Winter Driving School

There are certain subtle signs by which an experienced Alaskan can tell that winter is approaching.

The fireweed has gone to seed. The cranes are gathering. There is ice around the edges of the dog dish in the morning. The sourdough down the road has had his Blizzaks mounted since August 27.

The cheechako has noticed none of these things.

This is because the cheechako owns an Audi quattro.

I should explain that cheechako is an old Alaskan term for a newcomer who has not yet acquired sufficient experience to recognize impending disaster. A sourdough, on the other hand, is an Alaskan who has experienced impending disaster often enough to begin preparing for it sometime during the previous disaster.

This explains the difference between their winter vehicles.

The sourdough drives a 1989 four-wheel-drive pickup of uncertain parentage. Its driver's-side fender is blue, its passenger-side fender is red, the hood is primer gray, and the rest of the truck is a shade of brown not available from any automotive paint manufacturer because most of it is iron oxide. Three generations of Bondo repairs are visible along the rocker panels.

There are dog-mushing boxes in the bed, two Jerry cans strapped to a diamond-plate bumper, and a handyman jack mounted where it can accumulate sufficient road salt to become a permanent structural component of the vehicle. A bumper-mounted winch protrudes from the front like the mandible of an enormous beetle.

The windshield contains a collection of cracks documenting several trips up the Dalton Highway and at least two down the Denali.

The manual locking hubs have little arrows labeled LOCK and FREE, although the left one hasn't willingly moved since the Clinton administration.

By the end of August the truck is wearing Blizzaks.

The cheechako looks at this vehicle and smirks.

His Audi has all-wheel drive.

Besides, he has already winterized it.

He bought chrome-spoked rims.

He ordered a custom vinyl wrap.

He installed a window-tint kit.

Admittedly, none of these accessories provides much traction on ice, but neither does a handyman jack, and the Audi has heated seats.

Checkmate, sourdough.

The cheechako has also read extensively about winter driving on the Internet. He knows that modern all-wheel drive uses sophisticated computer technology to distribute power among the wheels, thereby enabling the Audi quattro to defy Alaska's meteorological Grendel.

The sourdough has tire chains.

This strikes the cheechako as quaint.

Then October arrives.

The first snow is generally harmless. It flutters prettily down from heaven and transforms the landscape into a Christmas card. The cheechako photographs his Audi against a background of snow-covered spruce and posts the picture online with the caption:

WINTER? BRING IT ON!

Winter reads this.

Winter has a sense of humor.

Three days later, the cheechako is driving home after purchasing a pumpkin-spice iced espresso. The temperature has risen just enough during the afternoon to glaze the highway with a transparent film of water before dropping abruptly to twelve degrees.

The sourdough calls this black ice.

The cheechako thinks black ice is what accumulates in the bottom of an iced espresso after the coffee is gone.

He is about to broaden his vocabulary.

The Audi enters a blind curve at fifty-seven miles per hour.

There is a moose standing in the road.

At this precise moment, approximately nine different events occur inside the cheechako's brain.

First, his eyes inform his brain that there is a moose.

His brain rejects the report.

His eyes resubmit it with supporting documentation.

His brain convenes an emergency committee.

The committee determines that the object is indeed a moose and refers the matter to the Department of Feet.

The Department of Feet immediately stamps the brake pedal to the floor.

This is when the Audi begins impersonating a fidget spinner.

The cheechako turns the steering wheel left.

The Audi continues sideways.

He turns it right.

The Audi, apparently interpreting this as encouragement, rotates another 110 degrees.

The heated steering wheel is now being operated with both hands, both forearms and, briefly, the cheechako's chin.

The moose watches.

There is something uniquely humiliating about being observed by a moose during an automotive emergency. Moose do not appear concerned. They merely stand there chewing, with the expression of a large, badly assembled horse watching a toddler fall off a tricycle.

The cheechako now remembers something he read online about steering into a skid.

Unfortunately, he cannot remember which direction the skid is going.

He therefore attempts to steer into all of them.

His feet have meanwhile become independent contractors. One is stomping the brake. The other is searching frantically for a clutch pedal that the Audi does not possess.

The espresso leaves the cup holder.

Time slows.

The cheechako watches it rise majestically through the passenger compartment, perform one complete revolution, and deposit eighteen ounces of pumpkin-spice latte onto the inside of his windshield.

Visibility is reduced to approximately one cinnamon-scented inch.

He operates the wipers.

This does not help.

He remembers they are on the outside.

The Audi completes another rotation.

The moose steps politely aside.

For one brief and glorious instant, the cheechako is traveling backward at highway speed while facing forward, which gives him an unparalleled view of where he has been.

Then the road disappears.

There is a soft WHUMPF!

Silence.

The Audi has entered a snowdrift nose-first, leaving only the rear bumper, chrome-spoked rims and one corner of the custom vinyl wrap visible above the berm.

The cheechako sits motionless.

The heated seats continue functioning perfectly.

After several moments, he becomes aware of the moose peering through the passenger window.

It chews.

The cheechako believes it is smirking.

This is impossible, of course.

Probably.

Eventually he climbs out through the rear door and assesses the situation.

This is when he discovers an important principle of Alaska winter driving:

Four-wheel drive does not necessarily prevent you from entering a ditch.

It merely allows all four wheels to spin simultaneously once you get there.

He tries reverse.

WHIRRRRRRRRR.

Drive.

WHIRRRRRRRRR.

Reverse.

WHIRRRRRRRRR.

He tries something called “Dynamic Traction Control.”

WHIRRRRRRRRR.

He selects “Off-Road Mode.”

WHIRRRRRRRRR.

At this point a sound comes from around the curve.

It is not the silky purr of German automotive engineering.

It is more of a:

RUMBA-RUMBA-RUMBA-CLANK-RUMBA-RUMBA.

The sourdough's old pickup lumbers into view.

It is now wearing tire chains.

The truck slows.

The sourdough rolls down his window.

“Howdy.”

The cheechako brushes snow from his designer jacket.

“Road's pretty slick.”

“Yep.”

“Moose.”

“Yep.”

“Black ice.”

“Yep.”

The sourdough studies the Audi protruding vertically from the snowbank.

“Quattro?”

The cheechako's jaw tightens.

“Yep.”

The sourdough nods.

He doesn't laugh.

This is one of the distinguishing characteristics of the mature sourdough. He has already done everything stupid that you are presently doing and several things you haven't thought of yet.

He backs the truck around, frees the winch cable from the diamond-plate bumper, and hooks onto the Audi. Then he locks the hubs, drops the transmission into low range, and lets the chains bite.

RUMBA-RUMBA-CLANK.

The Audi emerges from the snowdrift with considerably less dignity than it entered.

The sourdough unhooks the cable.

The cheechako stares at the battered old truck – the mismatched fenders, the cracked windshield, the Bondo, the Jerry cans, the dog boxes, the handyman jack, the winch, and the ugly black winter tires.

For the first time, it looks beautiful.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem.”

“Where'd you get those tires?”

The sourdough smiles.

“Ordered 'em in July.”

Then he rumbles away.

The cheechako stands beside his Audi for a moment, watching the taillights disappear into the blowing snow.

Behind him, the moose steps back onto the highway.

He looks at the moose.

The moose looks at him.

Neither says anything.

But the cheechako could swear he hears it whisper:

“See you next winter.”

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