Pump the brakes

My husband, two kids and I are one of dozens of families from Silver Lake who camp every August in Big Sur. There’s nothing like hanging out in the woods with 82 of your closest friends. The silence, the peace, the change of scenery -- this trip has none of it. For one week, Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park turns into the Trader Joe’s on Hyperion. Anywhere I turn, I see someone I know. Really, it’s great. The kids love it. But sometimes, just sometimes, during that week I need to get away.

This year, one night before the singing around the campfire started, one of my friends -- I’ll call her Betty -- mentioned that the Zen monastery, Tassajara, was only two hours away. I had heard of it. I distinctly remembered “The Tassajara Bread Book” lying on top of the Indian bedspread in my older sister’s VW bus.

Turns out, Tassajara’s natural hot springs, meditation classes and idyllic setting deep in the Ventana wilderness were open to the non-Buddhist public. We could go sit in the hot tubs for a nominal fee. By the next morning, two more of the camping moms and one visiting student from Israel decided nirvana and hot springs sounded good. Betty would drive us all in her Ford Explorer.

At first, the only thing we were nervous about was getting naked in front of each other. Then, on Carmel Valley Road, Betty looked at her watch and realized the trip was taking longer than expected. She sped up until we were tailgating a school bus. It was a two-lane, curvy road. Double yellow line the whole way. The school bus, filled with kids, was lumbering along. We were stuck behind it. Or we should have been.

Betty floored it, onto the shoulder. We were so close to the bus I could clearly see the surprised faces of one child after another, not to mention the pink chewing gum stuck under one window. Through the glass on the door, the bus driver, jaw dropped, clutched the wheel with both hands as we bumped and careened back onto the road. My fellow riders and I were silent.

Twenty minutes passed without incident and we arrived at Jamesburg. Its two stores were closed, but even if they’d been open, it would have been optimistic to call it a burg. It’s just a place to park your car and take a shuttle to Tassajara. Too bad we weren’t enlightened enough to opt for public transport.

A handsome young hippie was working under the hood of his car in the parking lot. “How do we get to Tassajara?” Betty shouted out the window at him.”Fourteen miles down that road,” he said. “But that road is wicked.”

Betty shrugged. We had the Explorer, after all. “Pump your brakes!” was the last thing we heard as we rumbled onto the dirt road.

Right away, I had anxiety issues. I yelled when the road dropped suddenly. I gasped at the tight switchbacks, the drop-offs, the complete lack of guardrails. On our left, we passed a small car smashed into the side of the mountain. Further on, we saw broken trees where it looked like a car had slid off the road. Two more miles and the Explorer exhaled an odor of burning rubber.

“Pump your brakes,” I reminded Betty.

“Pump your brakes!” Everybody was saying it now.

We stomped on imaginary brakes, reached forward for the dash. The girl from Israel, who had coolly told us a story about a suicide bomber detonating himself a few blocks from her house, had her hands over her eyes.

Betty was impervious. Until she noticed the gas gauge was nearing empty. She yelped, then leaned forward and tapped it, neglecting to brake. The car picked up speed, aimed at nothingness.

“Betty!” I screamed.

She thrust both feet onto the brake. The Explorer fishtailed, swinging toward the void. I had just enough time to realize I didn’t want to die for a mineral bath and a veggie meal. The car stopped with the front wheels on the very edge of solid ground, the nose hanging over empty space. I opened my door, got out and burst into tears.

At that moment, the Tassajara van appeared going the other direction. It stopped beside us. “I can smell your brakes from way down the mountain,” the driver said placidly. His head was shaved and perfectly tanned.

Clearly, this road didn’t bother a monk. Maybe, as a Buddhist, he had learned to give up his attachment to fear. And to life.

“Pump your brakes,” he said, and smiled at Betty. “Have a great day.”

I wish I could say that we made the rest of the trip in blessed harmony with the mountain, the road, the dust. But actually, we headed for the edge one more time. Betty was turning around to apologize to me instead of watching the road.

Finally we arrived at Tassajara. I guess it was beautiful. The parking lot was surprisingly full. I hoped one of them could give me a ride home.

Betty, anxious to find some gas, screeched backward into a parking space. She forgot about the bike rack and the rocky mountain behind her. The rack hit the rock, slammed into the rear window and shattered it. Betty just jerked the car into park, leapt out and strode toward the monastery lobby. We followed along, brushing tiny shards of glass from our hair. She let the screen door bang and slapped her hand on the polished counter. A lovely, waifish monk girl stood up.

“I need a can of gas and a plastic bag,” Betty barked.

The monk girl looked at the five of us, disheveled, tear-stained and sparkling with broken glass.

“Whoa,” she said. “Twisted karma.”

Betty got a few gallons of gas. She taped a plastic bag over the window. We sat in the healing waters for less than 15 minutes, and then one of the other women drove us home.

I was never so happy to see all my 77 camping buddies. I even joined in the singing around the campfire.

DIANA WAGMAN is the author most recently of the novel “Bump.”