One winter day, I had to go from Canmore to Calgary in my trusty 1970 Toyota named Tat. The weather was the usual for that time of year in the Rockies – rain, snow and slush mixed and only a few metres of visibility. Nothing unusual.
On the way out of town, I saw a poor soul hitchhiking towards Calgary. The car obviously thought we should pick him up, as it spat, coughed, stalled and rolled to a stop a little ahead of the guy. Knowing what happened, I got out of the car just as the hitchhiker ran up, looking very thankful. I was happy to see him as well, because I needed someone to work the throttle as I cleaned out all the snow and slush out my air cleaner and carburetor.
We got Tat started again and the fellow got out of the driver seat and into the passenger seat. The usual creaks, grunts and groans settled into a nice rhythm, then I started the car and we were off. Wide-eyed from the sounds the car (and it’s driver) was making, he asked if the door always moved in the frame quite that much. I told him it was much better after I added some weather stripping. He didn’t seem to be particularly reassured.
All the way through the mountains, we kept jockeying for position with a big transport truck. We’d manage to get ahead of him going up hills but downhill the transport would blow by us and immediately pull in front of us. Then he’d slow down just enough so that the spray and slush from his tires would have the perfect arc to impact the hood and windshield of Tat. The strangled gurgling from my passenger every time that happened didn’t help my concentration, let me tell you.
As we approached Hwy 1 and Hwy 22 junction, the big transport truck shot past and pulled in front of us – again. “Darn, I thought we’d finally lost him.” I said (or words to that effect). The spray from his wheels promptly threw slush and muck onto and into the front of the car and we sputtered and limped our way to the pull out just ahead.
My passenger quickly started to get out of the car and began to grab his stuff, thanking me for the ride and that he’d be okay from here. Luckily, the door had frozen shut. I jumped out and popped the hood, trying to keep the blowing snow and ice from filling up the engine compartment. “Nonsense”, I hollered, “I’ll get you to Calgary – just get in the driver’s seat and turn’er over when I say”.
Grabbing a bottle of lock de-icer, I quickly removed the football-sized chunk of ice and slush from the carb and poured the de-icer into the top. I gave the thumbs up to my passenger and he turned the key. There was a satisfying CRUMP as the alcohol ignited and the engine restarted.
As I put the hood back down and started for the driver’s seat, I was surprised to see the fellow about fifteen feet behind the car and heading into the storm at a good clip. I managed to catch up to him before he was lost in the blizzard and convince him that I really could get him to Calgary.
After a few more stops to add some de-icer and a few more close calls with the transport trucks on the highway, we finally started down the final hill to Calgary. As I dropped the hitchhiker off on the west side of town, I was curious as to why he was looking so pale. I asked him if he was okay and he said “just fine, thanks for the ride”. With a wave of a hand that was cramped in a position much like the armrest on the door, he was on his way. Another good deed done. I had to keep my eye out for someone else to help on the way back to Canmore.
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