With the abundant snowfall recently I thought again of the tall tales we all heard from our fathers and grandfathers over the years.
“I walked to and from school uphill both ways, through 10 feet of snow.” That’s how my son tells it, adapting the stories he heard. A bit of exaggeration, or maybe not?
Through the long years that my folks lived in the region there were many heavy snowstorms, often well into the spring. The streets were impassable, the power out, nothing moving. While I lived in the northern part of the country we had such terribly cold weather; there was lots of snow but not the volume that this area experienced, grinding everything here to a halt.
Central Alberta and south has a history of unpredictable weather. I recall a friend talking of a hair-raising trip home from Calgary. The snow made visibility near zero, with sheer ice coating everything. The storm was unrelenting and she wasn’t even sure where she was.
The windshield cleared for a moment and she saw a semi trailer jack-knifed across the highway. She yanked the wheel hoping to hit the ditch. She expected to end up under the trailer. Her vehicle spun around 360 degrees, cleared the semi and continued on in the appropriate direction. Then she saw the sign, reporting that she had just left Airdrie; the longest commute in her life.
I attempted a drive to Sundre one Saturday afternoon in February a few years ago. The streets in Olds were fairly clean, no ice, normal winter roads. At the Hainstock cemetery I drove into a virtual wall of fog and blinding snow. I had time to think, “What in the world?” Then I was white-knuckling my route. I quickly changed my mind about attending a birthday party but I couldn’t see to change direction.
The snow was the fun kind, coming straight into my vision like shards of glass. My line of sight extended just past the front of my car. I could sometimes see the ridge of ice indicating the shoulder of the highway. I had no idea if I was alone or surrounded with traffic on all sides.
I realized I was approaching Harmattan. I remembered that the exit was wider than some, so I slowed even more. I pulled off and turned myself around. With heart pounding I took a few deep breaths and headed back the way I had come.
I didn’t drive out of obscurity until I arrived home. The bank of snow had crept up to Walmart by the time I returned but dissipated shortly after. Later my sister came to stay, taking the same route I had travelled earlier. She said the ditches were filled with vehicles. Odd. I had the feeling of being quite alone out there on the road. I guess I was. The rest weren’t on the road.
Joyce Hoey is a longtime Mountain View Publishing columnist.
