It all started, as it always does, with a problem. My aunt was having her wedding in exactly five days, and, of course, I was attending. It was a destination wedding; close family and friends all getting rooms at a cozy wooden mountain lodge in Alaska. The invitations had come months ago — I had eagerly RSVP’d and written the date down in my black calendar. Or so I thought. Something must have gone wrong, because here I was, five days before, with no flights booked, no plans made, and no outfit planned. Out of sight, out of mind. Until yesterday, when I got a FaceTime call from my mom, asking me if the dress she was planning to wear to the wedding made her gray hairs stand out. Life came crashing back down from the normalcy of everyday, sending me straight into panic mode. I played the dutiful daughter on the phone with my mom while frantically looking for anything in my closet that could work for a winter wedding.
After an entire day of panic searching for last-minute flights, I booked a red-eye with a connection headed to the middle of nowhere, Alaska, after informing my job that I was suddenly deathly ill for the next week and couldn’t come in. I packed my bag and half-sprinted to the airport to get on the flight.
To be fully honest, I should have seen it coming. The airport intercom crackled to life with the news that a huge storm was blowing in the second I landed, grounding planes for at least the next two days. The past few weeks of my life had been normal, almost like a breath before diving underwater. I had mistaken routine for safety, so here I was, stuck in some airport in Alaska, about 400 miles away from the lodge where I needed to be. I sat down on one of the seats in the gate waiting area and just stared at the floor. It seemed so foolhardy in hindsight. I sighed. At least I had my phone and my bag, I reasoned. They felt like minor victories. Gathering what remained of my tattered ego, I called my mom. She didn’t pick up on the first ring, or the second one, either. It was on the third call, and when my patience had come to an all-time low, that I finally heard her voice on the other end.
“Hey, mom. . . . ” I began and started to haltingly tell her the events that led up to my predicament. She gave me the idea of driving to the lodge, all 400 miles, using a rental car. Having no other ideas, off I went to the car rental at the airport. What proceeded was a very lengthy conversation with a rental assistant who was shocked I couldn’t drive a stick shift. Once I finally had a car, an automatic, thankfully, I turned the heat up all the way, put the GPS on, and started driving. I was on the bigger freeways for a while, but eventually four lanes turned into three, then two, and then one, and suddenly I was driving in the mid-afternoon on a one-way road in the pouring rain. Even Dolly Parton singing Jolene couldn’t drown out the sound of the rain pounding on the roof and sides of the car. I almost felt bad for my windshield wipers. They were clearly trying their best, but working overtime for hours on end was not doing them any favors.
Eventually, after a few lovely hours of death-by-windshield-wiper ear torture, the rain started to lighten up. It was now that I got to see how gorgeous Alaska could be. The red fire in the sky reflected nicely against the bug-splattered windshield as I drove along, the sunset redder and more dramatic than anything I had seen in the city. Surely this experience must be worth it, I thought.
Naturally, this was when I heard an ominous clunk from behind me, and the rapid “shhhhh” sound of air escaping something vital. Grimacing, I pulled over. Getting out, I saw the back tire had sagged against the gravel, and I glared at it, as if it would fix itself out of embarrassment. I took a few deep breaths of the cold winter air, my shoulders lowering and my body loosening in time with each new breath. I leaned against the car door and looked up at the sky. This was a rental car, which meant it probably didn’t even have a spare tire, not that I knew how to change one anyway. I walked back around and turned the hazards on, then sat in the driver's seat, numb. What could I do? I checked my phone again, hoping beyond hope that I would see at least one meager bar of service, but SOS was displayed promptly on the top of my screen. Slumping down further into the seat, I picked at my sleeve as the last vestiges of light ran across the sky, leaving me in darkness. Dimly, the sound of an owl hooting could be heard, as if it were taunting me.
At least the moon was always there, like clockwork, looming in the night like a silent sentinel, watching as I just sat and stared into the wilds of Alaska. I knew I was still stuck. The tire was still flat. But for the first time that day, I wasn’t scrambling for a solution. I just watched the sky and waited.
It was maybe half an hour before I saw the light of potential salvation in my side mirror. As the truck came closer, I could see it slowing. I didn’t move from the car, just let the lights grow brighter and brighter until at last it pulled up right behind me. For once, I didn’t feel the need to rush towards an answer.
After an entire day of panic searching for last-minute flights, I booked a red-eye with a connection headed to the middle of nowhere, Alaska, after informing my job that I was suddenly deathly ill for the next week and couldn’t come in. I packed my bag and half-sprinted to the airport to get on the flight.
To be fully honest, I should have seen it coming. The airport intercom crackled to life with the news that a huge storm was blowing in the second I landed, grounding planes for at least the next two days. The past few weeks of my life had been normal, almost like a breath before diving underwater. I had mistaken routine for safety, so here I was, stuck in some airport in Alaska, about 400 miles away from the lodge where I needed to be. I sat down on one of the seats in the gate waiting area and just stared at the floor. It seemed so foolhardy in hindsight. I sighed. At least I had my phone and my bag, I reasoned. They felt like minor victories. Gathering what remained of my tattered ego, I called my mom. She didn’t pick up on the first ring, or the second one, either. It was on the third call, and when my patience had come to an all-time low, that I finally heard her voice on the other end.
“Hey, mom. . . . ” I began and started to haltingly tell her the events that led up to my predicament. She gave me the idea of driving to the lodge, all 400 miles, using a rental car. Having no other ideas, off I went to the car rental at the airport. What proceeded was a very lengthy conversation with a rental assistant who was shocked I couldn’t drive a stick shift. Once I finally had a car, an automatic, thankfully, I turned the heat up all the way, put the GPS on, and started driving. I was on the bigger freeways for a while, but eventually four lanes turned into three, then two, and then one, and suddenly I was driving in the mid-afternoon on a one-way road in the pouring rain. Even Dolly Parton singing Jolene couldn’t drown out the sound of the rain pounding on the roof and sides of the car. I almost felt bad for my windshield wipers. They were clearly trying their best, but working overtime for hours on end was not doing them any favors.
Eventually, after a few lovely hours of death-by-windshield-wiper ear torture, the rain started to lighten up. It was now that I got to see how gorgeous Alaska could be. The red fire in the sky reflected nicely against the bug-splattered windshield as I drove along, the sunset redder and more dramatic than anything I had seen in the city. Surely this experience must be worth it, I thought.
Naturally, this was when I heard an ominous clunk from behind me, and the rapid “shhhhh” sound of air escaping something vital. Grimacing, I pulled over. Getting out, I saw the back tire had sagged against the gravel, and I glared at it, as if it would fix itself out of embarrassment. I took a few deep breaths of the cold winter air, my shoulders lowering and my body loosening in time with each new breath. I leaned against the car door and looked up at the sky. This was a rental car, which meant it probably didn’t even have a spare tire, not that I knew how to change one anyway. I walked back around and turned the hazards on, then sat in the driver's seat, numb. What could I do? I checked my phone again, hoping beyond hope that I would see at least one meager bar of service, but SOS was displayed promptly on the top of my screen. Slumping down further into the seat, I picked at my sleeve as the last vestiges of light ran across the sky, leaving me in darkness. Dimly, the sound of an owl hooting could be heard, as if it were taunting me.
At least the moon was always there, like clockwork, looming in the night like a silent sentinel, watching as I just sat and stared into the wilds of Alaska. I knew I was still stuck. The tire was still flat. But for the first time that day, I wasn’t scrambling for a solution. I just watched the sky and waited.
It was maybe half an hour before I saw the light of potential salvation in my side mirror. As the truck came closer, I could see it slowing. I didn’t move from the car, just let the lights grow brighter and brighter until at last it pulled up right behind me. For once, I didn’t feel the need to rush towards an answer.