Among Other Things: One more hill to home

It was Christmas Eve … one of those crystal clear, sharp, snapping cold, zero degree winter nights, common to the northern Rockies. A myriad of glittering pinpoints punctuated the black skies. Starshine combined with light from the last quarter moon to cast an eerie glow over the snowscape as silver smoke ribbons curled upward from ranch house chimneys.

Along the straight stretch of two-lane highway purred an old miles-weary '41 Chevy. Inside the car the heater waged a losing battle against the invisible force of bone-chilling cold that penetrated the four-door sedan's metal skin.

Jim Craighton hunkered his 6'2" frame deeper inside his fleece-lined parka trying to find an extra degree of warmth.

"Only one more hill to home," he mused to himself. "It's been a long time — and a long way."

A couple days earlier he had received his final Army discharge papers. And a couple of months before that he had been half a world away on a bald, shell-pocked, nameless, numbered hill in Korea, where he wondered if he'd ever see another Christmas, let alone be home for the holiday.

Over the car radio came a medley of Christmas carols. Jim joined in, humming at first, then tentatively singing the melody. Realizing no one was there to hear him, he tried harmonizing to the more familiar carols.

"Bah, I harmonize about like McGuffey's goat. No wonder the teachers told me just to keep quiet and mouth the words during grade school music times."

Traffic, never heavy in the sparsely populated Montana foothills, was virtually non-existent. He'd met only two oncoming cars in the last 10 miles. No lights showed in the rear view mirror.

"All right, just another hour and I'll be home," Jim thought as he and the old Chevy started climbing the twisting, mountain road toward Windy Pass. About a third of the way up, he noticed the quarter moon and stars had disappeared. A few light flakes of snow reflecting in the headlights grabbed his attention.

"Should've expected this. There's always weather on Windy Pass. Even in the summer it's wet here when the whole state is dry," he said aloud.

Christmas Eve was no exception. The flakes rapidly turned into a full scale snowstorm. He dimmed the high beams to better concentrate on the snow-covered road.

After a few minutes of steady climbing, he noticed the speedometer racing to 50 miles an hour as the wheels slipped and spun on the ice beneath the snow blanket.

The combination of slipping wheels, rolled up windows, and relentless oncoming snowflakes literally hypnotized Jim, producing a disoriented feeling. He rolled down the window on the driver's side and flipped on the interior light. The trance-like floating sensation subsided, but the windblown snow stung his face as car and driver neared the pullout three miles below Windy Pass.

Jim had noted over the past mile that the snow was starting to drift across the roadway and the car plowed through them with increasing difficulty.

"No wonder there's no traffic out here tonight. Just three miles to the top though. If I can get over that, the going should be easier on the east side," he thought. "But I'm gonna to chain up to get to the top."

He pulled over at the turnoff, stopped, got the chains out of the trunk, fumbled first with gloves, then without, as he managed to fasten the chains around the rear wheels.

"Wonder how much more snow has accumulated in 15 minutes," he pondered as the old Chevy resumed the snow-clogged climb. Even with chains it was difficult going the last three miles to the top.

"At least in Korea when I heard shells coming I could duck or dig in … but I'm really exposed here. There's nowhere to hide. Lord, help me," he prayed.

The innovative combination of inside overhead light, low beams, cracked windows, tire chains, and steadily rotating glances seemed to work, yet Jim was exhausted as the car reached the summit and started down the eastern slope. However, the expected respite from the storm failed to materialize. The wind had died down but the heavy snowfall continued.

"I'd better be thankful for little things," he told himself. "At least we're over the top and heading downhill. This can't be any worse."

The euphoric feeling didn't last. Suddenly, near the bottom of the hill, Jim ducked as a brown-gray object caromed off the hood and into the windshield. As he instinctively raised an arm to protect his face, he jerked the steering wheel just enough throw the car into an uncontrollable skid. After a couple 360s, it went into a 30-ft. deep borrow pit, overturned twice. As the car tumbled, Jim cried out, "Please, God, stop this thing …"

Somehow the doors remained shut and the car came to a stop, upside down at the bottom of the borrow pit. All was quiet as the snow continued to fall.

In a matter of minutes, Jim stirred, blinked blurry eyes and gradually regained consciousness. He figured he must have banged his head as the car rolled. Gingerly he moved his arms and legs. He reached out … and felt feathers.

"Feathers? What on earth …?" Little more than a foot away was a dead owl. It had flown toward the Chevy's headlights, and paid the price.

As Jim became more alert he heard singing — "Oh, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant…" He thought the radio must still be playing. Then he realized it wasn't. It was too badly damaged.

Unable to force the doors open, he cleared off the remaining parts of the windshield and squeezed through.

Once outside, he realized the snow had stopped. He still heard the singing — "O, little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie …"

Minutes before, a rousing round of "Deck the halls with boughs of holly" had drowned out the sound of the accident. Those in the Foothills Community Church were unaware of Jim Craighton's encounter with the stray owl, barely 50 yards away.

As the Christmas Eve service closed with the singing of "Silent night, holy night, all is calm," Jim opened the door, walked slow in and knelt gratefully.

Thirty-three years later, on Christmas Eve, Jim and Jennie finished dinner and relaxed in front o the fireplace before getting ready to attend the community Christmas Eve service. On the mantel were photographs of their five kids — each now grown and living elsewhere in Montana, a couple of them out of state. Christmases were sure a lot quieter now.

Jennie looked at him and said, "You're looking pretty pensive, Jim, what are you thinking?"

"Oh, about Christmas Eve 33 years ago. I'm glad that the old Foothills Church was still there. Two days later it wasn't."

An electrical short circuit started a fire the day after Christmas and building burned to the ground. It never was rebuilt — better cars, improved roads, and a poor economy found folks traveling to town to attend church.

Jennie's eyes misted as she smiled, took his hand and said softly, "Mmmm. I sang in the choir that night. I still cringe when I think that I almost decided not to go to that Christmas Eve service. I'm glad I did."

"Me, too."