A man and woman dressed in business attire were running the wrong way down the center of an eerily vacant and snow-covered stretch of Missouri highway 141.
The man’s dark blue blazer whipped up behind him, flapping in the wind as the couple ran squinting into the falling snow. The two seemed as out of place as their clothing and just as inadequate for the situation.
It was late in the afternoon of January 11th. St. Louis had become the epicenter for the collision of a cold northern air mass and a trough of southern moisture spooling up from the Gulf of Mexico. Snow had begun falling innocently around noon, but soon devolved into an all-out blitz, debilitating the entire metro area and snarling traffic.
We had shut down the studio at work a few hours early because of the incoming weather. I was taking my normal route home east on 94, then onto 364, down 141, then onto 44 westbound for the last leg of the trip…about 24 miles in total.
Over lunch, I had stopped to top off my fuel just in case my trip home got complicated. I figured the extra weight for the rear of my four-wheel-drive Tacoma wouldn’t hurt anyway. I also picked up a few groceries for the kids anticipating not leaving the house much over the weekend.
Local meteorologists began calling for eight inches of snow, then continued to revise their projections, finally topping out at 14 inches…a snow event unlike anything in St. Louis since 1982.
Having grown up in Chicagoland, I used to deride just how little snow it took to shutter St. Louis. What I came to learn was that our topography…the at-times steep rolling Ozark foothills…is markedly different from my hometown of Ottawa nestled on the gentle plain of the Illinois River Valley. Snow is taken seriously around here for good reason.
My travel down 94 and 364 was slow, but traffic was light and I was able to do 40 mph on average with the four-wheel drive engaged. 141 was a different story.
Those 16 miles on 141 took over four hours to cover. Dense lines of cars took turns creeping forward, brake lights always glowing as their tires searched for traction.
A Mustang in the left lane ascended a rise in the road with too much throttle, spinning its tires the entire way up, shifting the car at a 45 degree angle. A Nissan XTerra descended the glazed downhills with its front wheels completely locked up, always barely stopping its skid just shy of the bumper of the car in front of it. Not only would I have to watch the road, but also the other cars around me.
All along 141, cars too many to count littered the shoulder; each one frozen in some unique spun-out position. Most stranded vehicles contained the darkened silhouette of a driver still seated within, usually talking on the phone. The calls were futile. Reports abounded that roadside services and even EMS were declining requests for help as they were unable to navigate the road themselves. Stuck or out of fuel, many abandoned their vehicles to seek shelter elsewhere.
After traversing miles of stalled cars and snow-covered road, I made it to the 44 interchange. Given it was the most direct way home and had the least amount of elevation change, I opted to get onto take it…a choice I later learned to be a mistake.
At that point it was around 7:00 PM and I was just six miles from home. Unfortunately for me, those last six miles would take 11 hours to travel. I could see a trail of red brake lights leading out to the west, but I thought they would continue crawling in that direction. When I eventually made it off the ramp and onto the highway, I realized I was wrong.
Semis and the concrete median boxed me in, leaving no option for turning around. Google Maps and the Waze app all showed stalled traffic for miles on 44 in both directions. The Missouri Department of Transportation’s (MoDOT) highway cameras confirmed that no vehicles were getting through near my exit. The highway had been shut down. No one was going anywhere.
I continued to assess the options. My cold-weather running gear was in a duffel in my passenger seat. The run home would be a short one compared to my usual eight mile runs…but what about all the pricey gear in the cab of my truck? What about my truck? There was no way to get off the highway even just to park. With plenty of fuel and food, I committed to waiting it out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a bowhunter, it’s how to sit in one place for a long time.
I spent my time between the radio, podcasts, snacking, checking MoDOT cameras, texts, calls, and searching social media for clues to what lie ahead. I also took the opportunity to post a quick video to Facebook.
In addition to ample food and fuel, anticipating the weather, I opted to wear boots that day in case I ended up having to hoof it. Here’s the rest of my loadout that helped turn a potential disaster into a mere inconvenience:
- fleece hat
- headlamp (fully charged)
- gloves
- multi-tool
- iPhone charging cable
- spare jacket
- Nalgene bottle (aka urinal)
Around 1:00 AM I began to doze off, but only into a shallow sleep, though deep enough to not notice the vehicles ahead of me move forward an eighth of a mile. I woke to a horn honking from behind and hurriedly turned the truck back on and sped forward, only to be stopped again.
Friends and family continued to check in on me…even into the wee early morning hours. My daughter was anxious about my welfare. It was probably for the best that she slept through most of my odyssey.
Via MoDOT’s highway cameras I could see that eastbound 44 was shut down at the base of Antire hill due to multiple jackknifed tractor-trailers. My westbound route continued showing no traffic and it seemed the road was simply too slick and too steep for two-wheel-drive vehicles and semis.
It wasn’t until the 5:00 AM hour that I began seeing intermittent cars headed west on 44 on the camera footage. Comments on the Waze app from drivers in the jam indicated MoDOT was allowing a few cars through at a time.
I knew all the truck drivers were looped in to the situation via their CB radios and would know more, sooner than anyone on the road. I watched them for signs of hope. Eventually, they began turning their headlights back on and shifting into gear. We began moving forward!
Having been up for a full 24 hours, I had to keep blinking hard just to get a clear view of the road. I could see that the semi in front of me was not moving when all the others did. He must have fallen asleep. I juked around him on the right then hopped back into the left lane to try to cover as much ground as I could. I had no idea if they’d shut the highway down again.
Careful to not go too fast and end up in the ditch myself due to my new-found enthusiasm, I kept the needle around 30 miles an hour. The Tacoma pushed through the sand-like eight inches of snow on the highway, intermittently following ruts from previous vehicles but ultimately busting through and creating my own path.
The opening of 44 was a relief, but I knew it was not the final hurdle in my quest to get home. In conversation with my neighbor earlier on the phone, she indicated that the two-lane road leading to our subdivision was littered with cars that couldn’t make it, and the steep descent on Antire road into our valley was solid snow pack.
When I finally exited 44 and approached the Antire descent, I threw the transmission into neutral, engaged four-low, then dropped it into first gear and crawled down the grade. It took about five minutes to cover the mile section, but I didn’t slip once. I had seen vehicles try the hill during ice and snow in the past. Once they began sliding, there was no control possible…just an expensive and dangerous game of pinball between guard rails and limestone bluffs down to the base of the hill.
That hurdle passed, the last obstacle was the stranded cars on our county road to the subdivision. 30 some vehicles sat parked at the entrance to the nearby Boy Scout camp, sending an ominous message that I ought not continue. There would be no place to turn around if our road was obstructed.
Thankfully (for me), the cars that were stranded on our road were well off into the woods on either side, leaving the road open. I pulled into our garage around 6:00 AM still in disbelief about the journey.
Frankly, I’m still processing these events. My odyssey reminded me that no matter how advanced our society becomes, there are still powerful forces that are out of our control. There are still problems that cannot be solved by taps or swipes on a mobile device. Being prepared is better than not. Many people don’t know how to drive in snow. Words from those we care about are powerful and can help us not feel alone.
I spent over 15 consecutive hours on the road from January 11th into January 12…the same amount of time it takes to drive from St. Louis to Albuquerque, New Mexico. It feels like I lived a lifetime in my truck, and at the same time, like it never actually happened.
Disaster or inconvenience? Often the difference is in our response and attitude, making the distinction one of our own making.
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