The limits of technology

I may have mentioned in other entries that the Alps are a large mountain range here in Europe. Perhaps you've heard of them. Well, Thanksgiving weekend was upon us and one member of our team - OK, it was me - decided we needed a road trip. You may also recall that Thanksgiving came in late November this year, and if it isn't snowing by late November in the Alps, the people in St. Moritz and Chamonix are very disappointed, just like they are back at Mt. Bachelor in Bend.

But the weather was great. Our general plan was to visit Provence, the southeastern corner of France, including what we call the French Riviera and what they call the Côte d'Azure. Jonathan Cronk's brother Paul and his wife Franny were kind enough to invite us to visit them at their home in France. Varese is at about 1,000 feet and it's all autostrade between here and the Mediterranean coast at Genova. So, drive through the Alps, cruise around France, come back via the coast, straight shot up to Varese.

Even though I spent a year of high school very near, I had never heard of the Mount Cenis tunnel. The first great tunnel driven through the Alps, it is still one of the longest at 13+ kilometers (8+ miles). It links the industrial city of Torino, called the "Detroit of Italy" when Detroit was still the Detroit of America, with France. This would be our magic passage through the snowy Alps.

Well, I know this will come as a terrible shock to people who know us, we got off a little late - too late to drive through the mountains. Instead we decided to reverse the route - coast first, return via the mountains.

We had a nice trip. The baby continues to be an excellent traveller, even over long rides. The scenery along the coast is. . . you've heard all the adjectives. It is wilder than you might expect, dramatic, extreme, steep, beautiful.

I'll talk about Nice in another entry, and about our nice visit with Paul and Franny. We left their home in Aups ("Opes", just in case you find yourself suddenly needing to know how to pronounce it), and with Paul's help, picked out a route. It was lovely, as advertised. Always thinking, I decided to take a short-cut - not a big one, just a hypotoneuse versus two legs kind of thing, heading toward the mountains. We ended up in the largish town of Briançon. Though not a ski resort itself, Briançon is one of those "gateway to" type of towns. We found a cozy hotel, had a nice meal, befriended the mayor of a suburb of Paris, his charming wife and their Bernese mountain dog Roxy - fellow guests. Mirella is an expert at identifying dogs of all breeds, and her cousin Justin's Simon, also a Bernese, is one of her favorites.

Mirella and Susan went upstairs, I chatted with the owner of the hotel. Always empathetic, I mentioned that I bet they were hoping for snow. More business, you see. "Yes indeed, sir, and in fact, it should arrive overnight." I realized at this moment that I had not checked the weather forecast. This is not typical for me. But, I live in Bend, Oregon. Negotiating the high passes between Bend and Portland is a fact of life in Bend. You stay informed, you take your time, and you make sure you have a car that does well in snow, sleet and ice. Besides, we were going through the Mount Cenis Tunnel, so pas de probleme, n'est-ce pas?

A little embarrassed, the manager explained that unfortunately the tunnel connects Oulx, a town that I won't try to help you pronounce, with Chambéry, about 50 miles north of Briançon. Now, I admire Italian (think Ferrari) and French (think Concorde) engineering. I cannot explain how these obviously competent people back in 1857 through 1871 could have made this fundamental error. What's even more difficult to explain, this was one of those tunnels where they start drilling from both sides and meet in the middle. Very impressive, and very wrong. The tunnel was clearly supposed to exit the Alps right there at Briançon, just past the boulangerie, and not 83.987234 kilometers to the North.

Retreat was really not an option. We had driven over a couple passes to get to Briançon, and would have then had to add another five or more hours to our return trip.

Now, our rental car was a new Mercedes station wagon. Spacious, a pleasure to drive. Six forward gears, manual shift. But - rear wheel drive and no snow tires.

I didn't sleep too well that night. I woke up about 5:30, padded down to the lobby, looked outside, and saw - snow. About two inches of Oregon-looking snow. Light flurries, a little wind, no white-out, but demonstrably snow.

We set out about eleven. This pass is the steepest, though not the highest, that I've ever crossed. The guardrails looked like some kind of toothpick and straw affair that your kid would put on the road going up the baking soda volcano. The Mercedes helpfully displayed a bright yellow exclamation point whenever we slipped, which was frequently. I have learned, being, like all males, an expert driver in all weather conditions, that driving in snow is about managing inertia. You can't go too fast and you can't stop or you won't be able to start up again. So we did that, very carefully.

Near the very top of the Montgenèvre Pass, the Mercedes' positraction thing started spinning the wheels wildly, even though we were inching along. Susan pointed out that if we ever did get positive traction we would be immediately be in a drag race with nearby snow plows. But, I pointed out, I don't have my foot on the gas at the moment, or hardly so. But we inched along.

We crested the pass at 6,300 feet (1850 meters). All downhill from there to Turin, only an hour away. Quite slippery, with a little fog to boot. The Mercedes has high-tech antilock breaks. These cleverly wouldn't quite stop the car unless I really, really insisted, but would slow it down enough, if I would just learn to trust them.

Susan was supportive in every way, as is her nature. Though an even more expert driver than myself, if that is possible, she spends most of the time in the back seat tending to our still-rear-facing junior team member.

After one of the longer fifteen minute periods of my life, we got on the autostrade. Things got better. Soon, we really were in Torino, site of the 2006 Olympics, some of which will taken place in the towns we passed through. Home that night.

Technology - sometimes a powerful ally, sometimes an Iago, ready to betray even the most cautious, thoughtful and, may I say, competent dufus.