Sometimes I suspect Nature gets bored with the usual stuff she trots out, and decides to show humans what it means to be truly helpless. Here’s one demonstration I could have done without.
I’d broken my shoulder in a dog-driven fall from our front porch in TC and needed help to function, so I moved back to Saginaw, where Joe still maintains his medical practice. After two weeks in our little Saginaw farmhouse I got restless and bored; we decided to drive back to Traverse City to spend the weekend at Sunnybank. I certainly needed the change of scene.
Settling Bryn-dog in her bed in the back of the car we fled Saginaw on Wednesday at 5 o’clock, right after leaving the orthopedist’s office. The day was bright; earlier in the day radar had shown no snow at all. None was expected until much later that evening.
As we approached West Branch the sun, still over an hour from setting, winked out. A solid gray sky moved in. No worries: it was still fine outside, though extremely cold- minus 3 degrees. Two minutes later a few snowflakes wandered lazily past the windshield. The expressway remained dry. We could see for miles.
Another minute passed. Snowflakes began whizzing by horizontally as the wind suddenly intensified. Then the car trembled from an enormous gust--- and the world simply vanished. There was no road. No view beyond the wipers. Snow fell as thickly as white cloth.
For just an instant we glimpsed a car that had careened off the highway: an instant later it vanished. Snow fell frantically; Joe slowed radically. We turned on our car’s flashers to warn approaching cars of our location and speed. But these bright blinkers, covered in sticky snow, were barely discernable.
Rarely have we felt so disoriented- and yes, scared. We were driving totally blind. And so was everyone else. We’d hit- or be hit -before we could ever react. Bryn would take the brunt of a rear-end collision. Unthinkable! We had to exit! Moving at a crawl we turned the wipers to full speed, but icy snow thickly clogged the windscreen. This was terrifying. Would we have to stop in the middle of the expressway to clean it? Then I saw a glint- a reflecting pole- just one- that might mark an exit lane. (I’d remembered seeing a sign about two miles back.) We inched along, leaning nearly to the dashboard to see outside. (I was ready to open the door to watch the road’s surface, in an effort to guide Joe. The situation was that desperate.)
Miraculously, we had stumbled onto an escape route. West Branch was behind us, but at least we’d be off the highway. We inched forward, stopping at a nearly buried stop sign. Turning right would eventually lead us back to West Branch, where we’d take refuge in a motel. But- could we even move? The snow was so intense that the road had disappeared. So, after scraping a hole in windshield ice, we guessed. There were no buildings anywhere to use as reference points.
Once a car’s headlights dimly appeared and moved toward us. Joe and the other guy both veered to their right, passing each other at a crawl. The world was still just a suggestion.
Then- finally- a simple sign loomed. MOTEL. Just that single word. We crept up a road to a small one-story building on a hilltop; I stumbled in to book a room. But dogs were not allowed. There was nothing for it but to head out again into the blizzard toward West Branch. Long minutes later we cheered: a Super 8 was right next to the expressway entrance we’d passed ages ago! Happily, the establishment welcomed Bryn. The room was fine (though Joe thought it smelled a little ‘doggy,’ from previous residents) and we three slept soundly, exhausted and grateful to be alive.
Next morning it was bitterly cold- minus 7 degrees, but the wind had died and the sun shone. Breakfast at the Lumberjack Restaurant sounded wonderful, but- once bitten, twice shy. We grabbed a light breakfast at McDonald’s and set off again for Traverse City. Nature wouldn’t fool us again with a pretty sky. We’d drive straight there, THEN relax.
Good decision. When we left Kalkaska, M-72 was enveloped in more blinding snow. A minute before, the sky had been blue. (This fresh, familiar ‘pounce’ lasted the rest of the day.)
Driving next to the bay into Traverse City, wind-blown snow made the road difficult to discern. Sensibly, very few cars had ventured out. Bryn whined softly from the back; she felt the tension, too. But as soon as we put that long line of hotel buildings between the lake and our car, we could see much better.
Our homecoming felt like a major triumph.
Inexplicably, we decided to take Bryn to the city dog park for a gallop. Hey- we’d even break out the new snow boots Joe had ordered for her! Our patient labradoodle stood stock-still as we struggled to fit them for the first time. I finally secured the last Velcro strap. They fit perfectly, and didn’t look half bad! No more freezing paws or iceballs between her toes! (Now, if only they’d stay on…)
Bryn pranced around the dining room like a fancy dressage horse, raising each paw chest-high; it was terribly funny. She was puzzled by their odd feel, but pleased by our delight.
At the dog park, we were alone. (Only idiots would do this.) Amid the stinging blizzard and sub-zero temps Bryn bounced around, sorely testing the boots. They stayed on! Joe and I laughed, threw a half-eaten green tennis ball for Bryn to try to find, and tramped through the deep drifts alongside her. The vigorous exercise felt wonderful: hours of accumulated tension were released to the brutal arctic wind.
Take that, Mother Nature!
I’d broken my shoulder in a dog-driven fall from our front porch in TC and needed help to function, so I moved back to Saginaw, where Joe still maintains his medical practice. After two weeks in our little Saginaw farmhouse I got restless and bored; we decided to drive back to Traverse City to spend the weekend at Sunnybank. I certainly needed the change of scene.
Settling Bryn-dog in her bed in the back of the car we fled Saginaw on Wednesday at 5 o’clock, right after leaving the orthopedist’s office. The day was bright; earlier in the day radar had shown no snow at all. None was expected until much later that evening.
As we approached West Branch the sun, still over an hour from setting, winked out. A solid gray sky moved in. No worries: it was still fine outside, though extremely cold- minus 3 degrees. Two minutes later a few snowflakes wandered lazily past the windshield. The expressway remained dry. We could see for miles.
Another minute passed. Snowflakes began whizzing by horizontally as the wind suddenly intensified. Then the car trembled from an enormous gust--- and the world simply vanished. There was no road. No view beyond the wipers. Snow fell as thickly as white cloth.
For just an instant we glimpsed a car that had careened off the highway: an instant later it vanished. Snow fell frantically; Joe slowed radically. We turned on our car’s flashers to warn approaching cars of our location and speed. But these bright blinkers, covered in sticky snow, were barely discernable.
Rarely have we felt so disoriented- and yes, scared. We were driving totally blind. And so was everyone else. We’d hit- or be hit -before we could ever react. Bryn would take the brunt of a rear-end collision. Unthinkable! We had to exit! Moving at a crawl we turned the wipers to full speed, but icy snow thickly clogged the windscreen. This was terrifying. Would we have to stop in the middle of the expressway to clean it? Then I saw a glint- a reflecting pole- just one- that might mark an exit lane. (I’d remembered seeing a sign about two miles back.) We inched along, leaning nearly to the dashboard to see outside. (I was ready to open the door to watch the road’s surface, in an effort to guide Joe. The situation was that desperate.)
Miraculously, we had stumbled onto an escape route. West Branch was behind us, but at least we’d be off the highway. We inched forward, stopping at a nearly buried stop sign. Turning right would eventually lead us back to West Branch, where we’d take refuge in a motel. But- could we even move? The snow was so intense that the road had disappeared. So, after scraping a hole in windshield ice, we guessed. There were no buildings anywhere to use as reference points.
Once a car’s headlights dimly appeared and moved toward us. Joe and the other guy both veered to their right, passing each other at a crawl. The world was still just a suggestion.
Then- finally- a simple sign loomed. MOTEL. Just that single word. We crept up a road to a small one-story building on a hilltop; I stumbled in to book a room. But dogs were not allowed. There was nothing for it but to head out again into the blizzard toward West Branch. Long minutes later we cheered: a Super 8 was right next to the expressway entrance we’d passed ages ago! Happily, the establishment welcomed Bryn. The room was fine (though Joe thought it smelled a little ‘doggy,’ from previous residents) and we three slept soundly, exhausted and grateful to be alive.
Next morning it was bitterly cold- minus 7 degrees, but the wind had died and the sun shone. Breakfast at the Lumberjack Restaurant sounded wonderful, but- once bitten, twice shy. We grabbed a light breakfast at McDonald’s and set off again for Traverse City. Nature wouldn’t fool us again with a pretty sky. We’d drive straight there, THEN relax.
Good decision. When we left Kalkaska, M-72 was enveloped in more blinding snow. A minute before, the sky had been blue. (This fresh, familiar ‘pounce’ lasted the rest of the day.)
Driving next to the bay into Traverse City, wind-blown snow made the road difficult to discern. Sensibly, very few cars had ventured out. Bryn whined softly from the back; she felt the tension, too. But as soon as we put that long line of hotel buildings between the lake and our car, we could see much better.
Our homecoming felt like a major triumph.
Inexplicably, we decided to take Bryn to the city dog park for a gallop. Hey- we’d even break out the new snow boots Joe had ordered for her! Our patient labradoodle stood stock-still as we struggled to fit them for the first time. I finally secured the last Velcro strap. They fit perfectly, and didn’t look half bad! No more freezing paws or iceballs between her toes! (Now, if only they’d stay on…)
Bryn pranced around the dining room like a fancy dressage horse, raising each paw chest-high; it was terribly funny. She was puzzled by their odd feel, but pleased by our delight.
At the dog park, we were alone. (Only idiots would do this.) Amid the stinging blizzard and sub-zero temps Bryn bounced around, sorely testing the boots. They stayed on! Joe and I laughed, threw a half-eaten green tennis ball for Bryn to try to find, and tramped through the deep drifts alongside her. The vigorous exercise felt wonderful: hours of accumulated tension were released to the brutal arctic wind.
Take that, Mother Nature!