When the World Turns Black and White
Epiphany
A mountain road
A lonely mountain road
Snow on a lonely mountain road
Snow swirling on a lonely mountain road
Fog and snow swirling on a lonely mountain road
Fog and snow swirling in the night on a lonely mountain road.
When we started this journey we were looking for snow
Delicious hours of happy playtime in the snow.
Trees and fields covered in snow
Splashing streams of melting snow
Along a path beneath freshly fallen snow --
Instead: a scary icy mountain road with mounting snow.
Fear grips the wheel caught in a snowstorm on a wintry night
Fear grips the heart an inch at a time in the night
Fear divides the world come the night
Fear bellows with rancor
Fear is the rancor
Such notes of rancor at night.
The road is long and the winds howl
The road turns into the winds that howl.
Our way is strewn and blown with the winds that howl.
In the warmth of the heart comes a whisper
“Just take it one curve at a time,” in a whisper,
Peace descends one curve at a time.
Janice DeCovnick, February 25, 2011
That actually happened, happened to me, one wintry night on the way to Yosemite. It was February 2011, in time for our anniversary, and we heard there was snow in the Valley, making for a perfect weekend of playing in the snow, photographing the glorious beauty of trees laden with snow. We wandered around the house getting ready to go, a couple of giddy kids, so delighted were we to have such a glorious weekend ahead. Where were the snow gloves, the hats, the coats, boots, chains – we would be ready for a weekend of delectable snow!
It started raining about the time we hit Manteca, the highway 120 turnoff from the Bay Area that takes us out to Yosemite. By the time we got to Groveland, it was snowing. Some shivers and more excitement! We stopped for gas and headed right back out onto 120. The road was still clear enough, but we wanted to scoot on up the mountain as the sky was darkening. By the time we reached the Yosemite park gate, the snow was thickening and it was time to put on chains. A long line of cars was waiting as the snow fell until a snow plow came to clear the road going up. Once the plow arrived, it was quite a while before he finally moved forward. Some cars were turning around, heading back down the mountain. We waited in the dark and growing cold, wondering if we were going to get through to the Valley tonight, calculating how long it would take to go back down and around to Mariposa and back up 49 to the Valley. Too long – we stayed the course.
Eventually the snow plow moved. We in our truck and a handful of other cars ahead of us followed him. They speeded ahead. The truck does not make the turns that fast! The snow was thickening. The last tail lights crept out of sight. It was getting harder to see the road. A snow plow passed us going the other way. We figured he’d have to come back up this way and clear the snow on our side of the road. The snow was falling thickly now, and a fog was moving in on the mountain, a swirling fog at that . The temperature was dropping. When we reached Crane Flat, we stopped briefly to trade drivers. It was my turn.
I pulled back onto 120, only to find that the windshield was freezing up. The windshield swipers would not work. My husband was leaning out the window trying to scrape the ice off the windshield. Mounting tension broke into fear. We could get stuck here on this mountain as a blizzard was mounting! The windshield wipers working again, we crept forward. Where was the road? The wind was whipping the fog and the snow in ever more blinding swirls, and the snow was piling so high on the road – it was difficult to see where was the road, where was the shoulder, where was the mountain cliff. I became afraid, really afraid, gripping the wheel afraid.
The wind began to blow, really blow, and then to howl. We inched our way along.
The road disappeared, covered with snow, fog, blowing snow and fog. My heart was afraid,. Deep fear for our lives crept over me, through me. There was life before we left the Yosemite park entrance and life after we might arrive safely in the Valley. But at this juncture there was only life hanging on the edge of a lonely, terrifying mountain road swept up in a storm on a disappearing road. Where was that snow plow? Why were we alone on this mountain in the thick of night, of snow, of fog, of howling wind? Where was the road? Fear turning into rancor in the night. The road from Crane Flat to the Yosemite Valley floor is a tightly winding mountain road. I gripped the wheel and shoved off the rancor. Fear was gripping my heart and then my lungs and reaching for my throat. “I’ve got to focus,” I told myself, but the fear leapt up as high as the mountains with just as deep a slide into oblivion over the edge of each inch of cliff, should I guess wrong about where the edge of the road was.
We crept down the mountain inches at a time. I was furiously scanning everything I could see to find the road. The road grew long. The usual half hour trip elongated immeasurably. Speed was death. The road grew longer. Cold fear was overwhelming me. The road grew interminably long. And with each elongation, my fear grew bigger. Just as I felt I could contain no greater fear, there came a still, small voice, a whisper in my heart: “Just take it one curve at a time.” My heart warmed; I was profoundly grateful for the still, small voice whispering in my heart. Fear subsided enough to focus, to think, to find a way to break down that seemingly endless scary mountain into small, divisible pieces, just one curve at a time. And then the first of three tunnels appeared, which meant the Valley was close. There was a snow plow sitting on the other side of the road. The driver looked at us, quite a bit surprised, and smiled as he waved. Another tunnel appeared. Almost there. The third tunnel – I could begin to breathe. Peace descended one curve at a time.
We drove along the Valley floor. A car had gone off the road into the river. I shivered. It was a last note of a fear that had pervaded the night, a reminder of what winter’s blast can do. We reached the hotel and fell into bed – it was now after midnight. More waves of gratitude washed over me and through me because we had survived and a way down the mountain had been given. We awoke to a winter wonderland greater than any I had ever seen. We went to breakfast under a canopy of snow laden branches. My husband stopped at the hotel lobby and chatted with a ranger there. He told me later that we were the last vehicle to make it over the mountain that night, that the park had closed the road due to the storm, and that it was still closed.
That weekend in the snow was remarkable. We bundled up and went out for hours in the snow walking and photographing through the meadows, beside the river, throughout the valley. It was the first time I saw the pattern – white snow on black branches reaching to the sky, one after another. It was the first time I discovered I could stay out in the elements for hours and could be so overcome with the joy of creating photographs that I didn’t feel the cold. It was the first time we heard about Firefall and witnessed bits of it – that moment in February when at nearly sunset, the sun is at just the right angle of refraction to light up the water dripping down Horsetail Falls and turn it red. The clouds moved in this first time, but we would return to be blessed to see it again many times. It was the weekend I learned to deal with fear and with life by taking it just one curve at a time. A couple of weeks later, I wrote the “Epiphany” poem . . . because I never ever wanted to forget . . . that when we take it one curve at a time, peace also descends one curve at a time.
