The Pass That Needed Low Gear

There is a kind of track the map shows as a road and the ground shows as a rumor. We took one of those over a pass yesterday, the borrowed green Niva and I, first gear low range, walking pace, wheel ruts full of meltwater and the snow still holding the north sides of everything. It is not my Niva, but it speaks the same dialect: an old Soviet drivetrain that stops being quaint and becomes correct exactly at altitude, on bad ground.

At the top I got out, set the camera on the roof, and waved at my own self-timer like an idiot, because there was nobody for thirty kilometers and the air demanded some ceremony. Mud to the door handles. Grass to the horizon. A wind that had clearly never encountered an obstacle it respected.

I patted the hood afterward, which I do not do in cities where people can see me, and apologized silently to my own red one at home for how quickly I had transferred my affections. The engine ticked as it cooled, a small applause. Nivas understand each other, and apparently so do their drivers.