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The first time my 14-year-old granddaughter turned our Toyota flatbed pickup around in the drive, the thrill of going uphill in reverse with a learner at the wheel caught me by surprise. I let out a shrill scream when the rearview mirror flashed a reflection of tamarack and cedar at the edge of the yard rushing toward us with dizzying speed. The backup alarm brayed a tinny version of “Yankee Doodle,” heightening the Twilight-Zone feel of the moment.

Tylar slammed on the brake, and I lurched forward, hands landing on the dashboard. But the truck was stopped, and nothing was hit, broken or run over.

“You scared me, Grandma!”

“You scared me!”

“But I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

“I know,” I said, folding my hands into my lap and uncurling my toes. “It’s just that I didn’t know we’d be going so fast.”

“Well, neither did I,” she admitted. The gearshift was still in reverse, and I heard strains of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” blasting out behind us. The vehicle had been used on construction jobs in its younger years, and I’d always regarded the musical twist on the mandatory backup alarm like a quirky character trait.

“Please, get it out of reverse,” I said. Tylar shifted into first and we crawled down the hill at the comforting speed of five miles an hour, gravel crunching under the tires. Tylar had driven her mother’s automatic transmission car on the back roads before, but this was her first attempt at mastering a manual transmission. There’s not much traffic in the backwoods of Idaho, but neither are there empty parking lots or open spaces for driving practice. It’s hard to find a level area to drill on maneuvers like backing up and turning around.

I’d taught my three children to drive years before, when Flume Creek Road was hardly more than a trail. Along with our extended family and neighbors, we drove it seasonally, walking or riding horses in winter and spring. We pulled groceries home in sleds or carried them in backpacks until the ground firmed up in May or June. In the mid-eighties, our mountain community discovered four-wheeled ATVs, which we taught our children to operate as soon as their arms were strong enough to wrestle the beasts around corners.

Once they could see over the steering wheel with two pillows, we coached them in cars and pickup trucks, and since manual transmission vehicles handled the road conditions better than automatics, that’s what they learned on. We were determined to raise a battalion of drivers for the neverending errands and haul jobs: firewood, hay, rocks, manure, posts, raspberry plants, spring chicks.

But my own children had ATV experience under their belts when they started driving massive metal hulks on real wheels, and Tylar hadn’t. I’d promised her driving lessons during the week she’d been allotted at Grandma’s house over the summer, and I didn’t want to let her down, so I buckled up and settled in for the ride.

“Let’s go down to my sister’s,” I said. “I can pick up that wire for my pea fence.”

Tylar rolled her eyes and steered the truck downhill and out onto Flume Creek Road. She kept us well clear of the largest potholes and didn’t go near the ditches. Since we’d cover the entire quarter-mile in first gear, I relaxed, remembering long-ago summers, teaching my own children to drive. We’d make a run to the mailboxes, tool up the road to my mother’s place for fresh eggs, or just cruise to Coyote Meadow and back, shifting, braking, starting, stopping. Sometimes we encountered wildlife where game trails crossed the road, sharing the track with deer, rabbits, bear, coyote and the occasional moose. Once we waited at the west end of a straight stretch, watching a cow moose and her yearling calf for nearly 20 minutes before the cow moved on, her gangly calf trotting after her into thick woods.

At Janet’s place, the drive was rutted and rough, and I tried to guess the least-challenging turn-around spot as we pulled in.

“Swing that direction, then back up there,” I said, pointing.

Tylar eyed the terrain and shoved the gearshift into reverse. This time the alarm played “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Rear dual tires dropped into a rut, and Tylar didn’t have enough speed to pop out the other side. The engine died. She started it, then let the clutch out too fast. Dead again. The song switched to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

Tylar made it to another rut on the next try, then killed it again. “Crap!” she said, slapping a hand on the wheel hard enough to make me wince.

“It’s the only way to learn,” I said, grateful she wasn’t revving the engine to resolve the issue. Over the next seven times she killed the engine, I was certain I detected a growing finesse in the dance of her feet between clutch and accelerator. There was hope.

When we made it home, I coached her to pull up and back downhill before parking the truck, so the following day’s lesson began in a calmer vein. Our job was to collect a book Janet was passing on to me and to pick up the mail. Halfway there we met Janet coming up the hill, her own 13-year-old daughter, Brianna, at the wheel of an automatic Chevy Citation. I tossed out some advice as each girl sized up one another’s oncoming vehicle.

The Toyota had a narrow pickup cab, and a seven-foot-wide flatbed flared out behind, edged by a beefy metal rail. Side mirrors stuck out two feet beyond the cab. There was plenty of room for the compact Citation to squeeze by. Tylar and Brianna approached each other at a crawl, leaving a good yard between the side of the Citation and the Toyota’s mirror. When they eased to a stop it was clear they’d left so much space that passing the book from driver to driver would be impossible. Brianna plucked it off the dash and opened her door to get out and bridge the gap. As her shoe hit the ground, the brown Citation eased forward, inching toward the metal edge of the flatbed. My sister lunged for the gear shift as Brianna dropped back into the car, slamming her small foot against the brake. It happened so fast there was no time to shout directives at our young drivers.

Tylar looked at me, her lips quivering at the edges. I turned away, staring at the ditch and holding back laughter. When I braved a glance at Brianna, she offered up a sheepish smile.

“We’re brave women!” I said to Janet.

“Yes, we are.” Janet shook her head, then began to giggle. My own laughter spilled out, and the girls joined us. We sat blocking the road, laughing instead of screaming, and I wondered how many more generations would learn to drive on these backwoods roads.

By the time Tylar enrolls in driver’s education, I’m sure she’ll have her turn-around skills polished up. And in a year or two, my next-oldest grandchild, Malakai, will be big enough to slide into the driver’s seat and I’ll take on a new student. I won’t ever claim professional status in teaching driving skills, but when I watch a young driver head off on her first solo run, I know she’s ready for the back roads, even if she meets a moose.

Ann Clizer has been driving the backwoods of Idaho for 30 years and hopes to share the best parts of her experience with new generations for years to come.