Never mind initiation by fire.
This is initiation by water!
The torrential downpour upon my descent from the Rockies into the Denver metropolis has me seated with my forehead cemented to the windshield.
White-knuckled driving they call it.
I prefer face-plastered.
I encountered a thunderstorm as well along the Salt Lake City corridor, a harrowing drive even in dry daytime, that dropped visibility to, oh, say, your fingertips on arm outstretched.
Sure seemed so anyway.
It was a bit scary … nerve-wracking … and restored my driving chops might quick!
As if crossing a sea with lane markers vanished from view isn’t harrowing adventure enough, add drivers sailing by at speeds topping 60 or 70 mph one understands my dread of that Utah interstate.
As for Denver, it might as well have been late evening when I arrive, the afternoon skies are that dark.
Rain pelts my windshield and hood, rinsing away stuck-on bird droppings and debris accumulated from distance driving.
At fastest speed, the wipers can’t sweep aside the water fast enough. Mental note: Have quality blades in Colorado.
And the road, it’s there somewhere. It must be. The tires are gripping something.
Aren’t they? Or are they crossing the waters like Lord Jesus? Don’t wanna think about it …
I cling to the right with eyes scanning for vestiges of white lane strips. But cling right not too much. Don’t wanna topple off into a mountainous ravine. That’s no way to start a new life. It is, however, one to end one.
Thank God for I-25!
It saves me. In a manner of speaking. Because while I-70’s eastbound traffic finds no relief from the gushing storm, I do — by virtue of turning south.
Really. I ain’t coppin’ a plea with the gods of thunderstorms for an easy out. I really do hafta go south, where massive gusty showers turn to sprinkles in like under 21 seconds.
I’ll say this for Colorado: The skies are fluid.
Sure, I’ll miss the ocean in Washington. (And P.S. that is ALL I will miss.)
But in the two days I’ve been here, Colorado’s already shown its colorfulness, lending credibility to a saying in these parts: “If you don’t like the weather, stick around another five minutes …”
Me likee. Intense weather changes. Bring ’em on!
In related news — Stage two of Baby Freedom, now a newborn, is begun: finding a place to live. Money doesn’t last long in a motel and I need to get the car unloaded and myself settled.
Settled in perpetual galoshes.
More thunderstorms are rolling this way.