My new life has me traversing I-35 to the Cities at least once a week. Sylvie and I (my white Toyota Rav4) enjoy these rides, with plenty of time to catch up on listening or quality visiting when we have a guest passenger.
I can equate last summer’s I-35 events simply to a story of odds—if you are on the roads “more,” then your chances for absurdity increase.
This trio of ridiculousness happens to be linked to one town: Hastings, MN. Coincidence? I’m not sure.
This quiet riverfront city is generally reserved for fondness and has this asphalt tale attached. Mind you, these three incidents happened in two trips, which says something about my luck or odds.
I was driving down to the Cities for a writing retreat and the birthday celebration of a dear friend in Hastings, MN.
I consider myself a confident driver and rather enjoy listening to podcasts or audiobooks—designated downtime complete with coffee stops and snacks! My drive was peaceful, calm, and joyous—I was on a writing getaway.
As I drove through Forest Lake, closing in on the I-35 split East and West, my eyes landed on a beaten-up Toyota pulling a 12-foot fishing boat just in front of me. The boat wasn’t covered, and the occasional flash of white popped up from its depths.
Of course, it didn’t take an intuitive to figure out where this scenario might go.
Bing, bounce, shatter, new bounce, and BAM!
An igloo cooler had flown out of their boat, hit the asphalt with a mighty bounce, shattered into a couple of shards, and headed right to the front end of my car.
Not every danger appears with a sign.
Does anyone else squeeze up their face and hold their breath when they drive over something, awaiting the sound of their car’s underside being ripped out? Just me? Okay.
“Well,” I thought. “That happened.”
There didn’t appear to be flames, oil, or anything else trailing behind my car. I could not see the cooler or its remains when I looked in the rearview mirror into the gaggle of traffic lanes. Poof! It was gone.
The lasting effects of that escapade were that the front bumper lost a sensor cover and received one fairly insignificant crack. Luck was on my side, and I had a decent story to tell at the birthday party that weekend.
The rest of the I-35 tales were created only one or two months later, just as the leaves had turned their color and autumnal winds had cooled the air.
Steven and I were returning home after his ketamine treatment and a highly successful meeting for me (in Hastings) where I accepted a contract to illustrate and publish a children’s book—enjoying the ride, yet abhorring the end-of-workday traffic. Again, I was behind the wheel of trusty Sylvie, and we were dodging and weaving heavy traffic right back in the Forest Lake area, this time heading North.
We never forgot to mention the cooler incident whenever near this meridian.
I looked into the distance of my center lane, driving at least 75 MPH, and something seemed out of place. It wasn’t a vehicle; upon longer inspection, it wasn’t moving. We were on a straight trajectory toward some object…
“Is that a…” I started—no time to discuss.
“Is my lane…?” No time for an answer.
It was a couch. In the center lane of four, we were heading toward it faster than brain synapses could fire. I couldn’t go anywhere. Trapped.
I did all that I could—locked up the brakes and skidded towards what I could see was not just a couch—it was an old, well-constructed sectional, and it looked hefty.
Sylvie and my lead foot on the brake got us to a stop—and the nose of our car stared into the side of that sectional couch with little to spare.
An immediate sigh tried to escape until my eyes caught the rearview mirror, and impending doom was now coming directly at us. All the other cars and trucks and people who had not been expecting a couch to stop a car in the middle of the freeway.
I was fairly confident we were going to die.
Then Steven rolled down his passenger window and stuck his head out to see if I could go anywhere….and then I realized he was probably going to die for different reasons, like a severed head.
What can I say? I-35 was packed with attentive drivers, and every single one managed to veer to another lane.
Finally, there was a break for me to edge my way back into traffic and forward movement.
We didn’t say anything at first. I am quite sure there was no oxygen in the car.
We are two humans with fairly intense PTSD, but we managed swell and even laughed once our lungs had expanded again.
“So,” I said. “That was a couch.”
Steven and I settled into a calm and sublime cruise North toward Duluth, feeling the effects of the overly exciting day. As the sun set and darkness fell over the I-35 asphalt, flashing lights up ahead caught our attention.
Assuming a patrol was doing duty, I moved to the left lane without much thought or slowing down.
And then we were upon yet another object in the freeway where you least expect it.
Those flashing lights were owned by a yellow Hummer taking up the driving lane sans one tire.
I don’t even remember if I saw humans around the wheel-less Hummer. What I do remember thinking is that it could have been a really painful run-in. A real Humm-Dinger!
For all three of these events, I didn’t have the awareness to call 911. I suppose it wasn’t necessary for the Igloo cooler (no, the owner never showed signs of acknowledgment)—but definitely for the couch and the Hummer.
I can say that I was really thankful to have kept all four wheels on the road and pulled into my driveway in one piece.
I still travel to the Cities just as often—at least once a week.
I cannot deny that whenever I am near Forest Lake, I feel included enough to reach around my seat and find a helmet to secure —just in case.
You never know when you might run across (or into) a cooler, a couch, and a Hummer on I-35. Pay attention, people!
Special thank you to my partner in crime, Steven. First, he also documented this story due to its absurdity, so I appreciate the Steven-twist I was able to work from. More importantly, I have to thank you for keeping your cool when the situation suggested we be anything but.
We make a good pair on all of our Cities adventures. It’s not about the journey for me—it’s about the seatmate.
Me. Heather N. Wilde. An indie author and publisher at Hezzie Mae.
Hezzie Mae is here to honor the stories, creativity, and life experiences that beckon us to be shared.
Take a deep breath, silence that inner critic, and embrace the truth:
You are worthy. Of love. Of happiness. As you are right now, today. Always.
Heather N. Wilde
Read similar posts about creativity and authoring on Hezzie Mae’s Blog.
Share the Love! Share Hezzie Mae with a friend. Thanks for spreading the word!
Remember: Ripples to Waves to MAGIC!
I am a writer, educator, indie publisher, artist, and trauma survivor. Visit HezzieMae.com for a paradigm shift in author mentoring, publishing, and creative, healthy living.
Purchase Precious Child by Sheri Fox (April 2024)
Purchase Aligned Enchantment by Rachel Gilbertson (March 2024).
Purchase Tumbled: A Memoir of Perseverance, Personal Growth & Magical Transformation by Heather Wilde (Feb 2023).
Purchase Pig Tales & Popcorn: Patricia’s Memoir by Heather Wilde and Pat Passero (July 2023).