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Rescue

by Gerhart A. Drucker

    Carl, a skier, was found missing on the midway to the Trenkwiesenschlucht run, and a group of rescue team was formed to search for him. Did they find him? Was he still alive? Please read the following story for the answer.

    If you look south by southwest from a high window in Vienna on a perfectly clear day, you can see a white mountain in the far distance, appropriately named Schneeberg (Snow Mountain). Lots of people from Vienna roam there, on foot or on skis. In winter and spring the skiers practically take over the mountain and head in droves for the long and superb runs down to the valley, of which the Trenkwiesenschlucht run is the most popular. Its two steilstufen (steep steps) have made many an excellent skier fall. On this run, the skier also passes the cabins of several small alpine1 clubs. These were locked every time I came by. No place offered shelter all the long way down the mountain.

    On a cold Sunday in March, I skied the Trenkwiesenschlucht with a small party. On a flat stretch between the steilstufen I overtook a group of skiers, men and women, and overheard shreds of their conversation.

    A female voice: "Where is Carl? I haven't seen him for a long time."

    A man: "I'm sure he's ahead; he's such a good skier."

    Another man: "I'm not so sure. I haven't seen him for a long time either, and I'm worried."

    The first man: "Nothing to worry about; I'm sure he's ahead. You know how well he skies. He's probably waiting for us now, at the bottom. Let's push on."

    So they did, while I stopped and waited for my group which soon arrived and together we skied to the upper rim of the famous second steilstufe. All seemed happy and relaxed, except the members of the group whose conversation I had overheard, who were missing one man. I heard their frantic shouts, "Carl! Carl!" and saw them scurrying around, looking for him, in vain. Then they gathered near me, and I heard one woman say, "Carl may have taken an earlier train from Payerbach back to Vienna. Best thing we can now do is return to Vienna as fast as possible and telephone him."

    At this point I considered it my duty to intervene. I told them, "I know you folks are missing a man. I overheard you talk about it some forty-five minutes earlier. I believe he's behind, still on the mountain, injured, lost, or both."

    One man interrupted: "But Carl's an excellent skier, the best of our group."

    "An excellent skier can lose his way, or suffer an injury, too," I said. "Night will fall soon, and it's getting very cold. Your friend must be in great danger, or else he would have come down long ago. You ought immediately to notify the gendarmerie. Then you should organize a rescue party of the best and hardiest in your group. I volunteer to come along, only first I have to say good-bye to my own group; they're all safely off the mountain."

    I went back to my buddies, told them that I'd participate in a mountain rescue, I asked them to notify my parents. Returning to the other group, I said, "I believe there's a local rescue team here in Payerbach."

    My words made a visible impression on them. The bearded man named Fred said to his group, "He's right. Let's notify the gendarmerie; let's hurry."

    We separated. Fred escorted his two shivering party members to a nearby inn while I and the remaining two literally ran to the gendarmerie post. Two men were on duty. Lt. Heilig, a slightly paunchy man in his forties, listened carefully, asked a few questions, then gave an order to his subaltern, a strapping young sergeant: "Hugo, notify the mountain rescue." Turning to us, he added, "They're volunteers, all of them. They'll be here soon." We all thanked him. Soon Fred joined us.

    "How late does the cog railroad run?" I inquired.

    "No more trains up tonight; I'll have to request a special train for the rescue; it won't be cheap," the lieutenant replied.

    Then the Payerbach-Reichenau voluntary mountain rescue team walked in, each man carrying a full rucksack. After introductions, a mood of cautious optimism prevailed when Sgt. Hugo drove us in a small truck to the cog railroad station, and when the station master agreed, for a stiff price, to take the eight of us to the summit in a special run.

    This ancient masterpiece of engineering takes its passengers up steeply, in sweeping curves, nearly 5 000 vertical feet, to the Summit Hotel. In the small lobby we quickly organized the search, of which Herbert, the head of the mountain rescue team, took charge, while a few hotel guests looked on curiously. We all were dressed for very cold weather. Everyone carried a flashlight; Herbert also carried a burning torch.

    Fred was certain he had last seen his lost buddy on the long stretch between the first and second steilstufen. We reached the top of the first steep step and began to shout with all our strength; no answer. More unanswered shouts followed. After looking in vain for stray tracks, we skied down the difficult steep section.

    At the bottom, after more shouts yielded no results, Herbert divided us into three groups and assigned a different area to each group to search. "Especially look for aberrant tracks and follow them, but always stay within shouting distance of this spot, and do not separate," he said. We also agreed on a code of communication, by shouts or flashlight signals, and promised to return to the main track within twenty minutes.

    The eight of us reconvened, advanced about half a kilometer, and repeated the search to both sides of the main track, in vain. And so it went on and on, while the searchers' moods gradually changed to gloom.

    My watch showed two a.m. when, after two hours of ceaseless search, we reached a level and widened spot of the main track, from where, as I remembered, it was not far to the rim of the famous, and challenging, second steilstufe. A wooden hut, unlit and padlocked, was standing to our right. We stopped there to rest and eat a snack.

    Noting the look of disappointment on all faces, I said, "Let's consider the situation for one moment. Some of you think Carl reached the bottom ahead of you and took an earlier train to Vienna. That's very unlikely; no person with any sense of responsibility would have done so. Next, Carl may have suffered an injury on the run. I don't believe this either, because the descent was teeming with skiers yesterday and no doubt someone would have come to his aid, and you would have been notified. I believe Carl fell behind his party, reached this spot, and decided to take a break, as most skiers do. Probably he had to answer nature's call and, finding the hut locked, walked away to seek privacy behind a tree. And afterwards he got confused, walked in the wrong direction, and got lost. As you see, quite a few solitary ski tracks diverge from here in several directions. We must investigate all of them."

    Herbert added, "But be very careful, there's a fifty meter dropoff not far from here, to the left. Stay strictly in the track." He bid Lisbeth and me explore the tracks on the left, and assigned other tracks to the others. The chemistry student and I took off to the left, across a little clearing. How peaceful the snowed-in world looked below the star-studded sky; yet we had to push on. I took the lead. A thought shot through my mind.

    "Lisbeth, is Carl a daredevil?"

    "Yes, very much so."

    "Then I have a new theory about what happened. Expert skiers often look for more challenging routes than those the average skier takes."

    "You mean Carl fell off the cliff Herbert told us about?"

    "Perhaps. Let's see where this track takes us. Carl wouldn't have had to veer that far to answer nature's call."

    We pushed ahead, at times having to duck under more snowbent branches.

    "If one of these boughs fell on a skier's head, it could kill him," Lisbeth suggested. "Or her," I added with a grin.

    We had stepped into a clearing. There were unmistakable signs of a skier having turned around; our track ended abruptly. Ahead of us lay utter blackness, and my flashlight caught a horizontal line where snow met sky, barely five meters in front of me.

    "Stop, Lisbeth!" I yelled, "we're on a cornice!" I did a hasty kick turn and hurried back to my partner.

    "That was a close call. A few steps farther and I'd have fallen down the cliff."

    "I'm sure that's exactly what happened to poor Carl," the woman said.

    "I don't think so. See his turnaround marks? His track doesn't continue to the edge, and look here!" I pointed with my flashlight. "There's a different track back, in the direction of the Kraxelbuam house. "We must follow it."

    We started out, flashlights in hand. Lisbeth followed me closely along the new track toward the flat rock, next to which something was sticking out of the snow. Coming close, I became aware that the rock wasn't a rock at all. It was a man!

    "Carl!" We both exclaimed at the same instant. He was lying in the snow motionless. One of his skis was sticking out. We both rushed to him. His body felt cold, I couldn't feel his pulse, he was just barely breathing, but thank God, his pupils were constricted. He was still alive, but his life was ebbing away. I also noticed a one inch laceration of his scalp, surrounded by blood-caked hair, and a deformity of his left leg. The scalp wound wasn't actively bleeding. Lisbeth wanted to dress it immediately, but I told her, "That comes later. Do you know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"

    "Yes."

    "Then start it at once while I'm splinting his broken leg."

    That's what we did. Lisbeth did a good job with mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration, while I splinted Carl's left leg with his ski poles, which I tied in place with an ace bandage. Of course, I took his ski off first. In doing so, I noted that he'd caught the tip of his left ski in a snare, from which I extracted it with some difficulty. Next, I tied both Carl's legs together. Then we slipped a blanket under him and worked a heavy sweater over him. I took over the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and told my partner to give the agreed upon signal for "Found Alive," five long shouts at five second intervals, or five big circles with the flashlight. If Herbert didn't hear the shouts, he would see the light flashes in the tops of the trees. I re-warmed Carl's hands against my chest. He was now breathing on his own and had a palpable, though rapid, pulse.

    Barely twenty minutes after we had given the signal, a string of three flashlights advanced toward us, three of the four mountain rescuers. Lisbeth was dressing the scalp wound when they arrived. Only then did I pay attention to the huge and recently broken-off bough lying in the snow near Carl.

    "Our main problem now is hypothermia," Herbert said. "We must get him to a warm place as quickly as possible."

    His colleagues, with incredible speed, had already assembled their stretcher. We loaded Carl onto it, tied him in place, and off we went, following the track toward the Kraxelbuam hut. We were five for four carrier positions; therefore, we could take turns. We carried the litter in a wide semicircle around the spot where I had come close to the dropoff.

    Carrying the stretcher to the hut wasn't overly difficult. While it was my turn to be idle, I told my friends how I figured the accident had happened.

    "Carl fell behind for some reason, but believed he was ahead. Probably he waited here, in front of this hut. When the others didn't come, he decided to ski the second steilstufe alone, but seeing the mass of skiers going the regular route there, he went to look for a more challenging descent. Lisbeth told me he was a daredevil!"

    "As if the regular way were not challenging enough," Herbert said.

    "True," I said. "Carl came to the spot close to the cornice, got worried, and chose to return to this hut, to ski the usual route, like everybody else. Suddenly he caught his left ski in a snare, and while he was trying hastily to get his ski free, a big, snow-laden bough broke off directly above him, hit his head and knocked him unconscious. Carl fell toward his right, his left leg couldn't follow, that's why he broke it. If we hadn't found him, he'd soon have died of shock and hypothermia."

    A happy surprise greeted us at the hut. Its door was unlocked, and the two men had a fire going in the kitchen stove! They had found the key under the garbage can, and also old newspaper, wood, and matches in the kitchen. We warmed plates and applied them to Carl's skin, and kept doing it till, half an hour later, he awoke. Afterwards we fed him lots of warm lemonade and hot tea; gradually he warmed up. We had won!

    It was two and one-half hours to dawn. Carl's breathing and pulse at the neck, wrists, and feet required constant attention. He was famished; we fed him broth made from dried soup found on a kitchen shelf, and chocolate plus candy from our trail lunches.

    Carl recovered smoothly; his broken leg healed in excellent position. For a while his doctors worried that they might have to amputate his left leg below the knee because of severe frostbite of the foot, but in the end Carl lost only three toes, a small price for coming out alive. He now skies as well as before, but has become more cautious. His parents' happiness and continued gratitude strengthened my resolve to study medicine and save lives.

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课文一

救援

 格哈特  A· 德鲁克

    在前往Trenkwiesenschlucht 的途中，人们发现滑雪运动员卡尔不见了，他们组织了救援队伍搜救他。他们找到他了吗？他还活着吗？欲知答案，请读下面的故事。

    如果在一个完全晴朗的日子，从维也纳西南的一个高高的窗口向南望去，你可以看到远处一座白色的大山，山的名字恰如其分，就叫雪山。许多人从维也纳来到这里，有的步行，有的滑雪。冬季和春季，这座山简直就是滑雪者的天下，人们成群结队滑向通往峡谷的长长的极佳滑雪道，其中Trenkwiesenschlucht滑雪道最为著名。该滑道的两个陡坡曾使得许多优秀的滑雪者栽倒。在这个滑雪道上，滑雪者们还经过几个小登山俱乐部的小屋。每一次我经过的时候，它们都是锁着的。整个下山的路上都没有遮风避雨的地方。

    三月一个寒冷的星期天，我和一小队人一道在Trenkwiesenschlucht滑雪。在陡坡之间平坦的地方，我超过了一队男女滑雪者，无意间听到了他们的谈话。

    一个女子的声音：“卡尔在哪里？我好长时间没有看见他了。”

    一个男子的声音：“肯定在前面；他雪滑得那么好。”

    另一个男子：“不一定。我也很长时间没有看到他了，有点担心。”

    第一个男子说，“没什么可以担心的；肯定在前面。你知道他雪滑得多好。他也许现在在山脚等我们呢。我们向前滑吧。”

    于是他们向前滑去，我停了下来，等我的人马。他们很快上来了，于是，我们一起向著名的第二陡坡顶滑去。人人显得开心和放松。但是我刚才听到他们谈话的那一队人不是这样，他们少了一个人。我听到他们焦急地大声喊着，“卡尔!卡尔!”，也看到他们滑来滑去地找他，但是没有找到。接着，他们在我附近的地方聚到了一起，我听到一个女的说，“卡尔也许乘了早一班从Payerbach来的火车回维也纳了。我们现在能够做的最好的事情，是尽快回维也纳，然后给他打电话。”

    这时，我感到有义务介入。我对他们说，“我知道你们少了一个人。大约45分钟之前，我听到你们谈这件事情。我相信他在后面，还在山上，受伤了或是迷路了，或者既受了伤又迷了路。”

    一个人插话：“可是，卡尔是个优秀的滑雪运动员，我们这一队滑得最好的。”

    “优秀的滑雪者也会迷路或受伤的，”我说。“天快黑了，也越来越冷。你们的朋友一定十分危险，要不他早就下来了。你们得立刻报警。然后，由你们当中最优秀最能吃苦的人组成救援队。我自愿和你们一起去，不过我先要和自己的人告别；他们已经全部安全地下山了。”

    我回到我的队友那里，告诉他们我要参加山地救护，请他们告诉我的父母。回到另外一群人那里时，我说，“我想payerbach会有一个地方救护队。”

    我的话对他们明显有影响。一个留胡子的人叫弗雷德，他对自己的同伴说：“他说的对。我们去报警，我们要抓紧时间。”

     我们分头行动。弗雷德护送两个发抖的队员去附近的一个客店，而我和剩下的两个人实际上是跑到警察局的。那里有两个人值班。赫利格中尉稍显大腹便便，40多岁，他仔细地听我们说话，问了一些问题，然后对他的下属，一个身材魁梧的年轻警佐下了命令，“雨果，通知山地救援队。”他向我们转过脸来，补充说，“他们是志愿者，全都是。他们很快就会到这儿。”我们都向他表示感谢。很快，弗雷德也加入了我们的搜救行动。

    我问，“小火车车站的车最迟什么时间？”

    “今天晚上已经没有车了，我得为救援要专车；价格不便宜，”中尉回答。

    接着，Payerbach-Reichenau志愿山区救援队走进来，每个人都有一个鼓鼓囊囊的背包。介绍之后，人们的情绪是谨慎的乐观，同时，雨果警佐用一辆小卡车带我们到小火车车站，站长同意开专车将我们八个人送到山顶，价格很贵。

    这个古老的工程杰作沿着陡坡将乘客运到垂直高度差不多5000英尺的山顶旅馆。在小客厅里，我们很快组织搜寻工作，山区救援队队长赫伯特总负责。一些旅馆客人在一边好奇地看着。我们都穿着防寒服。每个人都有一个手电；赫伯特还拿了一根正在燃烧的火把。

    弗雷德肯定，他是在第一和第二陡坡之间的狭长地带最后一次看到迷失了的队友。到了第一陡坡上，人们开始用尽全力叫喊，但是没有回答。更多没有应答的呼唤。没有找到迷路留下的痕迹，我们顺着艰难的陡坡部分滑下去。

    在底部，又是一阵呼喊，仍然没有回应，赫伯特将我们分成三组，每一组负责搜寻一个地方。“特别要寻找偏离常轨的滑雪道，要沿着这些道走，但是，要在这里听见喊声的范围内搜寻，不要分开，”他说。我们约好用喊声或电筒联系的信号，说好20分钟之后回到主道上。

    我们8个人又会合了，向前走大约半公里，在主滑雪道两边又搜索起来，但是没有找到。搜索就这样不停地进行，搜索者渐渐情绪低落。

    经过两个小时不停的搜索之后，当我们到了主滑雪道一段平坦宽阔的地方时，我的手表显示凌晨两点。我记得，从这里到著名的富有挑战性的第二陡坡不远。我们的右边，有一个木头棚子，没有灯光，上了锁。我们在那里停下来休息，吃了点东西。

    看到大家脸上失望的神情，我说，“我们来想一想现在的情况。你们有人认为卡尔在你们前面到了山底，乘了早车去了维也纳。这不大可能，任何有一点责任感的人都不会这么做。其次，卡尔可能在滑雪时受了伤。我认为这也不可能，因为昨天下山道上人很多，肯定会有人帮助他，也会有人通知你们。我觉得，卡尔落在队伍的后面，到了这个地方，和大多数滑雪者一样，决定休息一会。也许他是要解手，发现棚子锁上了，就离开这去找一个树后的隐蔽地方。后来，他弄错了，朝相反的方向走，迷了路。要知道，很多单独的滑雪痕迹从这里通向几个方向。我们必须每一条道都找一找。”

    赫伯特补充说，“可是要非常小心，左边离这里不远的地方有一个50米的深沟。你们要紧贴滑雪道。”他要丽斯伯兹和我在左面的滑雪道寻找，让别人搜索剩下的滑道。这位学化学的学生和我动身向左，穿过一小块空地。星空下面大雪覆盖的世界显得那么平静，然而我们得继续向前。我在前面带路。我突然有了一个想法。

    “丽斯伯兹，卡尔是不是胆子很大？”

    “是的，胆子非常大。”

    “这样的话，我对发生的事情有新的看法了。熟练的滑雪者常常寻找普通滑雪者不走的但是更具挑战性的路线。”

    “你的意思是，卡尔从赫伯特告诉我们的陡坡摔下去了”

    “也许是的。我们看看这条道通往什么地方。卡尔解手不需要走这么远的路。”

    我们向前滑去，有时不得不弯腰从被雪压低的树枝下过去。

    “如果有一根这样的树枝落在滑雪者的头上，这个男人会丧命的，”丽斯伯兹说。“女人也会丧命的，”我笑笑补充道。

    我们已经进了一块空地。附近明显有滑雪者留下的转身痕迹；我们的滑雪道突然中断。前面一片漆黑，我的电筒照到雪和天空连接的地平线，仅仅在我面前5米。

    “停下来，丽斯伯兹！”我大声喊，“我们在雪檐上!”我立即回转，赶快回到我的同伴那里。

    “这是侥幸的脱险。再向前走几步我就掉下峭壁了。”

    “可怜的卡尔肯定就出了这样的事情，”女人说。

    “我看不是。看到他的转弯的道了吗？他的滑雪痕迹没有继续向边沿去，看这里！”我用电筒指着。“这有另外一条返回的滑痕，是朝Kraxelbuam屋子方向的。我们必须沿着它走。”

    我们手拿电筒动身了。丽斯伯兹紧紧地跟在我的后面，顺着通向平滑的石头方向的新路线搜寻，石头旁边有什么东西凸出来。走近些时，我开始意识到，那根本不是什么石头。是人！

    “卡尔!”我们同时都叫了起来。他一动不动地躺在雪地里。一只雪橇突在外面。我们两个人都朝他跑过去。他的身体冰冷。我摸不到他的脉跳，他的呼吸微弱，但是，感谢上帝，他的瞳孔还收得很紧。他还活着，但是他的生命在渐渐离去。我还看到他的头皮上有个一英寸的口子，周围是结着血块的头发，左腿变形了。头上的伤已经不再流血。丽斯伯兹想立刻包扎伤口，但是我告诉他，“这件事情等等再做。你会不会口对口急救？”

    “会。”

    “这样的话，我给他的断腿上绑带，你立刻开始急救。”

    我们就这样做了。丽斯伯兹的口对口人工呼吸做的很好，我用卡尔的雪橇杆到位地绑扎他的左腿e。当然，我首先移开他的雪橇。移开雪橇的时候，我注意到他左边的雪橇陷在一个洞里，我费了些力气才将它取出来。接着，我将卡尔的两条腿扎在一起。然后在他的下面放了一个毯子，像厚厚的毛衣将他裹起来。我接着做口对口人工呼吸，要我的伙伴发出约定好的“发现还活着”的信号，是每隔五秒钟拉长声音喊五声，或者挥动电筒划五个大的圆圈。如果赫伯特听不到叫声，也会看到树顶上的灯光。我把卡尔的手贴在我的胸口取暖。他现在已经自己呼吸了，脉搏可以摸到，尽管有点急促。

    我们发出信号刚刚20分钟，三束手电筒光便朝我们这里走来，他们是四个山区救援队员中的三个。他们赶到的时候，丽斯伯兹正在包扎卡尔头皮上的伤口。只是这个时候，我们才注意到卡尔附近的雪地里刚刚折断的巨大树枝。

    “我们现在主要的问题是体温过低。”赫伯特说。“我们必须尽快把他送到一个暖和的地方。”

    他的同事已经以令人难以置信的速度安装好了担架。我们把卡尔放在担架上，扎好，就出发了，沿着滑雪道朝Kraxelbuam小屋走去。我们有五个人，担架需要四个人，所以我们可以轮流抬。我们抬着担架，围着我刚才差一点掉下去的地方绕了大大的半个圆圈。

    将担架抬到棚子去不是件太困难的事情。轮到我休息的时候，我告诉我的朋友们我对出事是怎么看的。

    “卡尔因为某种原因落在后面，但是以为自己是在前面。也许他在这个棚子前面等待。其他人没有来，他就决定一个人滑第二陡坡，但是看到大队的滑雪者在那里走通常的路线，他就去找一条更有挑战性的下山路线。丽斯伯兹告诉我，他胆子很大!”

    “好像通常的路线挑战性不够，”赫伯特说。

    “是的，”我说。“卡尔到了紧靠雪檐的地方，有点儿担心，就选择回到这个棚子，和别人一样滑通常的线路。突然，他左边的雪橇被东西绊住，就在他试图赶快拔出雪橇时，恰好他头顶上一个满是积雪的粗树枝折了，砸在头上把他打昏过去。卡尔倒向右边，左边的腿来不及跟过来，他的腿就这么断了。如果我们找不到他，他很快就会死于休克和体温过低!”

    在棚子那里我们遇上了一件意想不到的高兴事。棚子的门打开了，两个人在厨房的炉子里生了火！他们在垃圾筒下面找到了钥匙，还在厨房里找到旧报纸，木头和火柴。我们把盘子弄暖和，放在卡尔的皮肤上，一直这样做了半个小时，他才醒过来。后来，我们给他喝了许多热柠檬汁和热茶；渐渐地，他暖过来。我们胜利了！

    离天亮还有两个半小时。卡尔的呼吸以及脖子、手腕和脚的脉动需要一直密切注意。他饿坏了。我们给他吃了在厨房的搁架上找的汤料做的汤，还有巧克力以及我们旅途午餐剩下的糖果。

    卡尔的恢复很顺利，摔断的腿恢复很好。他的医生曾一度担心，因为脚的严重冻伤，他左腿膝盖下面的部分可能不得不截除，但最终卡尔只失去三个脚趾，这是为活下来付出的小小代价。他现在滑雪还和以前一样好，但是更加小心了。他父母很开心，不断地表示感谢，这更加坚定了我学习医学拯救生命的决心。

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Text 2

Powder

by Tobias Wolff

    Just before Christmas my father took me skiing at Mount Baker. He'd had to fight for the privilege of my company, because my mother was still angry with him for sneaking me into a nightclub during our last visit, to see Thelonious Monk.

    He wouldn't give up. He promised, hand on heart, to take good care of me and have me home for dinner on Christmas Eve, and she relented. But as we were checking out of the lodge that morning it began to snow, and in this snow he observed some quality that made it necessary for us to get in one last run. We got in several last runs. He was indifferent to my fretting. Snow whirled around us in bitter, blinding squalls, hissing like sand, and still we skied. As the lift bore us to the peak yet again, my father looked at his watch and said, "Criminey. This'll have to be a fast one."

    By now I couldn't see the trail. There was no point in trying. I stuck to him like white on rice and did what he did and somehow made it to the bottom without sailing off a cliff. We returned our skis and my father put chains on the Austin-Healy while I swayed from foot to foot, clapping my mittens and wishing I were home. I could see everything. The green tablecloth, the plates with the holly pattern, the red candles waiting to be lit.

    We passed a diner on our way out. "You want some soup?" my father asked. I shook my head. "Buck up," he said. "I'll get you there. Right, doctor?"

    I was supposed to say, "Right, doctor," but I didn't say anything.

    A state trooper waved us down outside the resort. A pair of saw-horses were blocking the road. The trooper came up to our car and bent down to my father's window. His face was bleached by the cold. Snowflakes clung to his eyebrows and to the fur trim of his jacket and cap.

    "Don't tell me," my father said.

    The trooper told him. The road was closed. It might get cleared, it might not. Storm took everyone by surprise. So much, so fast. Hard to get people moving. Christmas Eve. What can you do?

    My father said, "Look. We're talking about four, five inches. I've taken this car through worse than that."

    The trooper straightened up, boots creaking. His face was out of sight but I could hear him. "The road is closed."

    My father sat with both hands on the wheel, rubbing the wood with his thumbs. He looked at the barricade for a long time. He seemed to be trying to master the idea of it. Then he thanked the trooper, and with a weird, old-maidy show of caution turned the car around. "Your mother will never forgive me for this," he said.

    "We should have left before," I said.     "Doctor."

    He didn't speak to me again until we were both in a booth at the diner, waiting for our burgers. "She won't forgive me," he said. "Do you understand? Never."

    "I guess," I said, but no guesswork was required; she wouldn't forgive him.

    "I can't let that happen." He bent toward me. "I'll tell you what I want. I want us to be together again. Is that what you want?"

    I wasn't sure, but I said, "Yes, sir."

      He bumped my chin with his knuckles. "That's all I needed to hear."

    When we finished eating he went to the pay phone in the back of the diner, then joined me in the booth again. I figured he'd called my mother, but he didn't give a report. He sipped at his coffee and stared out the window at the empty road. "Come on!" when the trooper's car went past, lights flashing, he got up and dropped some money on the check. "Okay."

    The wind had died. The snow was falling straight down, less of it now; lighter. We drove away from the resort, right up to the barricade. "Move it," my father told me. When I looked at him he said, "What are you waiting for?" I got out and dragged one of the sawhorses aside, then pushed it back after he drove through. When I got inside the car he said, "Now you're an accomplice. We go down together." He put the car in gear and looked at me. "Joke, doctor."

    "Funny, doctor."

    Down the first long stretch I watched the road behind us, to see if the trooper was on our tail. The barricade vanished. Then there was nothing but snow: snow on the road, snow kicking up from the chains, snow on the trees, snow in the sky; and our trail in the snow. I faced around and had a shock. The lie of the road behind us had been marked by our own tracks, but there were no tracks ahead of us. My father was breaking virgin snow between a line of tall trees. He was humming "Stars Fell on Alabama." I felt snow brush along the floorboards under my feet. To keep my hands from shaking I clamped them between my knees.

    My father grunted in a thoughtful way and said, "Don't ever try this yourself."

    "I won't."

    "That's what you say now, but someday you'll get your license and then you'll think you can do anything. Only you won't be able to do this. You need, I don't knowa certain instinct."

    "Maybe I have it."

    "You don't. You have your strong points, but not as you know. I only mention it because I don't want you to get the idea this is something just anybody can do. I'm a great driver. That's not a virtue, okay? It's just a fact, and one you should be aware of. Of course you have to give the old heap some credit, toothere aren't many cars I'd try this with. Listen!"

    I listened. I heard the slap of the chains, the stiff, jerky rasp of the wipers, the purr of the engine. It really did purr. The car was almost new. My father couldn't afford it, and kept promising to sell it, but here it was.

    I said, "Where do you think that policeman went to?"

    "Are you warm enough?" he reached over and cranked up the blower. Then he turned off the wipers. We didn't need them. The clouds had brightened. A few sparse, feathery flakes drifted into our slipstream and were swept away. We left the trees and entered a broad field of snow that ran level for a while and then tilted sharply downward. Orange stakes had been planted at intervals in two parallel lines and my father ran a course between them, though they were far enough apart to leave considerable doubt in my mind as to where exactly the road lay. He was humming again, doing little scat riffs around the melody.

    "Okay then. What are my strong points?"

    "Don't get me started," he said. "It'd take all day."

    "Oh, right. Name one."

    "Easy. You always think ahead."

    True. I always thought ahead. I was a boy who kept his clothes on numbered hangers to ensure proper rotation. I bothered my teachers for homework assignments far ahead of their due dates so I could make up schedules. I thought ahead, and that was why I knew that there would be other troopers waiting for us at the end of our ride, if we got there. What I did not know was that my father would wheedle and plead his way past themhe didn't sing "O Tannenbaum" but just aboutand get me home for dinner, buying a little more time before my mother decided to make the split final. I know we'd get caught; I was resigned to it. And maybe for this reason I stopped moping and began to enjoy myself.

    Why not? This was one for the books. Like being in a speedboat, only better. You can't go downhill in a boat. And it was all ours. And it kept coming, the laden trees, the unbroken surface of snow, the sudden white vistas. Here and there I saw hints of the road, ditches, fences, stakes, but not so many that I could have found my way. But then I didn't have to. My father in his forty-eighth year, rumpled, kind, bankrupt of honor, flushed with certainty. He was a great driver. All persuasion, no coercion. Such subtlety at the wheel, such tactful pedalwork. I actually trusted him. And the best way yet to come─switchbacks and hairpins impossible to describe. Except maybe to say this: If you haven't driven fresh powder, you haven't driven.

(1440 words)  TOP

课文二

雪

托拜厄斯·沃尔夫

    就在圣诞节前，我父亲带我到贝克山滑雪。他经过力争才能和我在一起，因为我母亲还为他上次偷偷带我去一个夜总会见特洛尼斯·蒙克而生气。

    父亲不肯放弃。他将手放在胸口保证，一定好好照顾我，并且让我在圣诞节前夜回家吃晚餐。母亲心软了。但是，那天早晨在旅馆结帐出来时，天开始下雪了，他在雪中看到某种特征，使我们有必要再最后滑一次雪。我们又滑了几次。他不理睬我的烦躁不安。四周雪花乱舞，发出沙子一样丝丝的响声，我们还在滑雪。当爬山电索道带着我们再次达到山顶时，父亲看了看表，说，“天啦。这次得是滑得最快的一次。”

    到了现在，我看不见滑雪道。再滑已经没有意义。我紧紧地跟着他，他怎么滑我就怎么滑，总算滑到了下面，没有从悬崖上摔下去。我们退还了雪橇，父亲把防猾链绕在奥斯丁希利车的轮子上,我不停地倒着脚，拍着独指手套，一心想要是在家就好了。我什么都看得见。绿色的台布，有冬青图案的餐具,即将点燃的红蜡烛。

    我们在出去的路上从一个饭店经过。“你想喝点汤吗?”父亲问。我摇了摇头。“打起精神来，”他说。“我会把你送到那儿的。好吗，医生？”

    我本应该说，“好的，医生。”可是我什么话也没有说。

    在游览区外面，一个州警署的警察示意我们停下来。两个路障堵在路上。警察来到我们的汽车前面，在父亲的车窗前俯下身来。他的脸冻得发白。眉毛上挂着雪花，茄克的毛边和帽子上都是雪。

    “不是有什么事吧，”父亲说。

    警察告诉父亲有事。路面封了。可能会撤封，也可能不撤封。暴风雪来得突然，没有人想到。雪下得这么大，这么突然，很难让人出行。圣诞节前夜。你怎么办？

    我的父亲说，“你看，我们在谈论四、五英寸。我在比这糟糕的情况下还开过这辆车呢。”

    警察直起腰，靴子吱吱作响。看不见他的脸了，但是我能听见他说，“路已经封锁了。”父亲双手放在方向盘上，用拇指擦着木头。他看着路障看了很长一段时间。试图要弄懂路障是什么意思。然后，他谢了谢警察，用一种奇怪的、老太太式的谨慎倒着车。“你母亲这一次永远不会原谅我，”他说。

    “我们早该走,”我说。“医生。”

    他不再和我说话，直到我们两个在餐厅包座等汉堡包时，他才说，“她不会原谅我。你懂吗？永远不会。”

    “猜猜看,”我说,但是不需要猜；她决不会原谅他的。

    “我不能让这样的事情发生。”他对我俯过身来，“我要告诉你我想干什么。我希望我们再次在一起。你是不是也这么想？”

    我不能肯定，但是我说，“是的，先生。”

    他用手指关节碰了一下我的下巴。“我要听的就是这句话。”

    我们吃完之后，他到餐厅后面的付费电话那里，然后又回到包座和我在一起。我猜想他是给母亲打电话，但是他没有通报情况。他啜着咖啡，凝视窗外空荡荡的大路。“来吧！”闪烁着警灯的警车开过去时，他站起来，往收款柜上丢了点钱。“就这样。”

    风停了。雪还在下，只是小了点儿；不那么急了。我们驾车离开了旅游胜地，径直朝路障方向开去。“把路障移开，”父亲对我说。我看了看他，他说，“你在等什么？”我下了车，把一块路障拖到一边，然后，车开过去后，又将路障推回原处。我钻进车子，他说,“现在你是同谋。我们一起做了坏事。”他挂上车档看着我说“好玩，医生。”

    “有意思，医生。”

    顺着第一段很长的直路时，我一直盯着车后看是否有警察尾随我们。路障消失了。除了雪，什么也没有：路上的雪，轮胎防滑链条迸出的雪，树上的雪，天上的雪，还有雪中我们的车辙。我环顾四周，吓了一跳。我们身后的路面明显地留下了我们的车辙，车前却没有车辙。父亲在一长排高大的树之间洁白的雪地上开了一条雪路。父亲得意地哼着“星星出现在亚拉巴马。”我感觉到雪擦过我脚下的车底盘。为了不让手发抖，我握紧双手夹在双膝之间。

    父亲思索着咕哝道：“你自己千万不要做这种事情。”

    “我不会的。”

    “现在你这么说，但是有一天你有了自己的执照，那时侯，你会认为自己什么都能做。只是你不能做这件事。你需要有,我不知道怎么说——-有某种本能。”

    “也许我有。”

    “你没有。你有你的长处，但是，不是你认为的长处。我提这些是因为我不想你认为这是什么人都能做的事情。我是一名很棒的司机。这不是一个优点，对吗？这只是一个事实，你应该知道的事实。当然，你也得信得过这辆老车。——没有多少车能经得起我这样做的。你听！”

    我听了。我听到车轮防滑链的拍打声，雨刷费劲地急速摆动发出的刺耳声音，引擎低沉的声音。它的确发出低沉的声音。车几乎是新的。我的父亲养不起车，老是说要把车卖掉，可是车还在这里。

    我说，“你说警察去哪里了？”

    “你暖和了吗？”他手伸过去，调快了鼓风机。然后，他关掉自动雨刷。我们不需要它们了。云层散开。几片羽毛似的雪花轻轻落下，被车后的气流吹走。我们离开有树的地方，进入了宽阔平坦的雪地，然后急转向下驶去。橙色的标桩间隔地列在路的两边，我父亲就在两条线之间开车。标桩离得很远，我很怀疑路到底在那里。父亲又哼起曲子，反复重复一些片段。

    “好了。我的优点是什么？”

    “不要让我谈这个话题，”他说。“这能谈一整天。

    “好吧。讲出一个优点。”

    “容易。你总是想在前面。”

    说得对。我总是想在前面。我这个男孩子会将衣服挂在标了数字的衣钩上，以保证能恰当地轮换穿。我总是提前问我的老师家庭作业，这样我就能制订计划。我想在前面，所以我知道，如果我们到了那里，还会有别的警察在我们开车终点等我们。我不知道的是，我父亲会花言巧语恳求他们让我们过去——他没有唱“啊，圣诞树”但正准备唱——会带我回家吃晚饭，会在我母亲最后决定离婚之前再争取一些时间。我知道我们会被抓住；我已经听天由命。也许因为这一点，我不再闷闷不乐，而是开始高兴。

    为什么不高兴？这事儿只是书上有。就像乘快艇，只是感觉更好。你不能乘船下山。一切都属于我们自己的。不断有新事儿，雪压着树木，完好无损的雪地，突然间满眼白色街色。我看到隐隐约约路的迹象：沟渠、栅栏、标桩，但是这些迹象还不够多，不足以让我找到路。但是，那时我也没有必要非要找到路。我的父亲已经48岁，个子不高，心地善良，名声扫地，充满自信。他是个很棒的司机。一切都使你相信这一点，用不着哄骗。把握方向盘如此尽得其妙，踩踏板如此娴熟。说实在的，我信任他。更好的还在后头——爬之字坡、急转弯的技术是无法描述的。也许只能说，如果你没有在没人开过的雪地开过车，那你就没开过车。

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