No matter where in the state you reside or recreate, it’s easy – and sometimes not far off base – to assume, “This spot is definitely the windiest place in Montana.”
“It has to be,” you think to yourself, as you and the tempest play tug of war with your car door. All you want to do is get the blasted thing open far enough to squeeze the widest part of your body in or out.
And it never fails, in the process a squall guts your vehicle, tearing every to-do list, important receipt, and fast food sack from the interior and sending it across the parking lot so everyone in sight can glare at you and think awful thoughts about how you eat fatty foods and litter and don’t care about the environment. And if you’re really lucky, you might somehow avoid face-planting the side window when that wicked nor’easter or sou’wester or whatever the heck it is has had enough of you dilly-dallying around and decides to slam the door shut on your head.
What is up with this wind?
I might sound a little hostile here, but I’m feeling more awe than anything else. Wind does that to you – it puts you in your place. Or maybe I should say, it pulls your place right out from underneath you like a rug and then spins you around in circles a few times like you’re a drunk, blindfolded Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey contestant, leaving you wondering where on earth you are and exactly which way is home.
I’m no novice to serious wind; I spent 8 years running sled dogs in varying locations around the country.
On Alaska’s 1,150-mile Iditarod Sled Dog Race, there’s one section of trail – between White Mountain and Safety – known as the “Blow Hole.” In 2002, my team and I tackled that stretch in a vicious blizzard. At the Safety checkpoint, everyone admired my devoted dogs -plastered with a thick layer of ice - and asked me, “What was the Blow Hole like?”
Heck, I had no idea – the entire last 100 miles seemed like one big blow hole to me. For hours, I couldn’t see the wheel dogs closest to the sled, let alone the 10 dogs out in front of them, all pulling me to the finish line. None of them had ever been to Nome; I still have no idea how they knew which way to go.
Last Saturday night as I drove from White Sulphur Springs to Martinsdale dreaming of a white Christmas with Bing Crosby crooning in my ear, the last thing on my mind were Alaskan blow holes.
It’s a terrifying feeling to be driving along at 60 mph and suddenly run into hurricane-force winds blasting snow sideways so hard you think it will never touch the ground. I slowed down and stared at what I could make out of the yellow line.
Suddenly, my ¾ ton GMC truck slammed into something – I couldn’t see what - that felt like a wall. My two loose dogs in the front seat flew forward and hit the dashboard (they were stunned but okay); my seatbelt saved me. I could make out nothing but raging white in the headlights – the wind was trying to rip my truck apart.
At this point, I realized I was in a real pickle. My truck was stuck on something. I had no idea what side of the road I was on – or even if I was on the road. I knew that this stretch of highway had little wiggle room – tiny shoulders, few guardrails, steep embankments on both sides. I wasn’t about to try to gun the truck to freedom. I had no choice but to sit there in the dark, wait until I could see something, and hope and pray that an 18-wheeler wasn’t headed my way.
The wind was relentless; it refused to let up long enough for me to assess my situation. Ironically, Bing was now serenading me with “Silent Night.” I turned down the stereo and decided to try to make a call on my cell phone – I thought it would be good to try to let someone know where I was. Amazingly enough, the call went through; I was explaining my unfortunate situation to a friend when I saw lights explode from the wall of white.
The truck must have been going 50 mph when it hit the blow hole and the hood-high, glacier-like drift blocking the road. It fish-tailed wildly a half-dozen times just missing my side door by mere inches, and then kept right on going; if they would have stopped, they would never have gotten out. This was my chance, I decided.
I rocked the truck loose by shifting into reverse and then drive, hitting the accelerator just a touch each time – all the while contemplating the deadly drop-off that could be just inches away. Finally, I nudged myself back far enough to aim for the low spot where the truck exploded through the snow earlier. And then I floored it.
It was a happy ending. I got out – with my heart racing in my ears, my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, and my two dogs now hiding in the back seat.
In a blow hole, I’d rather be standing on the runners than sitting behind a steering wheel.
The moral of the story: dogs are much better drivers.
And be careful out there.
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