Helen DePrima - Luke's Ride

Now on the two-lane road, she found herself stuck behind a hay truck, unable to see around its towering load to pass. The road began to climb between steep canyon walls, and the truck slowed even more. Its right turn signal flickered just as Kathryn resigned herself to following the behemoth all the way to Durango, the nearest town of any size to the Camerons’ ranch. The big rig lurched onto a narrow side road with groaning gears and black exhaust dirtying the mountain air.

Kathryn had been so absorbed in fuming at the delay she hadn’t noticed the morning’s bright sunshine had dimmed. The sky overhead, what she could see between towering cliffs, had turned gray, and inky clouds hid the peaks ahead.

She glanced at her watch. The drive from Walsenburg, where she had spent the night, should have taken only four hours or so, but following the hay truck had delayed her considerably. Still, she should be able to reach Durango by early afternoon.

She passed a sign welcoming her to the San Juan National Forest and then a couple of campgrounds with chains across the entrances. A few desultory snowflakes drifted down.

She slowed as she rounded a steep climbing curve and drove with no warning into a complete whiteout. Mountains, canyon, the road itself disappeared. She hit the brakes reflexively and her car skidded for endless sickening seconds before rocking to a halt against a snowbank. She sat clinging to the wheel, numb with fear, enveloped in a snowy shroud.

Turning back would be impossible; going forward was too terrifying to contemplate.

Gradually she became aware of a grunting sound, a grumble that grew into a roar. An avalanche? She’d passed a sign saying Slide Area. Before she could panic even more, flashing red lights appeared in her rearview mirror. A huge dump truck ground past her, spewing sand behind it, its wide wing plow missing her vehicle by inches. Acting purely on instinct, she gunned her car into its wake and crept through the storm behind the fan-shaped spray of grit covering the icy road.

Twenty minutes later the snow lightened, the mountainsides reappeared, and the roadway turned from packed snow to wet blacktop. The plow truck pulled aside into a wide parking area to turn and head back up the mountain. Below, a broad valley lay in bright sunshine, untouched by the snowstorm still raging over the peaks.

Kathryn made the rest of the descent as if still on ice. The pavement was dry, but the road clung to the mountainside in tortuous curves above a deep canyon. Her hands ached from clutching the steering wheel and sweat soaked the back of her shirt by the time she reached the valley floor. Stopping for lunch in Pagosa Springs just ahead was tempting, but she knew once she got out of her car she wouldn’t want to drive any farther. Durango lay only another hour to the west—better to keep going and then settle in at that night’s destination.

When Kathryn reached the outskirts of Durango, she had recovered enough composure to be awed by the grandeur of the snowy peaks rearing their heads north of the town. Driving down the main street, she passed the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium, its Victorian storefront like a set from a classic Western movie. She had checked her Colorado guidebook this morning at breakfast; the Silver Queen was rated four stars for classic regional fare. She glanced at her watch—a few minutes before three o’clock. With luck, they would still be serving lunch.

She had her hand on the ornate brass doorknob when someone inside turned the Open sign hanging in the window to Closed. The distress on her face must have been apparent, because the door opened.

A young woman with red-gold curls gathered on top of her head, wearing a white chef’s apron, beckoned her inside. “I was just closing,” she said, “but you look like you needed feeding at least an hour ago. Would soup or a sandwich work for you? I’ve already shut off the grill.”

“That sounds like manna from heaven,” Kathryn said. “I’m starving—I haven’t eaten since I left Walsenburg this morning. I thought I’d get here earlier, but I got stuck behind a hay truck and then it started to snow—”

“You just came across Wolf Creek Pass? Brave lady. I’m surprised the road wasn’t closed—the forecast this morning said heavy snow above eight thousand feet.”

“I wasn’t brave,” Kathryn said, “I was clueless.” She shuddered, reliving the moments of terror in the whiteout. “Luckily I got in behind a snowplow or I’d still be sitting on top of the mountain waiting for spring.”

“You might have had quite a wait,” her savior said. “I’ve seen it snow on that pass in June. What can I get you? I have chicken noodle soup or chili. And coffee? Or tea?”

“Chili sounds wonderful. And coffee, please.”

“Green chili or red with beans?”

“I’ve never heard of green chili,” Kathryn said.

“So you’re not from around here—better stick with red. A bowl of old-fashioned diner chili will hold you till supper time.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. Kathryn heard her tell someone to bring out a cup of coffee. A few moments later a little girl, possibly six, with the same ruddy hair and wearing her own miniature apron, appeared. She carried a mug in one hand and a cream pitcher in the other, setting them on the table with a sigh of relief.

“Your chili will be right out,” she said.

“Thank you,” Kathryn said. “You’re doing a great job helping your mom.”

“That’s not my mom, that’s Aunt Lucy,” the little girl said. She returned to the kitchen, switching on overhead lights that had probably been dimmed for closing.

Kathryn dosed her coffee with cream and sugar, gulping a few swallows before the waitress set the chili and a small salad on her table.

“That should keep body and soul together until you land for the night,” the waitress said. “Do you have much farther to drive?”

“I plan to stay in Durango for the night and then drive on to Hesperus tomorrow.”

“Not much to see in Hesperus. You have family there?”

“Not exactly—it’s a long story.”

“I love a good story. You mind if I join you? I’m ready for my afternoon coffee.” The waitress returned to the kitchen and came back with her own mug and two slices of pie. She slid into the booth opposite Kathryn.

Kathryn took her first good look at her rescuer. “I’ve never been out West before, but I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time on the East Coast. Where do you live?”

“A little town near Hartford,” Kathryn said.

“Do you ever attend local theater?”

“That’s where I saw you, at the Seven Angels Theater in Waterbury. You’re Lucinda Cameron, right? Someone gave my husband tickets for The Seagull.” Could this possibly be Annie Cameron’s daughter, Lucy, who she had described so lovingly?

“Just plain Lucy on my home range. Did you enjoy the play?”

“I hated it,” Kathryn said. “I felt like going home and putting my head in the oven. But you were wonderful.”

“Chekhov can be pretty heavy,” Lucy said with a laugh. “But he wrote great female roles.”

“And now you’re running a restaurant?”

“Temporarily. I started working at the Queen when I was fourteen, right after my mom died. The owner is one of my dearest friends—I’m keeping the doors open while she recuperates from knee surgery.” Lucy added cream to her coffee and leaned back. “So tell me your story.”

Kathryn hadn’t yet rehearsed a coherent narrative. “Actually, I came to see you,” she said. “Your family, that is. My mother had lupus. She met your mother in the hospital in Albuquerque almost twenty years ago and they corresponded right up to the time your mother died. Mom kept all her letters—I thought your family might like to have them.”