One
I ama woman who loves an adventure. But I have to admit, right now, even I’m feeling a little nervous.
It’s not like I’ve never experienced snow. I grew up in New York. It snowed all the time. But the mountain roads in Western North Carolina are narrow. And very curvy. And I don’t exactly have a lot of confidence in the rental car I’m driving.
Plus, I have no idea where I am. I have never been so grateful for a cell phone connection and the assurance of my GPS, which promises I’ll reach my destination within the next seven minutes.
Assuming I don’t slide into a ditch before I get there. Or worse, off the side of the mountain altogether.
When I left my brother’s house in Harvest Hollow, I thought I’d have plenty of time to make it to Stonebrook Farm before the snow really got going. But that was, based on the inches covering the road in front of me, a gross miscalculation.
I sigh and slow my speed to less than ten miles an hour. I’m the only car on the road—it’s after nine p.m., if the weather isn’t reason enough—then turn on my hazard lights and hug the center lane lines, staying as far away as possible from the steep decline to my right.
“You’ve got this, Megan,” I say to myself. “You are brave. You are tough. You are?—”
My words cut off when my car veers sharply to the left, crossing through the other lane and onto the grassy shoulder. I do my best to correct my direction, but with zero traction, my steering isn’t doing any good. When my left tires tip into the ditch on the side of the road, I finally come to a complete stop, the car tilted enough that I’m leaning uncomfortably against the driver side door.
I grip the steering wheel for several seconds, breathing deeply to bring my heart rate down to a normal pace.
“You’re okay,” I say out loud. “You’re safe.” And Iamsafe. A tiny part of me wants to panic, or at least pitch a gigantic tantrum, but a larger part knows that freaking out will only make everything worse.
I close my eyes and do my best to think through my situation logically.
My car is still on, and I have a mostly full tank of gas, which means, at least for the time being, I should be able to stay warm. That’s important.
I am also on the side of the road flanked by an incline, the mountain climbing sharply to my left. That’s also good. The mountain continues downward on the other side of the road, so had I slid that direction, I would be in much more serious trouble. I am also completely off the road, so if someone else drives by, I’m not in danger of being hit.
Not that I expect anyone to be out in this kind of weather.
But then…if no one else is out in this kind of weather, does that mean…I’m staying here all night?
I look out into the surrounding darkness, and my stomach tightens.
Okay, maybe Ishouldstart to panic.
At least a little.
I reach for my cell phone, hands trembling as I wake up the screen. I’m not expecting to have a signal—service has been spotty for the last fifteen minutes—but to my utter delight, I have two full bars.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say, still talking to myself. In the eerie stillness of the snowstorm, the sound of my own voice brings a strange sort of comfort.
“Okay, who do I call?”
911? I’m sure they would respond, but in this weather, is it fair to ask first responders to come rescue me? Would they even be able to reach me if the roads aren’t safe?
I’m less than two miles away from Stonebrook Farm, but I’m not sure there’s anyone there who could help. I pull up the last email I received about my expected arrival. It includes instructions about where I’ll be staying and gives me a code to use to unlock the front door, but that’s it.
There are extensive instructions about the work I’ll be doing once I’m at the farm and a phone number I can call should I run into trouble, but technically, I haven’t started working yet. I’m not sure getting stranded in the snow before I’ve even arrived is the kind of trouble the email is talking about.
I tap my phone against my palm, thinking through my options. I could probably walk. My phone is fully charged, so I’d have at least an hour or two of flashlight before it died. I could walk two miles in an hour.
In the snow.
Carrying my luggage.
Probably.
I glance down at my shoes. My Uggs aren’t the best option, but they’re better than nothing.
