“WE ARE BAILING OUT!”, I promptly shouted.
And so I halted the car on the top of a snowy mountain range and made a U-turn. It was the tipping point of the mental state I was in - the result of a nerve wrecking drive on icy roads with dozens of hairpin turns, no-grip ascends and slippery descends.
I failed to rent a 4x4 earlier that day, and the standard transportation vehicle they gave me didn’t come with snow chains. With the hills getting steeper and steeper my ambition dropped drastically. This was proper rural exploration: no barrier between us and the deep. Stall and you lose.
We both agreed on calling off this suicide mission, and headed back towards civilisation. Upon doing so I could spot a small car coming towards our direction. The sole car we saw since we left a small village half an hour ago. I was baffled someone took their chances up-hill.
A worn-out 80s Fiat passed us and an old man in his late seventies was behind the steering wheel. His face was all wrinkled and grooved - he’d seen more winters than us, foolish youngsters.
This old fella was oozing confidence and persistence, he was going to nail that mountain top. While passing our snow-stranded car he greeted us with the biggest smile ever. And this, my friends, was a sign. Maybe not an act of God, or a supernatural occurrence that science can’t explain. But it was a sign nevertheless. Telling us one thing: there’s nothing to it but doing it.
We returned to Snowmageddon.
With Mirna, 2015.