Frying Pan or Fire

Linda Burton posting from Phoenix, Arizona — The Little Pigs Wolf came out of the fairy tale to huff and puff and howl all night, wind screaming through the cracks around the door. It was cold and the air was restless and fearful. Alex Cat took refuge in a dresser drawer; Jack Cat burrowed under the covers beside me. I did not sleep. A weather front was coming through, sweeping in from California, threatening Arizona with vicious winds, pounding rain, and if you were above two thousand feet, snow. Sierra Vista sits at 4,200 feet, Tucson 2,500. This was scheduled as a driving day, the reservation in place for Phoenix tonight. Last night I’d decided to delay, to wait for the weather to clear, to stay off the roads and sit safely in my room. But the relentless noise had turned me into a bundle of nerves. I asked myself: is the fire really worse than the frying pan? There is equal misery in either one. What to do? Outside, it wasn’t raining yet, but trees were bending sideways in the wind. I chose fire. In 30 minutes we were in the car.

I hooked the hose back into its gas-pump slot just as the clouds opened up; we were full force in it now. In the desolate space between Sierra Vista and I-10, the wind hit me with a sideways force, the black and white Border Patrol up ahead turned and drove through scraggly brush. Who might be out there in this freezing rain? Frying pan, or fire, I thought.

On the freeway I proceeded slowly, right-hand lane, until a bucket-slosh of rain sent visibility to almost nil. A sign said “Campground, Saguaro National Park,” so I pulled into a dirt lot beside the ramp, joined by nine motorcycles and two more cars.

Back on the road, Tucson was a blur, many lanes of rain; then I-10 slanted north. The clouds began to break; Picacho Peak stood out against blue sky. But weather was not yet done, bursts of rain popped up to my right, the freeway traffic stopped both ways; accidents and smashed-up cars. We waited, glad to be intact.

Was that a tornado coming on the left? Just rain.

The freeway merges, twists, and turns. The Garmin speaks, I get into my lane. City streets at last! There’s my hotel! It’s only 1 PM, and we’ve arrived in Phoenix, safe and sound. I am exhausted, tired, wrung out, but promised cats they’d soon be in their room, could walk around, could eat.

Inside, the message from the clerk: No rooms are ready yet. Check in time is not till 3 PM.

Laugh, or gripe? I laughed. After all, I’d made it out of the frying pan. And the fire.