AND ON YOUR RIGHT, CARNAGE
So…tell someone you’re taking a fifteen-hour bus ride through the Rocky Mountains and the reaction is pretty standard: a raised eyebrow — just the one, mind you — and a phrase such as, “Really?”
“Have you ever done it?” I would ask.
“No, but I know someone who has.”
“How’d they find it?”
The reply that followed typically involved some face twisting, implying something between “not great” and “awful.”
Being a fan of forming my own opinion, I wasn’t dissuaded. Plus, there weren’t heaps of options. I’d left the trip planning too late and, thanks to the Christmas season, flight prices had skyrocketed. I could’ve flown to Europe for the cost of crossing a provincial border.
I won’t lie. It was an unforgettable journey. But not for the reasons I expected.
For one thing, there were power outlets at every seat. Being able to binge-watch downloaded content without your battery dying? I don’t care what country you’re in…that’s luxury. Then there was the leg space. Easily double what you’d get in a plane, which was an appreciated relief considering this would be home for the next fifteen hours — a significant amount of time, when you consider celebrities spend less in jail for drunk driving.
Beyond the windows, mountains stretched into the sky, snow resting in the crevices like icing. The breathtaking landscape framed treacherous roads but we were relaxed, assured that navigating them was in the competent hands of a professional driver, grateful it wasn’t our white-knuckled fists gripping the steering wheel. Overall, the bus offered very little to complain about.
Until it came to a halt in stand-still traffic.
The driver stood. “There’s been an accident up the road. We’ll have to sit tight for forty-five minutes or so.”
Nobody minded. We were parked in the midst of those majestic marvels and who balks about being stuck in wonderland?
It ended up being three hours. By which time, the view hadn’t gotten stale, but we all wanted food beyond the squished fruit sitting at the bottom of our bags.
When the roar of engines sounded and the row of vehicles finally rolled forward, there was a collective gasp as the bus rounded the bend. The aftermath of the accident hadn’t entirely been cleared and we had no choice but to drive past at a snail’s pace. Wedged against a semi were the crumpled remains of a pickup; the door dangled open on its hinges and blood was splattered in a Tarantino-esque manner across the windshield. The airbag was still inflated and you could only hope that it had provided some protection for the poor soul who’d been driving. Although given the quantity of blood…hope wasn’t high.
As we continued our journey, banter dimmed as we silently processed the graphic sight, not the sort of image that’s easily burned from memory. Those three hours of waiting, however, were long forgotten. At least by us.
But at every stop for the rest of the trip, new passengers boarded with a litany of grumbles.
“Finally, you guys show up.”
“Three fucking hours behind schedule!”
“I’m never taking the bus again.”
As though the delay was somehow our fault, like we’d decided to take an extended lunch stop while everyone went for a massage.
Of course, they didn’t see what we saw.
One of the new arrivals fumbled into his seat, antsy and swearing about his overwrought anticipation.
A fellow passenger edged across the aisle towards him. “There was an accident,” she said.
“Yeah.” He remained preoccupied with untangling his headphones. “I heard the traffic report.”
“It was pretty grim.”
“Well,” he said, barely reining in his tone. “That was still a long time to sit around a stinkin’ bus depot.”
“I hear ya.” She leaned closer, sharpening her voice. “But at least you were alive to wait.”
