It was mid-November when the first snow fell. Byron was the first out the door, that morning, and this cold white stuff was new. His head twisted from one side to the other, as though a change of angle might reveal answers to the mystery he was facing. The sky was white and the mountains hid behind satin drapes, and could have fooled anyone that they weren't there, at all. In the low contrast, it was hard to tell what was near and what was far.

Some way down the hill and over the stream that trickled through the rocks, towards the town, a barking dog caught Byron's ears and puppeted them up on top of his head, to be illuminated by his flashing locator collar. He couldn't see any more than I could and he was unable to pinpoint the source of the sound, despite several attempts to scan the area. When he gave up trying, he passed me a 'fair enough' glance and continued sniffing around for interesting things to eat and pee on.

We walked for half an hour to reach the bridge that joined two regions of the country, then turned back to head up the hill and collect a few things for our trip. When we were finally set, we started cautiously down the steep hill and back to the crossroads. Burtwoman handed me a coffee and I jammed it into the cup holder, for the road. We all hopped up into the cab, buckled in and set up the map.

The drive out onto the highway was easy-going, despite the cold, but thanks to a short sleep, the night before, I had to pull into a rest stop and sleep a while, just an hour from our destination - a short-term apartment lease, a hundred miles west.

The tank was empty and so was my stomach, and even though there was a gas station fifty feet from where I'd parked, both roads into it were blocked and I was thankful for my foresight; In the fuel bay, I had a few full cans ready to go and was able to continue without the gas station, shortly after my nap.

Although the journey, until this point, had been without drama, it wasn't to be so smooth, going on from here. At one point, the cloud descended to the road, bringing visibility to near zero. It got so thick, for a period, that I couldn't see the road, at all, and even crawling along in first gear was scary. It was like driving into a lake with no idea if there was a waterfall or a block of solid rock, immediately ahead. With no visible place to stop, I broke out the flashlight and tried to get an angle that the fog couldn't send right back at me, and thanks to low windows, I was able to make out the faintest trace of road markings and keep the wagon upright.

As we came into a village at fifteen miles per hour, we still nearly hit a stone wall, head on, when the road took a left I didn't account for. Several other near-misses kept me on my toes, with narrow lanes, sharp turns, odd priorities and deep trenches being just a few of them. Even low roof gutters, on some of the corners, could easily have caused some nasty accidents. Byron slept soundly, on his seat, unaware of the close calls and used to the varying hums of the engine, just happy to be warm and close to his family. He kept me calm, when I needed it. It worked both ways.

At last, down from the high roads, the fog cleared and we could pick up speed, again. And then, not ten minutes later, and less than five from our destination, the navigation sent us into a woodland trail. Had we been more than a few minutes away, the mistake would have been obvious, but it was perfectly possible, at this distance - the place could easily be just up the trail from the main road.

As the land inclined, so more power was needed, to prevent a complete loss of momentum, and with extra power comes extra pressure on the ground.

To my right, a safety barrier I had been relying on for directions gave way to a steep drop - almost vertical - and as I powered through the section, to keep from stalling, the hairs stood up, tall, on the back of my neck. I could feel the back wheels slipping towards the edge, as I toed in, towards the left, to keep it moving. I had to maintain speed, to have a chance of avoiding a catastrophic sideways roll, that could easily have been fatal. Uneasy, Byron began barking into the dark, like a lost sailor, further increasing the tension. The un-sipped coffee spilled onto the dashboard, as I hit one pot hole and then another.

Somehow, I managed to get the three-ton heap of steel through the loose gravel path and up onto the top of the slick, muddy hill, and we carefully came to a stop, next to a parked car - the one I assumed to belong to our host. In the failing light, it was a challenge to even spot a door number on the fences and gates that lay ahead, let alone read it, so I checked the address again, to see if I could get a clue from the vague land shapes. I'd hop out and walk along the row with the flashlight and locate our house.

But something was very wrong. The address I'd typed into the navigator was not the one it was now showing - something I really didn't want to see. Once again, the world's number one digital map had let me down in a huge way. If this was not the place, where the hell was I supposed to go? And how was I going to get the van back down the hill that almost killed us, just a minute earlier? In all honesty, I was still shaking from the feeling of the wheels slipping on the wet gravel, and didn't want to face it for a second time.

At that moment, it hit me that I'd had one of those feelings in my gut, since I woke up - you know the type - that something's going to happen, but you don't know what. It'd come as a nervous feeling and I'd kept imagining being stuck on the side of the road with some major mechanical problem or something. Well, I guess this is as good as.

With the hairs still standing, on my neck, I was reluctant to attempt any further maneuvers, on ground that was fast becoming a pitch-black oil slick, but two things changed my mind; one: what else could I do? and two: when I pulled the handbrake and slowly released the foot brake, to get out and check my turning options, it became frighteningly clear that the handbrake was not going to hold the weight, at this angle. It creaked like an old ship as the van began sliding, slowly, south. The gearbox was holding the weight, but the hill wasn't. The rain turned the mud to slime and the angle turned it into a slide.

The only way was down, one way or another. Ten feet behind was the path we'd come up. The van was twenty feet long. Turning was going to be a challenge. Another five feet from there was a sixty-degree drop and an occupied cabin that wouldn't stand a chance. I couldn't get out without releasing the foot brake, and all hell, along with it, and there was nobody else in earshot. There was no way I could take that path backwards, in the dark.

Slowly, I edged back, towards a little verge, and used it as a chock, to keep the van in position, while I eased out, to assess angles and make concerned faces. With the van as secure as it was ever going to be, I carefully opened the back door, fully in the path of the weighty machine, and slid the snow chains out, with the care and patience of a bomb de-fuser. Fitting them, blindly, under this risk, was like feeling for mines in a swamp. The easy 1-2-3 fitting technique was well into double-figures, by the time I got through it, and when I did, I sloshed back into the cab, in my new winter wet suit, to see if they would mean something.

The van was at an alarming angle that only got more dangerous, as I turned.
Braking was causing a landslide.
Accelerating was digging a hole.
Breathing was giving me a heart attack.

I had to finish this, now.