California State Route 9 is a two lane windy mountain road, and much what you'd expect from a route that was cobbled together from countless little roads built over the years - some dating back to the 1890's. Residents of the county call it "Highway Nine" or just "the Nine", and as it winds up through the San Lorenzo Valley towards the summit, it unites a handful of villages and towns into a single cohesive community that is surprisingly self-sufficient.
There are only a few ways to get to our home here in the mountains, and almost all of them are Highway 9. In fact, I think it's safe to say that if you want to travel by land, and you're not too big on hiking, the Nine must be navigated to some extent in order to get to here. Being relatively near to the summit, I have the unique ability to turn either left, or right on the Nine, and hit reasonable levels of civilization in about the same timeframe... 35 minutes. I point this out because it's important to my story - I drive on the Nine every day. Every time I need to go somewhere... anywhere... except maybe the corner store. And who can pay that much for milk? Admittedly I've had my lazy days... but I digress. Thirty-five minutes a day on the Nine means I'm fairly familiar with it at this point.
Now let me shift gears away from the Nine for a moment, so that I may make note of another important factor to my story. Boulder Creek is cold in the winter. Cold and wet. Bitterly cold - particularly at night. And the wet, did I forget to mention it? It rains more in Boulder Creek each year than anywhere else in the bay area (at least that's what a friend told me, and I believe it!). Since our little house lacks a certain degree of insulation, we set a fire in the wood burning stove nearly every evening to keep the freezing temperatures at bay. It's the most effective heater we have.
On a night a few days ago, the outside temperatures were in the low 30s, so we got a fire going and let it burn through the night. In the morning, I checked the coals to make sure they weren't too hot before I left for work, and discovered that they were, in fact. So, I tossed a bit of water on them on my way out the door, and headed off to work thinking nothing more of it.
A few hours later, Staci called me in a panic. The house was full of smoke! The first thing I thought, was that I had forgotten to close the door of the wood burning stove. I had her check it, but it was closed, and she told me that the smoke seemed to be everywhere and coming from nowhere, and it was thick like a fog inside the house.
Here is what I should have said: "Call the fire department."
Or alternately I could have suggested: "Go to the neighbors, I'm calling the fire department."
Instead, I made this brilliant offer: "Open the front door to let the smoke out, and stay in the bedroom where the air is better - I'll be right there!"
If only my stupidity had ended there...
I leapt into my car and roared down the freeway. I roared onto the Nine, and I zoomed up the two-lane, 100+ year old winding mountain road with all possible speed. You may know where this is heading... you might have predicted by my choice of words how this story ends... I'll cinch your suspicions by taking this moment to mention that it had started raining about 30 minutes before I received Staci's phone call 'o' doom.
While speeding up a nice enticing straightaway about halfway up the mountain, I told myself to slow down before I got to the curve ahead. Unfortunately, I waited a little too long before applying the brakes (not taking my bald tires or the rain into account). It was a fascinating sensation to feel my front wheels lose all traction while I turned the steering wheel all the way to the left and pressed down on the brake pedal with all my bodily strength and then repeatedly in a pumping motion but all to no avail. There was a moment where I felt that heat of shame that crawls down your back when a police cruiser flashes their lights in your rearview and you know you are busted. At that same moment I felt the pit of my stomach drop out the same way it does on a roller coaster. And all the while time slowed to a crawl even as it moved at normal speed- like I was in two places at once. I watched the edge of the road coming closer and closer as each millisecond clicked by. I stared forever at the treeline, then I stared for a while at the hill I was about to careen down, then I slowly braced for impact, thinking to myself very matter-of-factly, "Here We Go!"
I went off the edge of the pavement probably going about 40-45 mph. Somehow I missed every tree, although the trunk of an ancient berry bush took off my right side mirror. Another 6 inches would have landed my front bumper squarely into that trunk, and I think that would have been Bad. As the momentum of my car took out everything berry-related to the left of that trunk, the impact was like 30 guys simultaneously throwing wet kindling onto my windshield as hard as they could. Then it was over. I clambered out of my car after determining that I was not hurt, and surveyed the scene. The rain soaked hillside saved both the vehicle and me from serious injury, as the weight of my car pushed me deep into the mud and kept me from continuing down the mountainside, across the yard and into the living room of the nice people whose berry bush I had just put a car-sized hole through. I called Staci on my cell phone to let her know what had happened, and *finally* suggested that she call the fire department if the smoke got any worse. A tow truck was on the scene within 3 minutes - before I'd even had a chance to call the CHP. Miraculously, the car only suffered a blown tire, some front end damage, and a severe case of berry-bush-in-the-undercarriage. The nice people who lived behind the berry bush informed me that the berry bush belonged to the county if it belonged to anyone, and therefore was of no concern to them. They took down my information anyways, in case I'd killed the water main like the last person who had crashed in the spot I landed in. A couple months ago. Apparently that curve is something of a problem.
Never having forgotten about the possibility that my house was on fire and that my disabled wife might be in mortal peril (but never mind contacting emergency services of any sort!!), I leapt into what was left of my car, and frantically drove an extremely reasonable speed to my house. After a quick survey of the wood burning stove that involved me touching areas that, if there had been a fire, would have severely burned me, I determined that the house wasn't burning down. Probably. Further inspection revealed that a seam in our chimney pipe had ruptured or something, and the severe smoke was the result of my throwing water onto the coals at the very same time that the seam had decided to give. After setting up some fans to blow the smoke out, and removing the offending coals, I... drove... back... to... work. My reason for returning to work was a genuine worry that if I stopped my car for any length of time, it might not restart again. Cars have a nasty habit of malfunctioning after you drive them off a mountain, you see? So I drove back to work, made arrangements to have my car towed to a shop, and picked up a rental car - a Dodge Neon (hateful little car).
What have I learned from all of this? For one: always drive carefully in the rain. For another: obey posted traffic speeds, especially in adverse conditions. And if you suspect that your house is on fire, for heaven's sake, don't screw around. Call the fire department, that's what they are for. I've officially earned the ultimo imbecile award for the month. And I was damned lucky too. If I'd gone off of any other curve on the Nine, I'd be at the bottom of a 500 foot ravine or halfway through a tree. Or both. I'm just grateful that I walked away from this in one piece.
Incidentally, Dodge Neons suck. They encompass everything you hate about American cars, cleverly combined with everything you hate about Japanese cars. I wish I'd driven this thing off the road instead. *sigh*
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