I was born in Arvida, Quebec, in March, 1959. My father, an Alcan man, was transferred to Riverside, California, in 1966.
On a fine March day when I was in grade eleven, five friends and I left Riverside in my buddy Brad’s Plymouth Fury II. We were heading for the San Bernardino Mountains. We wanted to “go to the snow”; it was spring break and we loved to toboggan. The mountains of the Cajon Pass can be full of interesting surprises. Most of them having to do with the weather.
The car was typical of a high school kid’s car. We had just enough gas to get home and all four tires were of different makes, though equally bald. Between the six of us we had about $1.85 in loose coins.
When we arrived in the mountains at mid-morning it was sunny and clear. At about noon, however, it began to snow: big, fat flakes that floated down slowly and stuck to the stuff that was already there. Throughout the day, the rate at which the snow was falling steadily picked up. I mentioned this to Brad and he said, “Don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine.” So, we kept tobogganing.
The snow got deeper.
After a couple of hours and maybe eight to ten inches of fresh snow, Brad decided we should leave before the California Highway Patrol closed the Cajon Pass. He handed me the keys to his pride and joy and said, “Here, you drive. And if the cops ask any questions, let me do the talking.”
We piled into his Fury II and away we went, only to be stopped by the long line of cars heading to the highway on-ramp.
The Highway Patrol had the on-ramp blocked. They were turning cars away. We crept forward slowly. It kept snowing.
As we got closer we could see that the highway—all four lanes leading back to Riverside and all four lanes going in the opposite direction—was fresh, white, and pristine. There wasn’t a mark on it.
After half an hour of inching forward, we made it to the road block at the on-ramp. I rolled down the window and some snow blew in, followed by a cop’s head. The cop’s head said, “Where are you boys going?”
Brad leaned forward and said, “Sir, we’re going back to Riverside.”
The cop looked at me and said, “The Cajon Pass is closed because there are ten to twelve inches of fresh powder on it. You have a two-hour wait until the plow arrives and you’ll need chains on those tires.”
Brad leaned forward again and said to the cop, “Yes, sir.” Then he pointed at me and said, “He’s Canadian.”
The cop looked at me—in awe—and said, “Are you really Canadian?”
“Yes sir, I was born in Quebec,” I said. I wasn’t really sure what this was all about.
The cop pulled his head out of our car, turned to the other officers, and said, “It’s okay, this one can go through. There’s a Canadian driving.”
They stepped aside and away we went. And we drove home without incident.
Windsor, Ontario