Luck?

Some nights on the fire line, when the fire laid down and we finished digging line, we’d take a break. One such night we sat with our backs to the embers, mining our packs for snacks. By my watch, it was 2 am. Eating helped to stay awake, but so did good stories.

“Who’s up for Truth or Dare?” someone asked.

We craved diversion. It was fun to hear silly “dares” and watch the victim execute the task. Dares on hotshot crews were sketchy. If it was my turn, I always chose “Truth.” That night, the prompter’s question was easy.

“What’s the luckiest thing that ever happened to you?”

“Hmm… I once rolled a car without putting a dent or scratch on it.”

No one believed me.

“Hamberger, you’re familiar with how this game works, right?” one asked.

I waited and let them tell me how full of it I was, and then explained.

It was a Sunday morning in January. Camp Sherman on the Metolious River in Oregon was covered in a blanket of snow. I was at my brother’s house and we were out of milk. Stephen cooked the best breakfasts, especially French toast, but he needed milk. Being 16, I was eager for an excuse to drive and offered to go to the store for him. He warned me about driving in snow, but I was already an expert driver. Until five miles down the road, when suddenly I wasn’t. His Toyota Tercel hit black ice and spun the car in a full circle, spiraling backwards before plowing into the two-foot high snow-bank and rolling onto its side. 

I sat for a full minute, marveling at how fast it happened and how different the inside of the car looked from my new perspective. When the stink of burnt oil hit me, I scrambled out the passenger door window, certain the car was about to explode. With all that adrenaline, I ran the remaining two miles to the store to dial my brother’s number, hoping he’d answer and not his wife. Teresa was against me driving, certain I’d wreck their only car.

“Hi, Teresa. Umm... can I talk to Stephen? Please?”

“WHAT’D YOU DO TO MY CAR?”

(Then she asked if I was ok.)

Stephen met me at the car with a truckload of men, his neighbors, who wanted to see the wreck. Somehow, they were able to push the car upright and inspected it for damage. Smoke drifted from under the hood as oil dripped onto the hot engine, but no harm done. He looked up the road and down it and shook his head. The car flipped in the only spot on the road where there were no trees to hit. The day before, snow started to melt in the afternoon sun, but froze into a hard crust by evening. A foot of soft snow fell on top of that. I had rolled on a mattress. 

“I guess if you’re gonna’ roll a car, that’s the way to do it,” he smiled. 

He drove the car home with me buckled securely in the passenger seat.