But this year, it was our turn to rescue the 1%. And I have to admit, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about taking time away from my fun-in-the-snow schedule as those who helped us out two years ago.
Dan and I were skiing (Nordic skiing—remember, faithful readers, my aversion to heights). The sun was warm that morning, and we decided to shed some layers after our first trail. We had found the perfect parking spot, a single spot right off the ski trail, away from the bustle of Galena Lodge.
As we approached our car, we saw that a couple had attempted to pull into what was not so much a parking spot but a snowbank next to us. They were stuck just like we had been stuck two years ago.
I stopped. You know that split second where you have to make a choice between doing what you want and doing what is right?
"Maybe we should turn around and pretend like we didn't seen them," I muttered to myself.
But then I thought, "What if the 1%-ers just drove by us two years ago and pretended like they didn't see us? In fact, as I recall, not one person drove by without stopping and asking if he or she could help."
"What are we going to do though? We don't have a rope or phone service up here," I told myself. "All I wanted to do was take off some clothes and go skiing again." (That sounds a lot kinkier than necessary.)
But then I reminded myself, "You never know how everything might turn out. Just go to your car."
So I did. Of course, Dan was already there because he doesn't have conversations with himself like I do. Actually, those of you who know him will say, "He doesn't seem to have conversations with much of anyone."
"Are you okay?" I asked the couple.
The man was behind the wheel of the car. The woman was trying to shovel enormous amounts of snow from around the wheels with a shovel about the size of a window scraper.
"We tried to make a second parking spot," the woman said with a sigh. "If you're leaving, we might be able to swing around into your car tracks."
"We weren't leaving," I said, realizing I didn't sound nearly as compassionate as I probably should have. "We were just coming back to shed some layers."
Dan and I stood there, staring at them helplessly, trying to figure out how we could help.
"This happened to us two years ago," I told the couple, "and someone came along with a rope and pulled us out of the snow."
"Do you have a rope?" the woman asked.
Dan shook his head.
"I guess that means you don't have one either?" I asked.
The woman thought for a minute.
"I do have a kayak strap!" she said with renewed hope and started to fish it out of the trunk.
By this time, the man had come out of the car to survey the situation.
"Would you be able to push the car while he drives?" I asked Dan.
"Maybe . . ."
It was decided that we all three would push—Dan, the woman, and me—while the man accelerated. Dan also backed up our car to make a path for the stuck vehicle. If that didn't work, we would try to pull it out with the rather wussy-looking kayak strap.
We never had to test the strength of that kayak strap because we were able to push the car through the snowbank and into the car tracks. It took us a few heave-hos and a lot of burnt rubber inhalation, but we were able to push the car over the snow and onto flatter land.
"Yay! We did it!" I said, sounding a little too surprised at my newly discovered physical prowess. I have to admit, I was feeling something akin to a runner's high.
As the couple was leaving, they thanked us.
"I'm sure that's exactly how you wanted to spend your afternoon," the woman apologized.
I thought back to my initial hesitation with a twinge of guilt.
"Like I said, this happened to us two years ago, so we know how aggravating it is to be stuck."
"Well, you've done your good deed for the day," the man said. "Have a great time skiing."
And we did.
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