Stuck. Spinning. Motion locked in a grinding cycle. A world turning on its axis, wobbling, carrying on. In my world on November 14, there had been a snow storm and my car was stranded at my little A-frame house tucked back in the forest. We were leaving it for the winter, for the running water and convenience of the lodge. In an agitated rush in my pursuit of comfort and a shower, I’d thrown some clothes and bedding into my little yellow Dodge Neon, and tried to speed out of the driveway—but the momentum stopped short at about 100 yards. The only road out is up a hill, past the trailer park down around the bend, and past lake Shunyata, full, half frozen, half rippling out to the rest of the world. I got stuck over and over trying to get up this hill – it was a thick drift of snow tossed over by the wind and my tires too thin. Digging and spinning myself into the ground. An echo in the clearing. I …