The snow was fine as table salt but acted like frozen Velcro. The bitter January winds propelled the clingy powder horizontally and the brief walk to the truck left half your body coated like a frosted mini-wheat. You‘d prefer to not have to drive the 20 or so miles home but all the hotels are booked, so you have little choice. The first five or so miles aren't as drastic as you anticipated. The trees are doing a fine job at keeping the road mostly clear and you’re able to navigate the big F-250 with slow, comfortable ease but as you round the bend where the road snuggles up to the lakeshore, you’re no longer afforded their protection. The full brunt of the raging elements, whipped into a frenzy by a hurricane force gale screams off the lake and batters your truck with enough force to practically tip it over. What little view you had beyond your windshield becomes a frenzy of white, whorling faces that mock your foolhardy decision to attempt the drive. You feel the truck list. They follow you down into the ditch, howling with delight.

     

---

CONTENTS RANDOM