Van Life

The beauty of snow, apart from it's gentle tone of purity, is that it's an amalgamation of all three states of matter. It's a liquid in solid form, floating crystallized through the air. As dusk illuminates the darkness beyond the hilltops, snow looks like how you'd imagine stars shooting past if you were captaining the USS Enterprise. The Chevy was not a Star-Trek spaceship navigating the Milky Way at warp speed, but I hummed the Cantina Band for a laugh anyhow. Charles (65 Canary Chevy Carry-All) had been quickly converted, the cargo area easily switching from empty delivery platform to primitive studio apartment just earlier that afternoon. The solo bed was a few wooden cross beams and a sheet of plywood. I had two thick blankets and three sleeping bags for cushioning and insulation on the plywood bed, oats and fruits and the singular bowl and spoon needed for breakfast, and such a level of excitement it was not often replicated in even some of my most thrilling adventures later in life. Into the unknown I drove.

I shifted the 'three-on-the-tree' gears back and forth looking for the correct combination of transmission to gas pedal that would maintain forward momentum and at the same time rotating the steering wheel continually left to right, trying to keep the rear tires from sliding their way around to get ahead of the front tires. As I slipped and slid slowly up the hill I wondered what the hell I was actually doing... and I would smile as the snowflakes streaked past, or at slower speeds merely floated, reminding me that I was about to be a rental clerk at a ski resort for an epic winter season.

From another voice; 

It was the winter of '98? No, '99... and the ol' yellow '65 slid steadily up the mountain toward Stevens Pass Ski Resort. It was my first real job out of high school. I hadn't been able to determine living arrangements, so a quickly built plywood platform and some carpet and blankets seemed a reasonable option until I was able.

I made it to the top of the pass around midnight, and, as I remember it, my father and his friend Mike had followed me up there. I believe they didn't believe I would make it. But, we all hung out for a few minutes, said goodbyes, and I promptly fell asleep. I also promptly woke up as it gets really cold at 2am at 4000ft. I then bundled up a bit more and had a couple more hours sleep until highway patrol rapped on the window at sunrise to tell me where I was parked was prohibited. He also gave me a compliment on making it up the pass that night as people in more capable vehicles had ended their attempts in the ditch. At 19 years old the complement of being considered capable wasn't given it's due weight, now I think there are few complements so worthy.

I thanked him, drove across the highway to the employee parking lot of Stevens Pass and went for a walk around and early morning stretch. The sun was up but not over the mountains yet and the sky was brilliantly framed in the surrounding mountain peaks. 

OG Version:

Up Stevens Pass.
The beauty of snow, apart from its gentle tone of purity, is that its a manifestation of all three states of matter. It is a liquid that has become a solid formed from a vapor. The crystallization falling through the air looks like how you'd imagine the stars shooting past if you were traveling through space at half the speed of light... or, they look like that if you're travelling up a mountain pass in a 1965 bright yellow Chevy CarryAll and imagining that its a spaceship traveling at half the speed of light. However, your CarryAll isn't speeding through the universe at half the speed of light, it is travelling significantly slower... in fact, it is barely reaching half-the-posted-speed-limit mark.
It is, however, a quickly converted travelling cruiseliner with a bed, kitchen, and a bucket with a lid that could be used if waste jettison is required when stuck between spaceports. As this yellow bed and breakfast slipped and slid up the pass, the 3-on-the-tree gears shifting back and forth continually looking for the correct ratio that would maintain forward momentum, all the while the steering wheel turning constantly from 10-to-2 attempting to keep the momentum pointed up hill you wonder what the hell you're actually doing. As you look into the darkness, into the unknown, the floating stars of snowflakes are the only visible, tangible evidence you are going anywhere... and you smile.
Version2.
As I steadily sputtered east up highway 20 the rear of the Banana sled swinging left and right as the back tires struggled to gain enough traction of push the front tires in the general direction of the summit of Mt. Stevens... The Banana was my fathers 1965 Chevrolet CarryAll. My father bought it out of some old farmers field for $500. We gave it a tune-up and it started right up. It had a straight 6 cylinder engine, some moderate rust all along the bottom exterior, a bare spartan interior, manual 3spd "on-the-tree" column shift transmission, mismatched tires... and of course, a faded yellow paint job.
He loaned it to me for one of my first jobs out of highschool. A ski and snowboard rental associate at Stevens Pass Ski Resort. I built the back into a rudimentary living quarters with bed, shelves, a stove, a bucket... and thats about it.
As it continued to struggle up the hill I was whistling and smiling. Much more than just the challenge of driving this beast up the steep snow covered hwy was that youthful spirit of adventure at going forward into the unknown.

extra aspects to tell...

up a snowy mountain pass to your very first full time job. And, it is navigating it's way up at a pace significantly slower than warp speed.