Janice Johnson - Snowbound

Tire tracks.

“What if whoever made the tracks came out? ” Kelli asked. “And they’re, like, gone, and even if we find the lodge it’s cold and dark?”

A lodge. Fiona’s mind moved sluggishly over the idea.

“We could build a fire,” she said.

Voice pitched so only Fiona would hear him, Dieter said, “If this is Thunder Mountain, the next town is something like another hour. And that’s when the road’s plowed. I don’t remember much in between.”

The others were offering opinions, but she ignored them.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to back up. Can you guide me?”

He left the passenger door open and talked her through backing up ten yards or so. Then he shone the flashlight on the tracks in the snow. Now Fiona could see them, too. A vehicle had come from the other direction and turned into an opening between trees.

Please God, she thought, let the driver have known where he was going. Don’t let me follow someone else as desperate as we are .

“See?” Dieter turned the beam on a dark bulk to the right as she turned into the road or driveway or whatever it was. “Let me go look.”

She watched as he plowed his way through and took a swipe at whatever it was with his bare hand. Clumps of snow cascaded down, exposing writing that the dim beam picked out.

He yelled, “It is Thunder Mountain Lodge. Cool!”

When he got back in, Fiona asked, “Please tell me it’s not another five miles.”

He laughed exultantly. “Nope. It’s like…I don’t know, a quarter of a mile. Half a mile?”

“Okay,” she said. “Here goes.”

Whatever vehicle had gone before her had obviously passed by a while back; it was a miracle that Dieter had spotted the tracks, vanishing fast under fresh snowfall. She kept losing sight of them in the white blur.

The kids in back were talking excitedly now that salvation was at hand. Dieter started telling them about this great old lodge, the ancient trees and the river just below.

“There’s this huge fireplace,” he was saying, when the van lurched and the front end seemed to drop.

One of the girls screamed. Fiona braked, out of instinct—they had already come to a dead stop. Dieter jumped out again, coming back to shake his head.

“I don’t know if we can get it out.”

“Can you still see the tire tracks?”

He looked. “Yeah.”

“It can’t be that far. We’ll walk.” She turned. “Everyone, bring your stuff, especially if you have any food left over from lunch or dinner.” They had stopped at a hamburger joint on the way out of Redmond. “Put on all the clothes you brought.”

She took her purse, but left the tote that held only the schedule for the day, competition rules and her notes on questions she would drill students on in the expectation they’d be asked the same ones again someday. Once everybody was out, she made them line up single file behind Dieter, bringing up the end herself. Then, feeling silly, she locked the van.

“Lead on,” she called.

Her face felt the cold first, then her feet. Was this the right decision? she worried, as they stumbled through the dark and falling snow led by—God help them—a sixteen-year-old boy’s memory of a winter vacation.

Well, she had no choice—not after she’d gotten the van stuck. Within minutes, she was almost too cold to care.

“I see lights!” Dieter exclaimed.

Fiona blinked away the flakes clinging to her lashes and peered numbly ahead. Was that a dim glow, or a mirage?

“Keep going,” she ordered, her face feeling stiff.

Gradually she saw them: golden squares of windows. Not brightly lit, but as if there might be lights on deeper inside the lodge. Or maybe firelight was providing the illumination.

They were staggering, a ragged line of kids and Fiona, when they reached porch steps. Freshly shoveled, she saw in amazement, as if someone had been expecting them.

On the porch that seemed to run the width of the rustic lodge, her students clustered, waiting for her.

The door was massive, the knocker a cast-iron bear. She lifted it and let it fall. Once. Twice. Then again.

She was about to reach for the handle to find out if the door was locked when the porch light came on, all but blinding her, and the door swung open.

Framed in the opening was a man with a scarred face who said, “What in hell?”

Fiona’s knees weakened and she grabbed for the door frame. “Can we please come in?”

WATCHING THEM file past him, not just a couple of stranded travelers but a whole damn crowd of them, John felt a wave of incredulity. What kind of idiots had been taking the pass in this blizzard? How in God’s name had they found the lodge?

And how long was he going to be stuck with them?

They all went straight to the fireplace and huddled in front of the fire with their hands out toward it as if asking for a blessing. None made any move to shed jackets, and he realized studying their backs that most of them weren’t dressed for the weather at all. Athletic shoes and jeans were soaked to their knees and probably frozen, too.

Was he going to have to deal with frostbite?

“How far did you walk?”

One guy turned his head. “Just, I don’t know, halfway from the turn?”

The voice gave him away. He was a kid. John looked down the line. They were all kids!

“Isn’t there an adult with you?”

“Me.” The woman who’d been the first to come in turned to face him, pushing back the hood on her parka. Dark, curly hair framed a face on which he could read exhaustion. Her eyes, though, were the pale, clear grey of the river water cutting between snowbanks. She was young, not much older than her charges, her body as slight as those of the teenage girls. “My name is Fiona MacPherson. Thank you for taking us in.”

“What were you doing out on the road?”

She explained. They’d competed in a high school Knowledge Champs tournament in Redmond, and were returning home over the mountains.

“We came over this morning on Highway22,” she explained, sounding meek. “But the weather reports said a storm was coming from the south, so I thought I’d take a more northerly route back.”

“This highway closes in the winter. You’re probably the last ones over it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

And parents trusted her to be in charge? He shook his head.

“You’re damn lucky to have made it.” John waved off whatever she was going to say. “You all need to get out of your wet clothes. I don’t suppose you have anything to change into?”

Eight—no, nine—heads shook in unison.

“Get your shoes and socks off. I’ll see what I can find.”

He started with the lost and found. Seemed like every week somebody left something. Sunglasses, single gloves, bras hanging on the towel rack in the shared bathroom, long underwear left carelessly on the bed, you name it, he’d found it. If one of the girls wanted birth control pills, he could offer her a month’s supply. Bottles containing half a dozen other prescription drugs. Pillows, watches, but mostly clothes.

John dragged the boxes out and distributed socks, one pair of men’s slippers, sweatpants, a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and miscellaneous other garments. Then, irritated at the necessity, he raided his own drawers and closet for jeans, socks and sweaters.

Without arguing, they sat down on chairs and the floor as close to the fire as they could get and changed, nobody worrying about modesty. Not even the teacher, who wore bikini underwear and had spectacular legs that she quickly shivvied into a pair of those skintight, stretchy pants cross-country skiers wore these days. They looked fine on her, he saw, while trying not to notice.