Taut: The Ford Book

The snow builds as I climb. I pass through Georgetown and then climb again until the tunnel warnings become common. There wasn’t too much traffic for the entire drive, but there is now. And that can only mean one thing. The tunnel is either closed or they are stopping everyone going forward to see what their destination is.

We slow to a crawl and all of a sudden I notice that the heater is no longer blowing hot air. I flip the switch to the off position and stew in my tuxedo.

“What the hell are you doing, Ford?”

This is not the internal monologue. This is me talking to myself.

Of course, I don’t answer. I know what I’m doing. I’m running the f**k away, just like Rook accused me of back in the garage.

My phone buzzes and it surprises me. I thought I turned it off.

I check the screen. Rook.

Ignoring it, I take my attention back to the traffic as the pace picks up. That’s good news from my point of view. It means the tunnel isn’t closed. At least, not for everyone. As I get closer to the entrance more and more trucks are on the side of the road. Some of them putting on chains, some of them just sitting there.

I wait my turn in the dark until finally the car in front of me is waved through the tunnel and I pull up to the state trooper and roll down my window. He eyes my suit, then smiles. “Where ya heading tonight?”

“Party in Frisco,” I lie. Frisco is in the valley just on the other side of the tunnel. It’s a safe destination. Close.

“Cutting it pretty close,” he says, squinting at me either in suspicion, or maybe just trying to keep the blowing snow out of his eyes.

I look down at the clock on the dash. Eleven thirty-two. “Yeah,” I huff. “Fucking hate parties. Girlfriends,” I say, sighing at him.

“Yeah,” he says back in a conspiratorial tone. “Totally. I got out of it this year.” He points to the sky. “Storm duty. OK, well, go on ahead, but be careful, we just got word that the other side of the Divide is getting it pretty bad. And”—he stops to sniff—“you should check your fluids before you head back down the mountain. Smells like antifreeze.” He stoops down to check under the car, but straightens just as fast and shakes his head. “Can’t see shit. Too dark, too much snow.”

“Yeah, I just lost heat, so you’re probably right. I’ll check it tomorrow before I head home.”

He pops off a little two-finger salute and waves the car behind me forward as I move into the tunnel. The whole world is wiped away in here. I always loved this part of the trip when I was a kid. We have a house in Vail and before my dad died a couple years back, it was a pretty regular thing to spend a few weeks up there at Christmas and a couple months over the summer. When I was a teen it was every single weekend year round. But…

My thought trails off. I’m not in the mood to think about that tonight.

The tunnel ends abruptly and from here it’s all downhill for a good while as I head into Silverthorne and then Frisco. I don’t stop. I have no intention of stopping. Heat or not, I’m all in now. I just need to get the f**k out of this state. I’ll check the fluid levels the next time I need gas, but right now I still have half a tank. So I’m good. Heat is nice, especially when it’s the dead of winter and I’m in the mountains, but I’m not gonna die from exposure inside the truck. I’ve got an emergency kit in the back anyway. I’ll live for another half a tank.

Besides, the Bronco loves me right now. We’re going downhill. And I feel better already. Crossing the Great Divide is sorta cleansing. Like Rook is on the other side of something. She’s east now. And I am west. She’s far away. Even though it’s barely an hour’s drive in good weather from the tunnel to Denver, it feels… significant.

My pensive mood lasts for like three minutes, because that’s how long I get to enjoy the flat stretch of highway before I am climbing again.

The transmission whines, it’s a steep grade, but I downshift, give it some gas, and then pick up enough speed near the next summit to shift back into fourth. The trooper wasn’t lying, this side of the Divide is much worse off as far as the snow goes. It’s thick and wet, sticking to the windshield even though I have the wipers on full.

Copper Mountain comes into view and I briefly entertain the thought of stopping. But I can’t make myself do it. If I can get to Vail, well, then at least I can be on some familiar territory. Spending a cold night in a Copper parking lot does not sound fun. The mountain house is not somewhere I’d like to be right now, but it’s doable.

A few miles past Copper cars start to appear on the side of the road, but it’s clear they are not just stopping to put on chains like the trucks on the eastern side. They are stuck. Or broken down.

I shift down as the grade levels, then give it some gas to pick up enough speed to get back into fourth gear. It complies, but not without protest. Blowing by Copper might be a mistake I come to regret because there are no more towns between here and Vail. But I’m almost there and the drive evens out over Vail Pass.

The snow grows heavier, falling in a thick blanket of white, just like I wanted. Only it does nothing for my mind, which is still hopelessly wrapped around Rook and the last memory I now have of her.

Not the picture my mind took of her flashing blue eyes and cardboard crown back in Antoine’s office.

No. Her face, screwed up in anger and hurt, as she called me a Runner.

And she’s right, isn’t she? I’m running. I’m running so fast I’m in the middle of a snowstorm—blizzard, Ford, the internal monologue corrects me—up in the mountains, driving a truck that is almost thirty years old and is working on three gears. It whines and I downshift. Two gears, I’m corrected again.