24 A Day of Mishaps

WE LEFT Santa Fe for Albuquerque on tiptoe, if one may apply such an expression to an automobile.

Prior to our departure, Mr. and Mrs. Adams were occupied with their favourite activity; hand in hand, they went off "to get information." They visited the "A.A.A." (the automobile club), several petrol stations, tourist bureaux, and returned loaded with maps. Mr. Adams's face expressed despair. Mrs. Adams's, on the contrary, was full of determination. Waiting in the machine, we could hear their excited voices even from afar.

"Gentlemen!" Mr. Adams said to us solemnly. "We have got the information. It is a hundred miles to Albuquerque. Ahead of us is rain. In one part of the journey the road drops a thousand feet within a mile. No, gentlemen, do not speak. It's terrible!"

"But what of it?" asked Mrs. Adams calmly.

"Becky! Becky! Don't say'what of it'! You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Well, now, you're always right! Still, I'd like to know what you're driving at."

"Becky, you must not talk like that. You must be reasonable! I warn you, gentlemen, that danger threatens us!"

"But still, what is it that you want?" asked Mrs. Adams, without raising her voice. "Do you want us to turn back?"

"Oh, Becky, don't say ' turn back'! How can you say such things!"

"Then, let's go!"

"Seriously! There is a drop of one thousand feet in one mile! You must not say 'let's go'! Becky, you are no longer a little girl!"

"Very well, in that case we shall stop at Santa Fe!"

"You're always like that," moaned Mr. Adams. "It hurts me to hear your words. How can you say ' let's stop at Santa Fe' ? Don't talk like that! Gentlemen, it is terrible!"

Mrs. Adams silently started the motor and we drove off.

But before we left the city Mrs. Adams several times again "got information." This was the only weakness of our stalwart driver and guide. She would drive up to a pump and blow her signal. From the booth a brisk young man in a striped cap would run out. Mrs. Adams would ask the way to the nearest town.

"The third street to the right, ma'am," replied the youth, wiping his hands in waste, "and then to the right, ma'am."

"Keep to the right?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And first we must go through that street for three blocks?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And then to the right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Adams was silent for a while, looking intently out of her little window.

"So it's the second street to the right?"

"No, ma'am, the third street."

The youth attempted to run away.

"And is the road good?" asked Mrs. Adams, reaching for the gears.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you very, very much!" Mr. Adams cried helpfully.

"Very, very," his wife would add.

"Very much," we supported them.

Our machine left its place, but only to stop again at the next\pump.

"We must check up," Mrs. Adams would say anxiously.

"It never hurts to check up," Mr. Adams would confirm, rubbing his hands.

Then would begin "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am" all over again.

Information was being gathered that day until about five o'clock in the afternoon, so that we did not leave Santa Fe until dusk, which increased Mr. Adams's apprehensions. He was silent until we reached Albuquerque itself. Evidently his restless soul was oppressed by heavy foreboding.

It was utterly dark. Our pale headlights, manufactured with exemplary efficiency at one of Ford's midget plants, scarcely managed to pierce the fog-laden darkness.

Only once did Mr. Adams break his tragic silence.

"Becky!" he exclaimed. "We forgot to go to the post office in Santa Fe for my hat, which they surely must have had time to send from Kansas City. Gentlemen, that hat will drive me mad!"

"It's all right. We'll send a postcard from Albuquerque and ask them to forward the hat to San Francisco," Mrs. Adams replied.

The journey to Albuquerque ended auspiciously. We could not even tell where exactly we had passed the thousand-foot descent, despite our apprehensive peering into the darkness for several hours on end.

It was in the city itself, while seeking a camp for the night, that we drove off the road and landed in a deep mudhole. For the first time In the course of our journey we, who had been spoiled by macadam roads and service, had to wade right into the mud and, cursing our luck, push our beloved car, which had sunk right down to its rear end.

The machine did not budge.

"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Adams, wringing his short fat little hands, "you simply do not understand. You do not want to understand the significance of an automobile journey! No, seriously, you don't understand!"

Then appeared the gentleman in a vest, his hat pulled down to his nose. He approached Mrs. Adams, called her "ma'am," took her place at the wheel, and plied the throttle so vigorously that our car was enveloped in stinking fumes. Then a hysterical buzzing resounded, Mr. Adams beat a frightened retreat, and the machine, scattering tons of soupy mud, drove back on to the road.

That was the first link in the chain of mishaps that befell us the following day.

We drove out of Albuquerque on a frightful morning. The beautiful adobe houses with the ends of their ceiling beams emerging, the Coca-Cola signs, the monasteries, the drug-stores, the ancient Spanish missions, the same kind of petrol stations as in the East—all of it was covered with grey rain. At the entrances to the houses hung wooden yokes of bullock harness (in memory of the pioneer gold-miners); on the roofs of the Mexican huts soaked bunches of red pepper. Likewise soaking were advertisements of excursions to neighbouring Indian villages and Spanish missions (to the very nearest it was one hundred and eighty miles).

That morning we were supposed to cross the Rocky Mountains.

Suddenly, out of the muggy darkness emerged a beautiful clearing of green sky. The road went up. We saw no mountains. The only things visible were low hills and fissures of earth. The rain stopped. The sun looked out. We began to admire the landscape, and were as happy as the three famous little pigs, suspecting no danger.

Rising higher and higher, the automobile drove out finally on a vast plateau. Melting snow and ice were piled high on the road. The day was bright and crisp, like a day in early spring. We were at twelve thousand feet elevation, a little higher than the top of Mont Blanc.

"Look, look!" cried Mrs. Adams. "What cliffs on the horizon! What beauty! A shadow, a shadow! The green shadow of a cliff!"

"This is magnificent!" Mr. Adams shouted at the top of his voice, turning excitedly in his seat. "This vision ennobles the soul, uplifts ..."

He was suddenly silent. Craning his neck, he stared at the road.

The machine began to swerve from side to side and to slip on the frosty slush. It foundered, and then the rear wheels skidded to one side. Mrs. Adams pulled the emergency brake. The machine landed across the road and stopped dead in its tracks.

Oh, how we hated to step out of our cosy machine and sink our feet in thin city shoes into this icy water. We decided to put on the chains. Although Mr. Adams took no direct part in that, he nevertheless deemed it his duty to follow us out of the machine and get his feet wet with the rest of us.