rotations of the car and two glances out of a front-facing rear window later we sat stationary at the bottom of the curve. We had navigated the corner, stayed away from the drop off on the left lined with trees and a steep incline and the drop off on the right lined with razor sharp fence posts a rocky crag and a mysterious man who lived in the hills (it might have been less menacing, my memory escapes me). Our front bumper stood a sneeze away from the concrete wall of a bridge crossing the frozen river. At that point we were creeping ahead so slowly a meeting between the car and bridge might have ended with a nervous chuckle…if we could catch our breath. A sturdy SUV passed safely on the left having navigated to corner much more proficiently than I (he must have had front-wheel drive).
“Do you want to go and get my car?” suggested my trusty compadre. “It’s front-wheel drive.” Such wisdom from either of us might have been more useful a half-hour earlier. So we traveled to an intersecting road, turned around and journeyed back toward civilization. This wild story had just begun.
We successfully returned to the top of the curve at a much more reasonable speed. A slow, steady straightaway stretched out before us. Our breath returned as we recounted the events of just minutes earlier. Knowing certain details (all of them) must never reach the ears of our parents.
But suddenly, there was danger up ahead! An unassuming deer stood centered in the road before us glancing curiously at our approaching vehicle. I gently nudged the brake and carefully adjusted the wheel as my navigator suggested softly (or maybe much more strongly) that our four-legged friend might choose to remove himself from our path at his earliest convenience. He did. And then…
Just when the road looked clear and my foot returned to the accelerator, no less than a half dozen additional deer approached at lightening speed appearing mysteriously from what seemed to be a vacant ditch. I struck one with the front left side of the vehicle, one not-so dead on (there were no casualties) and at least two struck the passenger side of the car including one staring through the passenger window at my frightened friend. The other two may have leapt the car in a single bound. My mind raced trying to comprehend this calculated team attack. Had Santa’s tiny reindeer just crossed our path without warning?
The story ends less dramatically than it began. A quick call to the police to mention our encounter with the deer ended with them asking if I was requesting tags for our attackers. Not a consumer of venison, I declined knowing also that they had all scampered away safely. I simply did not want to find my picture posted at the North Pole post office as a suspect in a hit and run.
The passenger door required a little repair and the heart rates of both in the vehicle eventually returned to the normal pitter pat. An epic adventure? Certainly! And this one lingering question…
I wonder what the deer’s version of the story sounded like as they gathered around the television watching Dick Clark that eve.
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