I returned home Monday night to driveway covered with snow, a soothing white cover that obscured what may or may not be the demon ice that vexed me since Saturday.

Did the 40-degree temperature of the day melt away any of the sheen of ice that kept the driveway impassable for the past three days? Or did the snow obscure the treachery of mother nature, waiting in anticipation to stop the Jeep partway up the slope and send it hurtling back down hill in a fateful slide to disaster?

I could take the safe route and park at the bottom of the hill and walk the 450 feet to the top, lugging groceries Amy had to have along with my cameras and the daily mail. But what the hell, I’ve never played it safe in my life. Why start now?

I slipped the transfer case into four wheel drive, slid the shifter into first and gunned the Jeep, attacking the ice monster with speed, determination and a healthy dose of prayer. Momentum carried the car three-quarters of the way up the hill, past the point where progress stalled in earlier attempts. The four wheels spun a little, the caught, and I topped the hill with speed to spare and, surprisingly, still in control — more or less — as the Jeep slid to a stop in front of our utility shed.

Victorius, I unloaded the Jeep and walked towards the house with what little swagger one can muster on an ice covered surface, smug with self-confidence with having conquered the Everest of driveways.

Smug, that is, until Tuesday morning when I have to reverse the feat and make it downhill.