My street is narrow and covered with ice. It is the only street on Juneau, I’ve heard, where you’re allowed to park the wrong way, because it is a cul-de-sac with no sac. The cars have worked two deep ruts into the ice. So even though you can’t see the pavement, you know where to drive. I find it easier than Glacier Highway, which is just a plain flat mix of white and black ice. But people who live in Juneau — downtown, as in below us — choose not to come up here if they can avoid it. I like to make a daily try just to see whether my car can do it with the California tires; why else did I get a Subaru?
So far I have not failed or even slipped much. The gravel-layers are usually reliable. But one day last week I parked at the end of the cul-de, on the hill. I parked facing up the hill. In the morning the snow around my car had solidified into an ice tureen, such as would serve punch to a party at the Ice Hotel up north. Any way I wanted to go was up a slippery hill.
I learned that the newfangled cat littler I buy is worthless for not only keeping my house free of cat stink, but also for traction. I bought it because it was made of old newspapers — being in the news business, I want the physical product to come to some use.
A white-bearded man started his big truck behind me as I was spinning on newspaper pellets.
“I’m too old and tired to help you,” he said. “There’s gravel in a bucket at the end of the street.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You could always just walk to work and leave it til spring,” he suggested.
“Thank you,” I said.
The gravel was what I needed. I rolled on out with a greater sense of accomplishment than one ever feels leaving one’s Oakland driveway for work.
