Icicles hung from rooftops, clung to trees and dripped from telephone wires then fell to the ground breaking into shards of glass. Soon I was speeding through twists and turns overlooking Crossville, Tennessee. The trip had been planned a year ago, and I was determined to reach my destination at the designated time.
Weather was "iffy" and roads were glitchy this time of year—icy spots all over, but a lot better than pouring rain which might come without warning in the first week of spring. Worse yet, there might be fog rising from the valley thick as smoke in a forest fire. The locals called it god’s country, and to say it is breath-taking isn't a cliché. The air is so light you can hardly breathe. The Lord above must've had a message: Nothing great is achieved without risk.
I was down to the half-way mark and wasn’t ready to gas up, but in the mountains, I try to keep it half fulI. I had turned off the radio so I’d remember to stop. All I could think about was my destination--warm desert sand, quaint adobe houses, and a new chance at life in Santa Fe. My parole officer would be out of town and by the time he returned, so would I.
After a light snow, winding through mountains was a challenge, but the roads were clear. Overlooking gorges and small towns far below Interstate 40 was formidable, but I was running out of cash, and it was the only safe route for drivers heading west.
After all was said and only half done, criss-crossing the country in early spring wasn’t a best decision. Weather was unpredictable, traffic even more so because of families on spring break. I didn't want to cancel my reservation so I sped a little bit. If they caught me, I hoped it was not before I’d exhausted all my gas and all possibilities for happiness in this life.
Call it karma, call it quits, I don’t know which caused my psychological demise, but they say you only get caught if you want it. But I didn’t want it, so they said a lie. I saw the lights and the price of gasoline, so I zig-zagged my way toward the next exit, ignored the barricades and flashing lights after making the rash decision to gas up. Who knew how far the next exit would be? All there was next to do was pray for a miracle.
Praying for a miracle is something I grew up with, sinning on Saturday, praying for a miracle once I sat in the pews at church on Sunday. But this was different. I didn't feel the presence of god or anyone else. I never felt so doomed and so alone. I was technically a renegade, soon to be convict. But on the other hand there might be a chance at redemption. How would a judge know whether I saw the flashing lights or not? And with the slightest prayer, I might slide over the mountainous landscape undetected and pull a successful escape.
Then I heard the low rumble of tires skidding, looked up and witnessed a large object in the distance tumbling over the guard rails. Slowly, I circled past the exit and pulled onto an access road winding its way to the highway. In the distance, a stream of smoke was rising from underneath an overpass. I couldn't hold back my sigh of relief. It was a narrow escape.
I wondered if I wasn't also a killer. Manslaughter being what I'd be indicted for. I hoped the pursuit would be easy. I would drive as far as I could until I reached a secluded hotel or abandoned farmhouse. I would hideout for the night. There was a .25 caliber underneath important papers in the glove compartment in case I found the nerve to change my destiny once at the hotel in Santa Fe. Or if there were predators lurking in the darkness.
Overhead, there were sounds of sirens headed west on I-40, tracking the accident or chasing me. I was ready for the consequences, feeling ragtag, exhausted, and out of clues about what else to do.
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| (c) M.DH. Johnson. All rights reserved |
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