June 2, 2012, Imogene Pass, Colorado … Many 4-wheel drive roads were still closed due to high concentrations of snow. After cresting Imogene Pass, I stopped my moderately equipped Jeep to take a look-see. A posted sign indicated the down-side road was closed. Really? I pulled out my binoculars for a closer, albeit remote, terrain study. Several hundred yards on the downstream road sat another Jeep.
I’m in.
Alone as usual, I shifted into 4-wheel low and trekked to the other Jeep’s position, sloshing, sliding all the way. Once I reached the vehicle, I stopped and exited mine. Seeing the other driver’s door open, I ambled over and said, “Hey.”
Sitting in the passenger seat, an attractive young woman, tension etched in her face and holding the same off-road guidebook I carried, asked, “Are you sure we’re on the right road?”
A strange question to be put to me, I thought. Several yards distant, I spotted a young man, who I later found out to be her husband, standing in front of a mound of snow even I knew couldn’t be traversed. After exchanging brief pleasantries, we agreed on the impossibility of proceeding any farther. Retreat! It took me ten tries at different angles/trajectories to up the slope. The other Jeep, better equipped, made it topside on the 3rd or 4th run.
Once anchored on more traversable terrain, the young man got out of his Jeep and thanked me for waiting. Call it a feeling. Those who’ve been there will get it. We chatted. He was two weeks returned from an infantry stint in Afghanistan. Let’s call it, “Combat Hangover.” He was trying, unaware I suspect, to replicate the combat high. I didn’t envy him his formidable, upcoming battle to regain normalcy, or rather, to glean from his readjustment efforts, a new normalcy whereby he could function.
I said to his wife, “I understand. My ex-wife should’ve shot me.”
Her reply: “I hope I don’t have to shoot him because he’s driving me crazy.”
I introduced them to my memoir, then we parted ways. But as I took off seeking another challenge, my mind logged onto another young wife, who, too, was beautiful, trustful, unknowing.
Rapid rewind, early ’70s, my wife (now ex) and I were in Durango, I believe it was, and were en route to a dinner/musical celebration to hear a country and western singing group entertain. It was nighttime.
All during my military training I excelled in map reading and compass navigation. I worked very hard, but I nailed it. In South Vietnam, due to the flat terrain on the rice fields upon which we served, the usual topographical maps were useless–no contour lines. So we operated with compass and picto maps. Throughout my 11 months on the ground there, relative to grid coordinates, I endured extreme angst on knowing at all times where I was and prayed for correctness that I wouldn’t call in helicopter gunships or artillery support or medivacs to the wrong location. Soldiers, civilians die from such errancy. I was fortunate. It didn’t happen … at least not that I’m aware of.
But in Durango that night I got lost … and lost “it.” I panicked. In the middle of a street, I slammed on the brakes, pounded on the steering wheel. then bounded out of our vehicle and stormed off, leaving, I’m sure at a minimum, a startled wife in the passenger seat, who I’ve never asked what she must have thought of me at that moment.
Hindsight: in Durango that night, I failed. Not only did I fail by missing the objective (never did find it), I “let down” a woman who at that time I imagine looked to me for confidence and strength, perhaps even guidance. I failed “my team.”
To this day I suffer angst about navigating to “anywhere,” to arrive at the proper time.
Triggers! PTSD!