I’m no stranger to bad roads. No one who lives in Wyoming is. “Bad” comes with any number of definitions—blowing snow, drifted snow, ice, black ice, slick in spot, slick, wind, high wind. Once you start combining those conditions, the real fun starts. High winds and blowing snow equal “decreased visibility.” Add in slick roads or black ice, and you’re in for a treat.  

Driving in Wyoming in the winter, you’re almost guaranteed at least one stretch of questionable road because most trips require at least forty miles of highway between towns, though that mileage usually tips closer to one hundred. If you’re traveling often, you become good friends with the WyDot road report. You might even start to memorize the legend. A stretch if road highlight in green is great, low impact—dry roads, low wind, clear skies. Yellow is meh, moderate impact—maybe some 30 to 45 miles per hour gusts on dry roads, maybe some slick spots, maybe wet pavement, but usually not a noxious blend of multiple nasty conditions. Orange is uh-oh, high impact—any combination of unpalatable conditions that render the choice to get on the road questionable. Red is simple, closed—maybe due to the weather itself but often due to a wreck caused by the weather or poor driving. There are also rolling closures so folks don’t get piled up in one town when there’s a wreck or impassable roads down the line. Finally, two red lines mean hmm, a partial closure—maybe the wind is blowing so hard light, high profile vehicles are prohibited, or maybe “no necessary travel” is allowed.” In short, winter driving in Wyoming can be an adventure. 

My least favorite report is orange, high impact. Because that leaves a choice—I know the roads will be bad, perhaps really, really bad, for at least part of my journey. But how bad, exactly? Snow-packed roads and clear conditions aren’t amazing, but if you’re heads up and mindful and maybe a little experienced driving them, they’re not too scary. But it doesn’t take much wind to tank visibility, even on a sunny day, if there’s enough snow whipping across the road. That on top of iffy road surface makes for more excitement. If the roads are yellow, I go and don’t think too much about it beyond paying attention and avoiding cruise control lest I hit a slick spot. If they’re red, well, I’m just stuck where I am, travel plans canceled or postponed. But if they’re orange…I feel pressure to go but am also anxious about it.

In the last week, I’ve made a trip to Riverton, Wyoming (221 miles) and another to Fort Collins, Colorado (67 miles). The weather has been spotty at best—sometimes clear, but sometimes snowing. Always cold, below freezing cold. The road report included at least one stretch of orange on both trips, both ways. But both trips were necessary for various reasons. 

During the Riverton trip, I chose to postpone my return to Laramie by a day because the roads were orange for every mile in between. The next day, only 40 miles were high impact, so I gritted my teeth and pulled onto the highway. During the Fort Collins trip, I chose to return when only one 20 mile stretch was listed orange—the weather and roads didn’t look to be improving over the next twenty-four hours, and that afternoon seemed my best window. 

I’ve been reminded of three things from both experiences: 

First, the worry leading up to both drives was worse than the driving itself. Once I’m underway, I’m committed and the agonizing is over. I have some control—over my speed, when and where to pass if necessary, what setting to choose for my lights, etc. I can’t control what other drivers do. I can’t control rogue gusts of wind or their timing. But I’m out there and going, and I’ve been lucky enough so far in my life to be able to deal with whatever I’m facing. If I feel like I can’t, then waiting to get out on the road is the right choices, even if it means changing plans and all the inconvenience that entails.

Second, even the worst roads don’t last forever, not if I keep moving forward, albeit very slowly at times. Yesterday, on my way home from Fort Collins, the roads were clear until they weren’t. As per usual, the change came right at the Colorado-Wyoming state line. From there, the climb up and over Pumpkin Vine ranked among the worst roads I’ve driven. 

The pavement was snow-packed and icy, it was actively snowing, and the wind was gusting (maybe 35 to 45 miles per hour, though I never saw a number). To say visibility was decreased would be one of the most egregious understatements I’ve ever uttered. I’ve driven delineator post-to-delineator post before, but, yesterday, I was lucky to see half that far at times. The flat, gray light of the maelstrom blurred the road, the surrounding country, and even the sky, inducing moments of disorientation and vertigo, and I kept watching those delineator posts, following them through, trusting feel and guts to guide me. Mile by mile, I made it to the top of Pumpkin Vine and then drove down and out of the white-nothing and into the snow-bright, blue-sky Laramie Valley. 

Would I have gotten out there if I’d known it was that bad? I’m not sure. But the weather changes minute-to-minute, so I made the best choice I could with the information I had when I left Fort Collins.

Today, when I fired up my laptop, opened my novel-in-progress, and picked up on the massive revision I’ve been working on since July, I thought about those last two Wyoming drives. 

Sometimes, I don’t want to embark on the hard work of writing, especially when I’m in the middle of a tricky section and feel uncertain of how to resolve an issue I’ve identified. Sometimes, I feel like I can’t make a choice, am frozen between leaving things as they are and making a change. Sometimes, I need to pause and let things calm down, allow them space to clear up. But there always comes a time to keep moving forward.

In how many areas of my life can I apply this metaphor? Countless. Writing, teaching, backpacking, horse-training, parenting, grieving, loving. But for now, I’m simply relieved to be safely ensconced in my home, and I’m planning to stay right here by the wood-stove until I pick my son up from school.