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When I got back to our apartment two weeks later, Cynthia was gone. Her father and a friend of his retrieved Cynthia, our son, and our daughter to-be. I returned to a mostly empty apartment. Once again, what I thought would bring a sense of freedom was just the ball-and-chain of selfishness renewed. I felt it in my soul; I had made a significant turn. My sense of self-sufficiency in all things reared its fickle head to tell any other remnant of rightness that it was not welcome. And I made sure of that by later signing divorce papers.

The work I did in North Dakota must have made an impression because I accepted a transfer to our district office there. And thus commenced more years of godless living.

As the oil boom was going bust in the mid-80s, I accepted another transfer to our Denver area office. But that stint lasted only a year, from 1985 to 1986, and ended with the ultimate closure of our shop altogether.

About a month before I was laid off, I faced the harrowing experience of nearly losing my life on Wolf Creek Pass. I didn’t share that dangerous instance with Cynthia until years later. When I did, she asked me if that day was a Saturday. While I wouldn’t bet against it, I would not be surprised. That’s because on a particular Saturday (while we were divorced), Cynthia was overwhelmed powerfully and suddenly with the strongest of impressions to pray for me. She did not know what to pray, but the urge was strong enough to drive her to the floor. Cynthia did not know why she was so moved to pray, but now we know.

Having won safe driving awards from my company, I was not intimidated by the Wolf. But when the truck engine unexpectedly quit just after I completed a hairpin turn, things got a little frantic.

“Okay, keep your cool,” I told myself. I was looking at a long straightaway not as steep as some others on the highway, and I wasn’t traveling very fast. However, big rigs and trucks like I drove require air pressure for the brakes to work. And the brakes’ air compressor requires a running motor. So, descending the hill while braking meant using air pressure that would not be replenished.

I could have gotten the truck stopped safely, but the road had no shoulder. I could just imagine one truck coming up the mountain and another descending, and there’s my truck blocking the lane. Not a good idea.

The issue with air brakes is that they require air pressure to keep them from locking up. As a safety feature, the emergency brakes would automatically set when the air pressure dropped below 30 pounds. The gauge showed 40 pounds. If the brakes locked during travel, then an uncontrollable skid could happen on a road occasionally soaked with water from the melting snow.

Repeated attempts to re-start the truck were in vain. I pushed the start button. Nothing. Again, nothing. I thought the engine would catch since the key was on and the engine was turning with the transmission in gear. But, no, didn’t happen.

Complicating matters was the inability to shift to a lower gear. This meant the truck necessarily could travel slower without using the brake. Just one little problem with that: the motor had to be running so it could be revved to the right RPMs for downshifting. With no engine, shifting was nothing but a gear-grinding exercise in futility that ended in neutral.

At the very moment I decided to stand on the brakes and stop in the lane, I saw a turnout ahead. Not a runaway truck lane, but a large area big enough for my truck.

Relief. I was saved. Or so I thought.

Braking to about 10 MPH I turned off the road. What I did not know was that the turnout was about a foot deep in mud due to the melting snow. When that heavy truck hit the mud and I hit the brakes, the truck seemed to travel faster. The brakes worked but the truck didn't stop.

I had no steering in that slickness, either. I got off the brakes and cranked the steering wheel all the way to the left, but the truck did not turn. The inertia of 50,000 pounds pulled like a magnet toward my doom. All of this in a matter of two or three seconds, and now I’m rolling involuntarily toward the tops of 80-foot tall Aspen trees. I’m headed straight for disaster.

Norm Miller can be contacted at nmiller@montanacc.edu