Wrong Way on the One Way
Expect the Unexpected
According to ancient Gaelic sources, my first name means Warrior Maiden and my middle name means Shining Light. Chew on that handle for a moment – Warrior Maiden in a Spotlight What a combination of nomenclatures to hang around a wee girl’s head. Did my parents give one iota of thought to branding me for life? At least they could have cut me some slack with a middle name that meant something like Incognito, Hidden, or Camouflage. Nope! Right from the start I was destined for the front lines of battle – whether I wanted to be there or not.
Despite my feisty name, I don’t go looking for battles. Not all people are inclined to draw their swords the moment they lay eyes on me. I hear-tell some might even like me. However, it never fails to baffle me and set me back a few paces when perfect strangers instantly declare outright war on me. With the Warrior Maiden blood coursing through my veins, I am ever-ready to rise up to the challenge and never ready to back down. It’s just my nature.
One such incident took place a few years back when my redheaded friend and I went on a road trip through the Canadian Rockies. Our mission was to head due-west from Calgary, along the TransCanada Highway, transporting Gracie, my sweet Pitbull rescue, to her new owner in the Pacific Coast Region of British Columbia. My redheaded friend took the wheel, I rode copilot, and our Pitbull cargo took charge of the backseat. Several hours into the journey, we stopped for a Pitbull pitstop at a park deep in the Rockies, alongside the Columbia River near Revelstoke, British Columbia.
Pitstop business taken care of in a timely fashion, we were ready to hit the road again. We jockeyed positions. I took the wheel, my redheaded friend took over as copilot, and Gracie the Pitbull reclaimed the entire backseat.
Get the picture?
Two redhead gals of a certain age transporting a grinning Pitbull through the heart of the Canadian Rockies in a brand-swanky new, sparkly black, top-of-the-totem-pole SUV - hereafter referred to as the Pitbull-mobile.
Pulling out of the Pitbull pitstop parking lot, my redheaded co-pilot instructed me to turn left. So, left I turned.
Oops! The road didn’t look right… the yellow lines were on the WRONG side. It was a one-way road and I was driving the wrong way. Well, what did it matter? There was less than a quarter of a mile to go.
It was the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the slow season, in the middle of nowhere.
We had not encountered another vehicle in the past half hour. Executive decision - I kept driving. No big deal, the end target was right in sight. I’d just squeak by this directional goof-up and sashay westward to our next destination along the TransCanada Highway - Sicamous, B.C. (pronounced “Sick-a-moose” for those of you not familiar with the area).
Then it happened. A car turned the Right Way on the one-way road - the same road that I drove the Wrong Way on!
Fortunately, this dilemma could be solved in a jiffy. This was no ordinary one-way road. It had not one, but two full-sized lanes to accommodate the massive volume of traffic that simply did not exist on it.
Thank you, good citizens of the province of British Columbia for building a one-way, super-highway into this remote mountain park. Your tax dollars are being put to good use. No doubt the bears appreciate the convenient, streamlined access they now have for loping to town lickety-split on the weekends to rummage through the campgrounds and pose for photo-ops with the tourists.
Being a smart cookie, I steered the Pitbull-mobile into the right-hand lane. Logically I assumed the oncoming vehicle would follow suit and move into the opposite lane. By my way of thinking, this is how every two-way road in North America is fashioned.
You stay on your side of the road, I stay on my side of the road, and we pass each other safely. No problem. You go your way. I go mine.
Oh, By the way. Watch out for the bears lollygagging along this one-way super-highway through the park. They don’t obey traffic laws either.
Ah, but remember the names my parents gave me when I was an innocent babe in arms? The names that roughly translate, War Maiden in a Spotlight. Apparently, the light shone brightly on my directional blunder and some people cannot, simply cannot resist the temptation to wage war on me.
The oncoming vehicle switched lanes and drove towards the Pitbull-mobile – head-on! Yup, head-honking-on!
Are you serious? Are you Seriously Serious?? Tell me this is a joke…
What the heck???? As I stopped the Pitbull-mobile, my redheaded copilot adjusted her seat to a more leisurely position, retrieved a bag of candy, and settled in to watch the show. Having known each other since pre-school, I doubt anything I was about to say or do would or could surprise her.
The Pitbull-mobile stood at a standstill. I claimed my ground hood to hood, eyeball to eyeball with Mr. Jerk, the driver of the other vehicle. He flared his nostrils. I flared mine.
Meanwhile, Jerk’s passenger frantically flapped her arms like a crazed chicken bobbing and contorting her elbows to form coded “T” signals. I suspect Chicken Woman’s encrypted avian signals were supposed to mean “Stop”. I don’t speak Poulet, so I can only guess.
Despite Jerk’s head-on challenge and Chicken Woman’s flapping message, I STILL gave Jerk the benefit of the doubt and assumed he would come to his senses.
I nodded my head and waved my hand to acknowledge the error of my ways, thank-you-very-much.
Stop blocking me and we’ll both be on our way.
Jerk merely curled up his lip and gritted his teeth. The epitome of a narcissistic donkey’s hind end, he designated himself the defender, protector, and cop of the one-way, two-lane super highway, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the slow season. And he was determined to force me to turn around and go the right way on the one-way road – to drive all the way back around the park and exit the other side.
Really?
The longer Jerk dug in and hunkered down, the more emphatically Chicken Woman flapped her wings, the greater my resolve grew – I stood my ground.
Okay, Jerk. If it’s a showdown you want, it’s a showdown you’ve got.
I chuckled to myself. Perhaps I’ll just take Gracie the Pitbull for a nice little walk over to Jerk’s vehicle so we can have a civilized “talk” about this predicament.
Let’s see whose lip is curled and whose teeth are gritted now. Touche, Jerk!
I was having way too much fun with this Ace-in-my-back-pocket idea.
Meanwhile, my redheaded copilot continued to watch the action unfold. She’s not a warrior.1 Gracie the Pitbull consumed the entire backseat, unaware of her involvement in my contingent battle plan strategy.
Maybe Chicken Woman talked some sense into Jerk, maybe he simply got the message: I would NOT stand for his bullying. Or perhaps he was like the proverbial fly on the wall that zips away in the nick of time so it doesn’t get swatted. He moved his vehicle over to the other lane.
For a moment I credited him with coming to his senses. Note I said, “For a moment.” That was BEFORE he had the audacity to pull up beside me, roll his window down and open his mouth.
At that point, he graduated from a mere Jerk to a full-fledged card-carrying Jerk-Ignoramus.
Had he left well enough alone, I would have gladly been on my way and let bygones be bygones. But this ignoramus was a brute for punishment.
Jerk-Ignoramus2 was actually stupid enough to snipe at me, “What are you doing?!!!
Instantly, I hurled back, “You busted me!! Going the wrong way on a one-way road! What does it look like I’m doing?!!”
Chicken Woman’s jaw dropped. Jerk-Ignoramus glared. My red-headed co-pilot sat locked motionless in suspenseful silence.
I was ready to slam-dunk this mule rump!
In a nano-second, my pent-up annoyance towards EVERY jerk-ignoramus driver who has EVER gotten under my skin, hacked me off, or even just mildly irritated me FESTERED and ERUPTED to the surface.
I stared into this Jerk-Ignoramus’ cantankerous face and point blank, with clear articulation said, “e##f## you! @@$@h@!”
How many times in my life had I wanted to give jerk-ignoramus drivers precisely such a nasty tongue-lashing? To rip their lips off? But I live in Texas and everyone knows it’s not wise to lose your cool with drivers in Texas because it is… TEXAS!
In Texas, it is legal for a law-abiding citizen over the age of 21 to carry a firearm in their vehicle. (That does not mean every vehicle actually has a firearm in it.)
We have a famous anti-littering slogan in Texas “Don’t Mess With Texas”. Trust me, it is not wise to “Mess With Texas” in a LOT of ways!
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If Jerk-Ignoramus had pulled this stunt anywhere in rural Texas he might have risked tangling with a firearm. That’s just our Texas way of keeping things orderly and polite. However, I was NOT in Texas. I was in British Columbia, Canada. I wagered to guess Jerk-Ignoramus did NOT have a gun in his car, and I was ROYALLY SNARKED at him and his bully act!
Cussing out strangers is not my first, second, or even my third weapon of choice, but… Well, what can I say? Sometimes this Warrior Maiden loses her cool.
Oh, and I’d be lying if I denied I felt just a bit vindicated. I am still a work in progress.
No doubt, after incidents like this one, God looks upon me, shakes his head, and says, "Looks like we still have a LOT more work to do with her.”
“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” Phil 1:6
I drove the Pitbull-mobile out of the park, heading the wrong way on the one-way road, and we continued our journey west along the TransCanada Highway. My redheaded copilot continued navigating, and Gracie the Pitbull perched herself on the backseat near a window. Farewell Revelstoke.
According to Gaelic sources, my lifelong redheaded friend’s names mean: “Friend” and “Beauty”. Wow! That describes her perfectly. She IS a beautiful friend. You will hear much about her in future writings of my substack. Although we are very different, our lives have run parallel for decades.
A Jerk-Ignoramus according to the Britannica Dictionary: 1. A Jerk is a stupid person or a person who treats others badly; 2. An Ignoramus is an ignorant or stupid person. Hence the nickname I chose for the driver of the other vehicle.
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Heh! I learned to drive in Los Angeles, which is also notorious for shooting back at egregious drivers. Was it Heinlein who said that an armed society is a polite society?
My BFF has a dog, Bentley, who we first thought was some sort of bulldog-Pitbull mix but then decided was a Staffordshire Terrier. A DNA test told us she was a purebred American Bully -- which I didn't even realize was a breed -- thought it was a nickname for a bulldog. I'm looking forward to dog-sitting Bentley for a couple of weeks here in June.