Last time I checked my fuzzy muzzle, I was reassured that I wasn't a polar bear. That may be one reason why I don't handle blizzards very well, even when I am protected by the confines of a car, school, or house. Or body fat, for that matter.
Such was the case last week (last night, at time of writing, so the chills, emotions, and memories are still raw), when I was one of those brave souls—or would that be brave fools?-- who was out and about during that Sunday evening climatic attack.
Owing to circumstances beyond my control, I had to travel from Elkwater to Medicine Hat to the Back Thirty in the late afternoon. The goal was make a beeline for home--well before the snow, darkness, and hunger took over my reasoning powers.
Well, hunger won out, so I was slowed for as long as it took me to say “and I'll take fries with that, please.” (Actually, it was nothing of the sort: I just thought I would throw that in to make the column more interesting.)
By the time I left the Hat, I knew I was in trouble: Whiteout condition, icy patches, a slow pace (for the previous two reasons), and no real sense of exactly what lay ahead of me were prime conditions for a very crummy trip home. I was relieved to hear, then, on Radio 660 (somewhere between Seven Persons and Whitla), that the storm warning had lifted, that the snow and wind had stopped, and that all was clear.
Right: Clear in Calgary, because the storm had shifted to the deep south.
Through a stroke of luck (or would that be Divine providence?), I was able to tuck in behind a very large truck and follow it almost all the way from the Hat to Bow Island. I was able to keep up with him for the most part, following his back lights and dark outline through the otherwise blinding conditions.
You might say that fools rush in where snowplows fear to scrape.
The rest of the trip was dreadful and draining, with a touch of the white-knuckle express, and we made it home safely—a four-hour trip that should have taken only two. Under normal circumstances, that part of the journey would have been seen as awful, but because the Medicine Hat-Bow Island segment was so bad, it was actually half enjoyable.
Now I'm I finding out two other things: How fortunate I was as a driver and how fortunate I am as a citizen. In the former fortunate state, I saw plenty of cars off the road; and there were plenty of those that I didn't see. I've heard about those poor souls today.
And in the latter, there is the reassurance that there were community halls, civic centres, and cafes that were not only opened for but filled with stranded travellers—people who stopped (or were stopped) from going any further. I had considered the same, but the gambler (or, again, the “fool”) in me decided to push on.
Bad weather that shows up at the wrong time (“wrong” being defined as the very hour we're driving through it, or at least plan to) is part of what makes southern Alberta so, well, special. It also identifies not only what we face, but also who we are. (Maurice, that means open, warm, sensitive, and alert.)
I have always found it reassuring (upon reflection, of course) when the locals rally to help their fellow-Albertans, be it through fire, snow, wind, or rain.
And I bet no polar bear ever had it so good.
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