Wild Penance

30

I had a hard time getting out of Truchas. The narrow road was so packed with parked cars that I had to take at least a dozen detours down rutted dirt alleys no more than a few inches wider than my Jeep. Once, I had to get out and threaten a stubborn goat to move so I could get by. I finally eased onto the paved, high mountain road leading northeast through Carson National Forest on the western edge of the mountains.

I made good speed on the straight leg of the High Road toward Trampas. As I came down into a deep bowl of a valley to the low point near the Trampas church, the only traffic was a white Ford Ranger closing in behind me. It only took me a couple of minutes to drive through the sleepy, deserted-looking village, and then I was on my way up the side of the next mountain, heading for a series of crest-line S-curves and high-elevation switchbacks.

My mind was full of my new responsibility. I looked down at the blanket-wrapped bundle in the passenger seat, wondering what to do with it, then quickly shifted my eyes back to the winding, roller-coaster road. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the pickup moving to pass me until it was right beside me. We were headed around a hairpin curve-what a time to pass! Startled, I flinched and pulled the wheel slightly to the right and the Ford moved right also, into my lane, as I dipped two wheels onto the narrow shoulder. As we made this lateral move around the turn, I saw a propane tanker barreling toward us in the oncoming lane. Instinctively, I hit the brakes. The driver of the Ranger hit the gas and burst ahead, swerving around me, just barely in time to avoid a head-on crash with the tanker. The sound of the big horn on the propane rig blasted as it sped by, the wind drag from the enormous truck rocking the Jeep with its velocity.

I was so rattled I wanted to pull over and stop, but there wasn’t a safe spot to do so for several miles. Instead, I slowed my speed and stayed on the road, taking deep breaths and feeling my pulse race under my skin. Idiot driver! We could’ve all been killed!

I lowered the window a little in spite of the cold. I could smell the clean sap of ponderosa pine, feel the bite of the crisp, rare air on my lungs as I inhaled. As I started to recover a little, I brought my Jeep up to speed again-but my adrenaline had leaped into overdrive just minutes ago, and it would be some time before I felt truly at ease. I drove through the heart of the forest past several gated Forest Service roads. When I passed the turnout for one of the trailheads, I saw a white vehicle emerge from the cover of the trees alongside the track and nose onto the highway behind me. It was the Ford Ranger again.

This time the driver didn’t waste any time letting me know that the previous incident was not just a random act of reckless driving. The truck closed on my tail, the shape of the driver little more than a silhouette in my rearview mirror, wearing a hooded jacket or sweat-shirt and sunglasses, and likely a man from what I could tell. As he moved to pass me again, I put all 195 horses in my engine to work. Around two dangerous curves, my tires singing like Las Dolientes, we fought for the lead. I knew the pursuer would again try to edge me over the side if I let him flank me. Going up a steep rise, I gained markedly on the pickup, wishing I had enough line of sight to a repeater so I could radio ahead to the Forest Service ranger station for help. But in this steep, curving terrain, it was hopeless unless you were atop one of the peaks or on one of the high stretches.

Coming downhill again, we were nearing the turnoff to Llano, a dirt road that culminated in a cattle guard at the paved highway. The pickup edged out into the oncoming lane, his front bumper just even with my rear quarter panel. I kept the pedal down hard, not wanting to give away my plan. My adversary followed suit, his engine roaring in my left ear as he gradually gained an inch at a time, clearly looking to get far enough to force me over. When the sign for the cattle guard appeared on the right shoulder, I slammed on the brakes and veered onto the dirt turnout, spinning counterclockwise into a red dust cloud as the white Ranger zoomed on by. I looked quickly for its tag number. The plate was packed with mud, unreadable.

I lurched to a stop and immediately stretched over and popped open the glove box. I pulled out my pistol, yanked it from the holster, and clicked off the safety. I opened the door of the Jeep, which was now perpendicular to the highway, its front bumper just at the edge of the cattle guard. I stood on my left leg, my right on the running board, and propped my forearms on the roof, squaring my gun sights at the highway ahead, my body in the cover of my Jeep.

The Ford Ranger came veering back in reverse at high speed. I sighted in on it, hoping to hit a tire, cause a blowout. I squeezed the trigger when I thought he was in range, but I heard a ck-zzzzzngggg and knew I’d hit the tailgate just above it instead. The pickup squealed to a stop, then slammed into drive, and the tires screamed. I took another shot before it could peel away. This one made a metallic kunnnkkk as the bullet penetrated the side of the truck bed just over the rear tire. The Ford Ranger sped off.