The Scenic Route

THE SCENIC ROUTE

By Jennifer Martin

A late September sun shone down on George Ramsey as he sauntered in to the large truck stop, the sign out front reading Treasure State Travel Plaza in red, white, and blue letters. He had filled the Taurus up and had even checked the oil. Helen would have been proud of him. Married thirty years and she still doted on him like they were first married. George was a lucky man and he knew it.
This was his first time in Montana and the weather was perfect. He had left Seattle on his way to see their son George Jr. in Billings, and he had made good time. Junior wasn’t expecting him until Tuesday and it was only Sunday morning. He thought some sight seeing would be in order as he made his way to the south central part of the Big Sky state.
The truck stop was sprawling and busy. People from nearly every state in the west seemed to be stopping there, at least that was what George thought as he looked at the various license plates. The smell of beef jerky, popcorn, and barbecue burritos filled the air as George rummaged through various aisles of junk food and found some snacks to tide him during the drive. He filled a super jumbo size fountain pop and made his way to the counter to pay his bill.
“Will that be everything for ya?” The clerk was a plump middle aged lady who was all business. Not rude, just not overly polite.
“Yes ma’am. Oh, and gas on pump number three.” George looked around while she rung him up, noticing the small novelties and little jars of huckleberry jam set on the counter for display. Each item had a small ‘Made in Montana’ sticker on it. To George’s left was a rack containing neatly folded road maps of Washington, Idaho, and Montana. He grabbed a Montana map and a jar of huckleberry jam and set it on the counter in front of him.
“I’m sorry, could you add these on there as well?” George asked. The clerk gave him an appraising look and added the items.
“Thirty nine eighty seven,” she said.
George handed her his debit card, punched in his pin number, and took his bag of goodies and his receipt from the clerk. She handed him his card as he turned to leave. “Don’t forget this,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said as he headed for the door.
“You bet,’ she replied curtly, watching him leave with the mild disdain that most locals have for ‘out-of-staters’.
Fifty miles down the road, George pulled over at a rest stop to use the bathroom. The super jumbo fountain pop had worked double time on his bladder and he needed to stretch anyway. He finished his business and got back in the car, opening his bag of snacks. He un-wrapped a Snickers bar and decided to take a look at his newly purchased map. It was refreshing to get away and spend some quality time alone on the open road. As much as he loved Helen, he had needed a break from his routine and was looking forward to spending some time with George junior.
He found his location on the map after a few minutes of searching. He was near a town named Desmond on Interstate 90. George took a bite of his candy bar and studied the map intently. Just south of Desmond, a small secondary road ran through the Mount Renault Wilderness Area, coming out on the interstate at a town named Granite, some fifty miles away. The map labeled this winding road as the Mount Renault Scenic Route. George finished the last of his candy bar and washed it down with the remainder of his soda. A scenic route would be nice. He had plenty of time before having to be in Billings and he wanted to enjoy as much of this trip as he could.

The Mount Renault Scenic Route was all that the name suggested it was and more. Jagged snow covered mountains loomed on both sides of him as he made his way up the winding two way road. Towering pines drifted past him and to his right a small river zig zagged back and forth through the bottom of a wide ravine. George had his window rolled down and the smell of forest and fallen leaves drifted along on the gentle breeze. The color of autumn had already crept over the hills and valleys of that vast wilderness. The air was refreshingly cool and suggested winter wasn’t but just around the corner. George loved it.
He continued climbing up the narrow road until he left the tree covered hills and found himself driving across an expansive mountain valley. Blue majestic mountains surrounded the valley like protective walls and shadows of swaying grass traveled across the valley floor like waves on a sea of green. Small yellow and white flowers dotted the sloping hillsides. To George Ramsey, this was a picture of paradise.
George pulled the silver Ford Taurus over to the side of the road, leaving only the two drivers side tires on the weathered and cracking asphalt. He had decided to get out and stretch. Sitting in the car for a day and a half had made him sore. Besides that, he really wanted to breathe in the fresh air, the kind of fresh air you didn’t find in the congestion of Seattle. He leaned against the hood of the car, closed his eyes, and let his senses of hearing and smell have their way. A meadow lark whistled a sweet melody off to his left and faintly, in the distance, George could hear the babbling and gurgling of water in some unseen creek. Underneath the prevalent smell of warm grass, he thought he could detect the slight perfume of flowers and the sweet smell of pines. What a day, he thought.
He decided on the spur of the moment to take a nap. He hadn’t been up that early, but the high altitude he was unused to made him drowsy and he thought that this was the perfect place to rest. George sat back down in the driver’s seat and reclined all the way back (at least as far as it would go). He rolled the rear passenger side window down slightly for ventilation, looked at his watch (it read 11:37 AM), and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.

*

He awoke slowly, out of a deep and satisfying sleep, and lay still for a minute trying to get his bearings. The light was glaringly bright and he opened his eyes only slightly, giving them a chance to adjust. Wheels began turning in his head, and bits and pieces began to register in his mind. I’m in Montana... going to see George Junior... I took a scenic route... laid down for a little nap. Everything was registering as far as his recollection went, but something inside of him, an internal warning beacon, was telling him that things were terribly wrong.
George blinked his eyes several times and sat up in the seat, pulling a lever and bringing the back of the seat up with him. He wiped a hand over his face and focused. The first thought that rushed into his mind was that he had been mistaken. He wasn’t really in Montana on his way to see Junior. He couldn’t be. But if he wasn’t, where in God’s name was he?
Through the windows of his car, where a beautiful grass covered mountain valley had been, George gazed in silent horror at an inexhaustible field of snow, spreading out in every direction to meet the horizon. The once towering mountains that he had seen only a few short hours ago now looked like colossal icebergs jutting up out of the frozen earth. The sky itself was no longer blue, but a blanket of dull light gray. Snow blew in small and sporadic flurries across the hood of the car and windshield.
George Ramsey considered himself a level headed man. He had always thought of himself as having a pretty good bead on things, not prone to losing self control. But much of that was forgotten now as a terrifying panic began to build up within him. He pulled up on the door handle and tried pushing the driver’s side door open. It budged open about a foot and a cloud of snow blew in to the car, covering George and part of the dashboard. He looked through the opening for a long moment. Three feet, he calculated to himself, it’s at least three feet deep! Reality began to struggle against denial in the recesses of George’s mind. He pulled the door shut with a slam, and began, with a hurried desperation to think about the situation. With as much snow as had fallen, driving out was simply not a possibility.
He remembered vaguely watching something on the Discovery channel about what to do in case you got lost or stranded in the woods. “Stay where you are and let help come to you,” he said out loud, as if to clarify the statement. It made sense. It was easier to find a stationary target than a moving one, he reasoned. Even if he could make it through the snow and freezing wind, he had no idea where to go as the road had disappeared under a thick layer of white. He decided to stay with the car, partly because it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do and partly because, down deep, he was afraid of leaving the only familiar thing he had to grasp on to. George convinced himself rather quickly that a plow truck or some rancher in a big four wheel drive pick-up would come along, see the car stranded along side the road, and take him to the safety and comfort of a town. He even began to feel embarrassed at his predicament and thought how foolish he would sound explaining his story to whoever stopped to help him.
George shook his head and managed a chuckle. This would all be over soon enough. They had to clear the road at some point, though he was sure the main highways and interstate took precedence. He started the car up and turned the heater on high, only to shut the car off a moment later. The exhaust must be buried in snow, he thought. He shoved the door open once more, opening it far enough to squeeze out. The snow was deep, hitting him above his knee. He trudged back to where the tailpipe was and dug the snow from around it with his hands. George wanted the exhaust to escape with the wind rather than taking the chance of having it build up underneath the car and slowly poisoning him. Cold wind blew miniscule particles of ice and snow into his face as he made his way back to the driver’s side door. His hands were numb with cold.
Back inside the shelter of the car, he turned the ignition and flipped the heater on high. He reclined the seat once again and started reading a book he had brought with him for the trip. It was Rafael Sabatini’s Captain Blood. After about fifteen minutes, George shut the car off, continued to read, and eventually dosed off, visions of plow trucks and monster truck four wheel drives in his head. Outside, the wind and snow swirled around the lone Ford Taurus.

*

Far down below, where the Mount Renault Scenic Route met U.S. Interstate 90, Harry Peltier, a forest service employee for over fifteen years, pulled a large steel turnstile gate across the secondary road and padlocked it to a corresponding steel post. A sign was attached to the gate that read in large red letters:

MOUNT RENAULT SCENIC ROUTE
ROAD CLOSED FOR WINTER SEASON

Harry Peltier jumped back in his state truck and took a swallow of hot coffee from his mug. He had already closed the Granite side of the scenic route, and now that this side was closed, he could head home to the pot roast his wife had in the oven for him. He turned the truck around and drove off into the blowing snow.

*

George Ramsey awoke with a start and realized that he was freezing. Almost at the same time, he realized that only a wash of dim light swept from the distant horizon and that it would be completely dark outside within a matter of minutes. Where in the hell are the plow trucks? Snow had drifted against the right side of the car and was up to the window. It took some time for George to calm himself down. After all, he figured, there are a lot of roads to plow and this isn’t exactly the most traveled I’m sure. He relaxed a little and started the car again. It took a few minutes to warm up and he ate the small bag of Funnions he had picked up at the gas station. He was glad he had filled the car up with gas too. He figured he would probably be there until morning at the latest.
George decided to kill the time by writing the first entry in the small leather bound journal Helen had given to him before he had left. It had been a going away gift, and was also a tool in the couples’ commitment to working on their communication skills (as their marriage counselor had so aptly put it). George and Helen had been married a long time, long enough to realize that a relationship didn’t take care of itself. It took work. George’s problem was that he didn’t communicate very well, and the counselor had suggested a journal as a way of learning how to express himself. It sounded easy enough to George.

September 29th

Dear Helen,
Well, I’ve done it again! Leave it to your husband to get himself stranded in a snow storm (ha ha). It reminds me of the time we took Jack and Terry to Reno and I ended up getting us turned and headed in the wrong direction. But my heart’s in the right place, isn’t it dear? How are you? I miss you so much and wish I could talk with you in person. I look forward to calling you when I get to George’s house. I should be there late tomorrow night. Writing in this thing is a little weird, but I think I can get used to it. You can teach an old dog new tricks! I hope you’re having fun with Margie. You deserve a break too. I love you. Goodnight sweetheart.


September 30th

Dear Helen,
It’s evening now and I have waited since early this morning for someone to come along. I haven’t so much as heard anything let alone seen a plow truck. It snowed heavily all night long and the snow has drifted over the hood. There has been no sign that the weather will clear. Someone has to come along, don’t they? For God’s sake, this is a paved road. They tell you to wait where you are- to wait for help. Where is the help? My hope is that the storm will clear up and some of this snow will melt off. When I get out of this mess, my second phone call after calling you will be to Mike McClane. I will sue the state of Montana for every dime it’s got! That’s a promise. Helen, I miss you so and just want to go home. You have no idea. I am rationing my small food supply. I’ve got a package of Ding Dongs, a couple of pepperoni sticks, and a bag of chips. I’ve been melting snow in a cup for water, which is actually refreshing. I imagine I will be very hungry when they finally get here. They’re going to have a hell of a time digging the car out. I’m going to rest now. I love you honey.



October 2nd

Dear Helen,
I am still waiting and trying to suppress my panic. Someone has to come along. Even in this podunk state, they still plow the roads don’t they? Note to self: Never take another scenic route again. It must have been one hell of a storm if it’s taking them this long to clear the roads. When this is said and done, I will take a plane to come and see George Junior. What in the hell makes him want to live in this state anyway? Sorry, I’m ranting. I love and miss your smiling face honey. I really can’t wait to see you.



October 4th

Dear Helen,
I am terrified. No one has come and now I am starting to realize that no one will. Two days ago it stopped snowing and there was actually blue sky. I made the decision to walk out of here and made it no further than a few hundred yards. It was exhausting and I nearly passed out. The snow is incredibly deep, almost up to my chest. I nearly didn’t make it back to the car and damn near didn’t get the door open again. Only the top half of the car’s roof is peeking out of the snow. It is like a snow cave now. I ran out of fuel early yesterday, but am staying relatively warm by wearing several layers of clothes. The snow seems to insulate the car as well. My food is gone, but I have been eating snow to relieve my hunger pangs. I’ll say goodbye for now. I’m pretty tired. God help me.


October 15th

Dear Helen,
I am sure, after much thuoght, that this car has become my tomb. I listen evryday for sounds. For the sound of a car or truck, even an plane. Nothin. I miss you so much Helen. I’m sorry for all of the times we fought. I could have been a better husbad. You make me so happy. I’m not as hungry as I was now. Don’t have much enrgy. Tell my son I love him. I pray to God all the time. Love you sweethart.



October 21st

Dear Helen,
I just woke up and startd thinking of you. I miss you. Do you think thers a heaven? Marshall tried telling me ther was one time and I laghed at hem. Is there a god Helen? If there is, does he see me down here, wastin away and sloly dying? I lov you always.



October 27th

Helen
I love you. I thikn I am dying. My stomach is bloted. My skin hangs off of me lik rags and my hair is faling out. I sleep mst of the time. I saw mysef in rerview miror and sceemed. I look lik a ded body Helen!! I mis you. Please come find me. Plese. Must rest no



Novmbr 6th

Heln
I am lsot in woods. Cars stuk. Need hlp. I ms yuo hlen. Soemtiems I see yuo an geogre. Come get me fom this palce. Smels horbile in


Nov 11
Can se my tiem. Lov youu . sumone final cam forr me. goin to tak me outt of her. Man in blak rob. cant see to wel. says hes name is dath. dug thrugh sno wit a long steck. blade on end of it for cutin ice he sed. don lik him. skares me. he ses time to go. luv yu hlen. See soon
gorg

“THE END”