The scene: Interstate 64 to Interstate 81 from Charlottesville to Roanoke, a journey of about 120 miles, normally taking two hours. The time: 4 p.m. on Friday, December 18th. The setting: worst snowstorm in 15 years.
We decided to caravan down to Roanoke, in case one of us slid off the road (in retrospect, I'm not sure what we expected to do if this happened but…well…you'll see). I would be in front, in the 14' UHaul, Meg would follow in my Toyota Corolla, and Mama would be last in her Mini. As we pulled out of Charlottesville, snow was beginning to fall, and it was falling fast and thick. In retrospect, this should have been our first sign that the foot of snow that was forecast for Saturday was going to be more than a foot, and that it wasn't coming Saturday, it was coming NOW. At the time, we just drove on.
By the time we reached the top of Afton mountain, traffic had slowed to about 40 mph. I thought to myself "God, if we do this at 40 it'll take three or even four hours to get home!" Oh, how quaint that estimate seems now!
As we drove on, darkness and snow fell in equal measures. By the time we got on to Interstate 81, we began seeing the first cars stopped in the snow by the side of the road. But things didn't really get bad until the evening – and the snow – really got thick, in what should have been the last third of the journey. By this point, Meg had gotten up about two miles ahead of me and Mama, who was directly behind me for most of the journey. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and then to a standstill. It was beautiful, in its way – the headlights of hundreds of stopped cars illuminating the snow falling thick on the branches of the trees and the trailers of the trucks that had slid off the road all around us. But it was also a) terrifying b) frustrating c) nervewracking d) so so so so long. During the long periods (most of the journey), when we were stopped, Meg would call ahead to tell us how many trucks had slid off the road and what sort of path we needed to take to get around them. At every hill, the number of stuck trucks and cars – some of them stuck by trying to go around the endless lines of traffic – increased, as did my fear that one of us would completely spin out of control and become one of the stuck, or worse, one of the crashed.
Driving the truck was not great – spinning out in a car is one thing, but doing in a 14' UHaul is quite another – but it was better than you might think. The load was so heavy that the truck made it through things that seriously challenged the Mini. From Meg's report, the Corolla also did quite well.
Rockbridge County was the worst – at least six hours of almost completely standstill traffic, up and down hills, over bridges and snowdrifts, in driving wind and snow. Rockbridge County was so bad, in fact, that it has outpaced my previous record-holder for Worst Place to Drive (the entire eastern portion of the State of Tennessee) by a considerable margin. Throughout the ordeal, the three of us kept in touch by cell phone, and at one point Mama got out of her car and gave me a tangerine and two kumquats, which assuaged my terrible hunger.
All in all, the journey from Charlottesville to Roanoke took about eight and a half hours…until we got off the interstate. At which point things really went downhill. Meg called while we were just pulling on to I-581, the road into Roanoke, to say she'd made it home. We thought we, too, would soon be home. Oh, we thought.
Driving 581 was very slow, but we made it to our normal exit. We should have kept going. We should have looked for a more plowed exit. But it was 12:30 at night. We were almost home. We were so tired and hungry. So we drove. I went over a deep snow drift. I thought to myself "God. I'm not sure the Mini will make it over that one." Sure enough, its headlights remained stopped behind me. So I paused to see if Mama could get out. She didn't. And then I couldn't either.
I had never gotten stuck in a vehicle before. It is awful. The feeling of being unable to move at all – of having all this weight that is going nowhere – is truly terrible. It panicked me. I tried to rock the truck by going forwards and backwards, but could do nothing. I simply spun farther and farther out of control until I was perpendicular across the road. Finally, a snow plow driver came along. I thought he would simply pass us by, but he got out and walked back.
"Stuck, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We were trying to beat the snow."
"You didn't," he said.
"No," I said.
"Pretty stupid," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, let me see what I can do," he said. He tried to get the truck out of the snow. It slid farther. He cursed.
"Just leave me," I said. "I'll try to get a tow truck."
"I'll try to shovel," he said. So he shoveled. I stood on the side of the road and watched him shoveled. He tried again to get the truck out of the snow. It slid farther. He cursed.
"Just leave me," I said. "I'll sleep here." Mama came up and watched.
"One more time," he said. He shoveled some more. Mama and I watched. And then, he tried again, and HE DID IT. HE MOVED THE TRUCK. I will say – throughout this ordeal, virtually everyone I met was convinced that he or she was an above-average snow driver. Only one person, though, actually was, it was that blessed, surly, stubborn snow plow driver. He was more than above-average. He was a genius.
"Don't you dare take this thing home," he said. Just get in it and drive over to that parking lot over there and leave it. I'll take you home."
"Okay," I said. Meanwhile, some people shouted from down the road that they would help Mama get out. The snow plow driver plowed the way for me to get into the Towers Mall parking lot, and we waited there to see if Mama got out, and SHE DID! She later told me that a bunch of kids had actually lifted her car out of the snow. The one advantage, I suppose, of having a Mini in the snow, is that you can lift it.
So I thanked the snow plow driver again profusely, and ran and got in her car and we tried to find a plowed way home. We didn't. We got stuck again and had to be helped out by a police officer, a guy in a pickup truck, and another guy in a pickup truck at which point we parked the Mini in the 7-11 parking lot and the policeman took us home. It was 1:30 a.m. The drive from Charlottesville to Roanoke, end to end, took us nine and a half hours. We escaped with cars intact but unreachable, and nothing but the clothes on our backs.
We decided to caravan down to Roanoke, in case one of us slid off the road (in retrospect, I'm not sure what we expected to do if this happened but…well…you'll see). I would be in front, in the 14' UHaul, Meg would follow in my Toyota Corolla, and Mama would be last in her Mini. As we pulled out of Charlottesville, snow was beginning to fall, and it was falling fast and thick. In retrospect, this should have been our first sign that the foot of snow that was forecast for Saturday was going to be more than a foot, and that it wasn't coming Saturday, it was coming NOW. At the time, we just drove on.
By the time we reached the top of Afton mountain, traffic had slowed to about 40 mph. I thought to myself "God, if we do this at 40 it'll take three or even four hours to get home!" Oh, how quaint that estimate seems now!
As we drove on, darkness and snow fell in equal measures. By the time we got on to Interstate 81, we began seeing the first cars stopped in the snow by the side of the road. But things didn't really get bad until the evening – and the snow – really got thick, in what should have been the last third of the journey. By this point, Meg had gotten up about two miles ahead of me and Mama, who was directly behind me for most of the journey. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and then to a standstill. It was beautiful, in its way – the headlights of hundreds of stopped cars illuminating the snow falling thick on the branches of the trees and the trailers of the trucks that had slid off the road all around us. But it was also a) terrifying b) frustrating c) nervewracking d) so so so so long. During the long periods (most of the journey), when we were stopped, Meg would call ahead to tell us how many trucks had slid off the road and what sort of path we needed to take to get around them. At every hill, the number of stuck trucks and cars – some of them stuck by trying to go around the endless lines of traffic – increased, as did my fear that one of us would completely spin out of control and become one of the stuck, or worse, one of the crashed.
Driving the truck was not great – spinning out in a car is one thing, but doing in a 14' UHaul is quite another – but it was better than you might think. The load was so heavy that the truck made it through things that seriously challenged the Mini. From Meg's report, the Corolla also did quite well.
Rockbridge County was the worst – at least six hours of almost completely standstill traffic, up and down hills, over bridges and snowdrifts, in driving wind and snow. Rockbridge County was so bad, in fact, that it has outpaced my previous record-holder for Worst Place to Drive (the entire eastern portion of the State of Tennessee) by a considerable margin. Throughout the ordeal, the three of us kept in touch by cell phone, and at one point Mama got out of her car and gave me a tangerine and two kumquats, which assuaged my terrible hunger.
All in all, the journey from Charlottesville to Roanoke took about eight and a half hours…until we got off the interstate. At which point things really went downhill. Meg called while we were just pulling on to I-581, the road into Roanoke, to say she'd made it home. We thought we, too, would soon be home. Oh, we thought.
Driving 581 was very slow, but we made it to our normal exit. We should have kept going. We should have looked for a more plowed exit. But it was 12:30 at night. We were almost home. We were so tired and hungry. So we drove. I went over a deep snow drift. I thought to myself "God. I'm not sure the Mini will make it over that one." Sure enough, its headlights remained stopped behind me. So I paused to see if Mama could get out. She didn't. And then I couldn't either.
I had never gotten stuck in a vehicle before. It is awful. The feeling of being unable to move at all – of having all this weight that is going nowhere – is truly terrible. It panicked me. I tried to rock the truck by going forwards and backwards, but could do nothing. I simply spun farther and farther out of control until I was perpendicular across the road. Finally, a snow plow driver came along. I thought he would simply pass us by, but he got out and walked back.
"Stuck, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We were trying to beat the snow."
"You didn't," he said.
"No," I said.
"Pretty stupid," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, let me see what I can do," he said. He tried to get the truck out of the snow. It slid farther. He cursed.
"Just leave me," I said. "I'll try to get a tow truck."
"I'll try to shovel," he said. So he shoveled. I stood on the side of the road and watched him shoveled. He tried again to get the truck out of the snow. It slid farther. He cursed.
"Just leave me," I said. "I'll sleep here." Mama came up and watched.
"One more time," he said. He shoveled some more. Mama and I watched. And then, he tried again, and HE DID IT. HE MOVED THE TRUCK. I will say – throughout this ordeal, virtually everyone I met was convinced that he or she was an above-average snow driver. Only one person, though, actually was, it was that blessed, surly, stubborn snow plow driver. He was more than above-average. He was a genius.
"Don't you dare take this thing home," he said. Just get in it and drive over to that parking lot over there and leave it. I'll take you home."
"Okay," I said. Meanwhile, some people shouted from down the road that they would help Mama get out. The snow plow driver plowed the way for me to get into the Towers Mall parking lot, and we waited there to see if Mama got out, and SHE DID! She later told me that a bunch of kids had actually lifted her car out of the snow. The one advantage, I suppose, of having a Mini in the snow, is that you can lift it.
So I thanked the snow plow driver again profusely, and ran and got in her car and we tried to find a plowed way home. We didn't. We got stuck again and had to be helped out by a police officer, a guy in a pickup truck, and another guy in a pickup truck at which point we parked the Mini in the 7-11 parking lot and the policeman took us home. It was 1:30 a.m. The drive from Charlottesville to Roanoke, end to end, took us nine and a half hours. We escaped with cars intact but unreachable, and nothing but the clothes on our backs.
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