"The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches." e.e. cummings
The Blizzard
In December of 2005, I had just authored a book and was on a pre-Christmas statewide publicity tour to promote it. On a Friday night, I was just heading home after spending the day doing radio interviews and book signings in Missoula, a hundred miles away. When I left Missoula on the way home, the sky was clear and the stars were out. As I drove, it soon began to snow. I passed a rest area on the Interstate and noted with interest that it was absolutely packed with semi-trucks. Looking back, this was an important clue, which I missed.
In December of 2005, I had just authored a book and was on a pre-Christmas statewide publicity tour to promote it. On a Friday night, I was just heading home after spending the day doing radio interviews and book signings in Missoula, a hundred miles away. When I left Missoula on the way home, the sky was clear and the stars were out. As I drove, it soon began to snow. I passed a rest area on the Interstate and noted with interest that it was absolutely packed with semi-trucks. Looking back, this was an important clue, which I missed.
Drummond, Montana, on a good day.
Soon it was snowing harder than I had ever seen it snow.
I’ve lived in Montana
for a quarter of a century, so that’s saying a lot. The wind was gale-force and
the temperature dropped to sub-zero. The lane markings disappeared under the
accumulating snow. I drove by estimating the approximate location of the
highway by staying in between the barb wire fence on the right and the guard
rail on the left. When visibility grew so bad that I could no longer see those
landmarks, I drove by keeping my right-hand tires on the rumble strip at the
edge of the highway, as if driving by Braille. When the snow got so deep that I
could no longer hear the rumble of the rumble strip, I knew I was in serious,
serious trouble. There was no oncoming traffic in the opposite lane, another
bad sign. There were no exits, no towns, no lights shining from the kitchen
windows of ranch houses along the way. I proceeded at a walking pace, my hands
locked on the steering wheel, my teeth gritted, my head aching.
When the highway sign “Drummond, Next Exit” appeared in my headlights, I thanked all the angels in heaven and heaved a sigh of relief. Drummond is a town of 300 hardy souls, and the town consists of one gas station, one restaurant, two motels, and a bar. One motel was closed for the winter; the other had a “no vacancy” sign posted. I pulled in anyway.
The proprietor was upset at being called away from his football game on TV to deal with a hapless traveler: “Didn’t you see the ‘no vacancy’ sign?” he sneered. I explained my problem and asked if I would sleep on the couch in his lobby (absolutely not) or sack out in a linen closet or work-out room (no way). Since it was Christmas and there was no room at the inn, perhaps he had a manger in the barn in the back? (Not funny.) I asked him what he expected me to do, and he invited me to drive to the next town down the pike, Deer Lodge, 20 miles away. I told him that my maximum driving speed was one mile per hour and that it would therefore take me 20 hours to drive to Deer Lodge, if I made it there at all. He shrugged and didn’t care. I asked to use his phone. He handed it to me only after ensuring that I wasn’t about to make a long distance call on his dime. I told him I was only going to call 911, whereupon he grabbed the phone back from me, exclaiming, “911 is for emergencies only!” I responded that this may not look like an emergency from HIS point of view— sitting on his butt in front of a TV— but from MY point of view— freezing to death in the car— it certainly was an emergency. I grabbed the phone back.
The 911 operator was entirely sympathetic to my plight. By then I was able to see a long line of headlights coming down the exit ramp into town as people who had been behind me on the highway pulled in, also looking for refuge from the storm. I told the 911 operator to expect a large party of stranded travelers. She put me on hold, and after a short pause, came back on the line and directed me to go to the Wagon Wheel Cafe and wait there until further notice.
At the Wagon Wheel, a private party was in progress. A local church group was having a potluck Christmas supper. They welcomed me in, brushed me off, took my coat, and handed me a cup of eggnog and a plate full of hot dish casserole. Each time the door opened and another snow-bound traveler entered, a cheer went up and they received the same treatment. The locals buzzed around busily, making innumerable phone calls and figuring out what to do. The six-room motel that had been closed for the season was opened up and rooms were offered at no charge. A cop stopped by and shuttled people to the elementary school for the night. A priest came by and escorted people to the local church. People with spare bedrooms invited travelers home with them. And so the good people of Drummond fed, housed, and cared for dozens of complete strangers. Nobody went hungry. Nobody was cold. Everybody found a safe haven in a terrible storm.
The next morning, the sun was out, the snow had stopped, the plows were plowing, and all the travelers were invited to partake in a hearty breakfast at the Wagon Wheel before getting back on the road, for which they refused to accept any money. I shared a table with a woman who had (ironically) been en route to a meeting with Disaster & Emergency Services when she was waylaid. And so we talked about disasters and emergencies as we ate our pancakes.
She said that she had been dispatched to help people in Indonesia after the 2004 tsunami, and that she had also gone to assist folks in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina. She remarked that of the two disasters, the people in the third world countries in Indonesia dealt with the disaster and recovered from it far more quickly than the people in New Orleans. Surprised, I asked her why that was. “First of all,” she said, “People in Indonesia don’t have technology and therefore are not dependent upon it to function. When you have a society that’s wholly dependent upon technology, and then you take that technology away, they are unable to proceed.” She continued, “Secondly, the population in Indonesia consists of people who are self-sufficient and able to take care of themselves. They’ve never experienced life under the care of a government who takes care of them, so when they have problems, they don’t wait around for the government to come fix it. They just do it themselves. By contrast, people in the U.S. are accustomed to having the government do everything for them. Welfare recipients are used to having the government hand them what they need, and even wealthy people live in a bubble of complacency where they expect that the government will take care of whatever needs to be done. If the government is unable to respond, then, these people are helpless, because they are not in the mindset of having to do things for themselves.”
This blew me away.
As I drove home, I had a lot to think about. I thought about how cold and unhelpful the man at the motel had been. I thought about the warmth and concern that poured forth from the church people at the cafe. I pondered the fact that third world countries cope with problems better than first world countries. I remembered my own helplessness after the train wreck, and the confusion and chaos of the government officials who I always expected would be on the ball in such a situation. I wondered what I could do about that.
When the highway sign “Drummond, Next Exit” appeared in my headlights, I thanked all the angels in heaven and heaved a sigh of relief. Drummond is a town of 300 hardy souls, and the town consists of one gas station, one restaurant, two motels, and a bar. One motel was closed for the winter; the other had a “no vacancy” sign posted. I pulled in anyway.
The proprietor was upset at being called away from his football game on TV to deal with a hapless traveler: “Didn’t you see the ‘no vacancy’ sign?” he sneered. I explained my problem and asked if I would sleep on the couch in his lobby (absolutely not) or sack out in a linen closet or work-out room (no way). Since it was Christmas and there was no room at the inn, perhaps he had a manger in the barn in the back? (Not funny.) I asked him what he expected me to do, and he invited me to drive to the next town down the pike, Deer Lodge, 20 miles away. I told him that my maximum driving speed was one mile per hour and that it would therefore take me 20 hours to drive to Deer Lodge, if I made it there at all. He shrugged and didn’t care. I asked to use his phone. He handed it to me only after ensuring that I wasn’t about to make a long distance call on his dime. I told him I was only going to call 911, whereupon he grabbed the phone back from me, exclaiming, “911 is for emergencies only!” I responded that this may not look like an emergency from HIS point of view— sitting on his butt in front of a TV— but from MY point of view— freezing to death in the car— it certainly was an emergency. I grabbed the phone back.
The 911 operator was entirely sympathetic to my plight. By then I was able to see a long line of headlights coming down the exit ramp into town as people who had been behind me on the highway pulled in, also looking for refuge from the storm. I told the 911 operator to expect a large party of stranded travelers. She put me on hold, and after a short pause, came back on the line and directed me to go to the Wagon Wheel Cafe and wait there until further notice.
At the Wagon Wheel, a private party was in progress. A local church group was having a potluck Christmas supper. They welcomed me in, brushed me off, took my coat, and handed me a cup of eggnog and a plate full of hot dish casserole. Each time the door opened and another snow-bound traveler entered, a cheer went up and they received the same treatment. The locals buzzed around busily, making innumerable phone calls and figuring out what to do. The six-room motel that had been closed for the season was opened up and rooms were offered at no charge. A cop stopped by and shuttled people to the elementary school for the night. A priest came by and escorted people to the local church. People with spare bedrooms invited travelers home with them. And so the good people of Drummond fed, housed, and cared for dozens of complete strangers. Nobody went hungry. Nobody was cold. Everybody found a safe haven in a terrible storm.
The next morning, the sun was out, the snow had stopped, the plows were plowing, and all the travelers were invited to partake in a hearty breakfast at the Wagon Wheel before getting back on the road, for which they refused to accept any money. I shared a table with a woman who had (ironically) been en route to a meeting with Disaster & Emergency Services when she was waylaid. And so we talked about disasters and emergencies as we ate our pancakes.
She said that she had been dispatched to help people in Indonesia after the 2004 tsunami, and that she had also gone to assist folks in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina. She remarked that of the two disasters, the people in the third world countries in Indonesia dealt with the disaster and recovered from it far more quickly than the people in New Orleans. Surprised, I asked her why that was. “First of all,” she said, “People in Indonesia don’t have technology and therefore are not dependent upon it to function. When you have a society that’s wholly dependent upon technology, and then you take that technology away, they are unable to proceed.” She continued, “Secondly, the population in Indonesia consists of people who are self-sufficient and able to take care of themselves. They’ve never experienced life under the care of a government who takes care of them, so when they have problems, they don’t wait around for the government to come fix it. They just do it themselves. By contrast, people in the U.S. are accustomed to having the government do everything for them. Welfare recipients are used to having the government hand them what they need, and even wealthy people live in a bubble of complacency where they expect that the government will take care of whatever needs to be done. If the government is unable to respond, then, these people are helpless, because they are not in the mindset of having to do things for themselves.”
This blew me away.
As I drove home, I had a lot to think about. I thought about how cold and unhelpful the man at the motel had been. I thought about the warmth and concern that poured forth from the church people at the cafe. I pondered the fact that third world countries cope with problems better than first world countries. I remembered my own helplessness after the train wreck, and the confusion and chaos of the government officials who I always expected would be on the ball in such a situation. I wondered what I could do about that.
The Wagon Wheel Cafe
And so, this blizzard ended up being a trigger point in my life. When I got home, the first thing I did was to get myself a cell phone in case I was ever stranded in the car. I never again wanted to beg someone else to use their phone, or get stranded on the road without one. Then I packed a duffel bag with everything I could possibly need if I were ever caught in a blizzard again, and that duffel has been in the back of my car ever since. Next, I decided I would take some disaster training so that I would be better able to help my community in an emergency situation. I never again wanted to helplessly pace the floor and wait for ‘someone else’ to come to my aid. I wanted to be like the Wagon Wheel people, who welcomed troubled people and did everything in their power to help them; and not like the motel man, who didn’t give a damn if I died in a ditch. I wanted to be one of the people who pulls on their boots, puts on their coat, and goes out to get things done when a catastrophe happens.
Thus began my training.
Thus began my training.