Snowbound, Icebound, and Southbound We made it - even with all our difficulties! - by Steve Carter

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The winter of 1996 started earlier than most years on Canada's West Coast. A vicious storm drifted in over the Pacific in the last week of November. Those Snowbirds who had wisely chosen to flee south prior to December, missed the total experience of a week filled with high expectations, growing fear, and highway panic. Heading south is a game of chance played by thousands of Canucks, lured by the warmer climes of California, Arizona, and Mexico. Mother Nature, however, has a way of voiding all sophisticated prognostications delivered by sleek weatherpersons in the media. It's like reading between the lines in a private diary. The unspoken is often more important than the obvious. Sometimes we Snowbirds have to ignore the well-meaning prophecies-of-doom given by our relatives (who have never travelled south), bite-the-bullet, and head out into the blinding snowstorm. Sharon and myself had to prepare our 30-foot travel trailer for the trip. First we secured everything inside for the rocky roads ahead, stowed all the gear in the proper places, chipped the ice off the roof of the slide-out, turned off the propane, and all the other little jobs we do before putting life and limb on the proverbial line. The winter of 1996 saw a progression of nasty storms hit Canada's West Coast, with brutal winds and lots of snow. Between each storm was a "window of opportunity" that offered up to 12 hours of "escape time" We managed to get our one-ton Ford van, "Old Betsy", to gingerly pull our trailer out of 10 inches of snow, through the mine-field of potholes in an iced-up RV park, slither through the parking lot, and negotiate icy hair-pin turns out to Highway 17 - in BC's Lower Mainland. Thick snow was falling by 9 A.M., as we left our RV park. One questions one's sanity at such times. Our only "home" could be side-swiped by a hapless housewife on her way to the market, or bushwhacked by a bus. Dark thoughts abound at stressful times like these. Fortunately, we had our trusty CB radio (range two miles) to give us news of what lay ahead. Highway 99 south to the border at Blaine, Washington, was clear, however, there had been an ice-storm two days before, and cars and trucks were still abandoned on the roadside. On both December 26th and 27th, 1996, northern Washington had seen a powerful snow and ice storm. Power was out for 250,000 homes. Chaos reigned as commuters were caught unawares. Thick layers of ice coated trees, which succumbed under the weight. Roofs collapsed, and side-roads were often impassable. But Americans have a reputation for quickly solving their problems when disasters strike. Try and reassure a nervous wife sitting beside you in the van mouthing the words, "I told you not to go!" or "Can we turn back now?" Through Seattle we cruised with no problems, however, the C.B. chatter started coming in with "Holy cow, did you see that?!" or "My God, we're on the ice road from Hell." Sure enough, as soon as we hit the South Center Freeway, south of Seattle, all eight lanes presented the one climactic horror scene every RVer dreads - an ice obstacle course of 12 inch deep ruts, chunks of metal, tires, hubcaps, and no escape. Imagine four lanes of freeway jammed bumper to missing bumper, crawling over railway ties - like ice ridges uphill for 20 miles. This, my friends, was the time for a serious chat with the wife; namely, who's to blame for this . . . me, God, or the highways department? Trailers, fifth wheels, cars, trucks, buses, cars, were bumping and grinding along their tortuous paths. Grinding, crunching, screeching sounds were all around us. The cacophony of chaos was soon a dull roar as our rig and van twisted and jumped. Lane changing was necessary to avoid stalls, wrecks, and pieces of debris. Lane changing quickly became a learned art of gradually picking your time and place, hoping the high ridges of ice between lanes didn't rip out our transmission, trailer under-carriage, or worse. Once safely into another lane, weathering the curses, "finger's" and wrath of our fellow Road Warriors, a period of calm would ensue for the next mile or two until faced with the next emergency. Meanwhile our C.B. radio was still alive now with, "Who's the idiot with the van and trailer who nearly rear-ended a Volvo?" Cries, shrieks, and moans emitted from our C.B. on all channels: "Big Dog calling the Lone Ranger, do you copy?' "This is Lone Ranger, what's your 10-40?" "Big Dog here. Look out for a stalled bus by Mile 192. Go to the right lane." "Thank you, Big Dog. This is Lone Ranger over and out. Have a nice day, you'all..." Sometimes time marches on, but here it crawled. Twenty miles seemed like an eternity - a Friday bank line-up - a trip to the dentist. Once through the worst of this, I removed the wife's blindfold, and the stick from between her teeth. Whew, what a mess! You know how a rough experience can jiggle one's bladder, well needless to say we pulled "Old Betsy" to the side once clear of our nightmare, and raced back to the trailer. What a scene! I had forgotten to secure the two filing cabinets by a strap to their anchor points. The VCR on top had flown through the air and landed on the cushion of the swivel chair below, as if placed there carefully by hand. The filing cabinets had spilled their contents all over and the wall had suffered a deep gash. Thank God for cheap metal cabinets. I simply bashed the drawers back into shape . . viola! No problemo! Since these cabinets blocked the way to the washroom, you might say my desperate wife found other accommodations. After cleaning everything up, we resumed our journey rejoicing that nothing was really broken, twisted permanently out of shape, leaking or pulled apart. With over 1700 miles to go, little did we realize how wrong we were, for not long after, we heard the first of the "whumps". All RVers are familiar with the dreaded "whumps". At first it's called road noise, then it's called, "What's loose in the back, honey?" Next is, "Turn off the radio, please", then it's called, "Did you make that noise on purpose? Cut it out!" Then it's called, "My God, we've got a flat tire! Hold on dear!" Exit 142 on I-5 was our next pit stop for propane, at the Flying J Truck Stop. By coincidence, or the Divine Providence given to travellers, our flat occurred as we were about to exit. Luckily a paved shoulder appeared and we were able to pull over safely. Sure enough, our right front tire on "Old Betsy" was shot and riding on the rim. Being 6'7" and 275 lbs., I figured I could get the 8 nuts off the tire with no sweat. However my four-way tire iron was metric and the nuts were American. Exasperated, I sat on the curb looking at 8 nuts that now looked like they were welded on. Fortunately, our BC buddy "Snowbird" and her husband pulled over and offered their help in getting us a tow truck. After they departed I set out my new set of road triangles, which were promptly run over by a long haired freak in a rusty Monte Carlo. Suddenly a Plymouth Caravan pulled over in the off ramp across from us, and an angel named "Lundy" came upon the scene. Lundy was about 5'6" and 140 lbs soaking wet. After learning of our predicament, he returned with a huge four-way tire iron and said, "Stand aside Junior, put your foot on the brakes and look and learn." Standing on the tire iron and pulling up with all his might, Lundy had 8 nuts off in two minutes flat. "Hope your spare has air," he said. Despite his protests I stuffed $20 US in his pocket. He ran up the hill, around the fence, jumped into his car and that was that. Angels are real folks, believe it! Finally by 5pm we had a new tire from Les Schwab, but we were now only a few hours ahead of another winter snow storm brought in that night by the "Pineapple Express". After canceling the tow truck, we drove another 200 miles into Oregon. Along the way in the dark and driving rain, a Chevy loaded with teenagers wildly signaled us to pull over. We did, and discovered that our new sewer hose was strung out behind us as one long thin wire. Sunday December 29th, 1996, dawned bright and incredibly warm. It had rained during the night, but now the sun burst over the eastern horizon. The 76 Truck Stop at Aurora, Oregon, had taken away a lot of the stress after a good night's sleep. As we entered the ramp up to the freeway south, we noticed the underpass we used the night before was flooded. Ignorance is bliss, and as we ate up the miles through Oregon and northern California, little by little the rear bumper on the trailer started to shred and separate from the frame. Bolted to the sewer bumper was a heavy metal frame upon which was attached our trailer's new spare tire. The previous day's storm in the north was being fed by stiff winds from the south. From Redding to Corning, California, along I-5, 40-50 mph head-and cross-winds slammed into our rig, accompanied by torrential rains. On impulse I turned on our CB to hear... "Who's that idiot pulling a white trailer from Canada?" "Dunno, but his spare tire is scraping the road behind him." I looked in the rear-view mirror and also ahead, and suddenly it dawned on me that I was the only idiot towing a white trailer. Besides that, a green Toyota pickup pulled up beside me and the crazed driver was pointing wildly for me to pull over. Under normal circumstances one does not pull over for ANYONE in California, but RVers do . . . occasionally. Funny thing. . as we pulled over, the rain and the wind stopped and sunlight beamed down on that 60 feet of roadway. Strange, eh? What now! Trudging back along the gravel, I envisioned total disaster. Sure enough the tire carrier was lying on the ground and the sewer bumper was a twisted hulk. Twelve rusty nuts looked malevolently back at me. Luckily I had bought a cheap Chinese crescent wrench in Campbell River BC. My wife managed to get most of the nuts off. What a great gal, eh? The tire was still good with only minor sidewall bruises. We threw the iron rack out at the next stop. I think that next time I'll stay out of trouble by flying south instead. You'll notice that Canada Geese do it, why not us? On second thought, maybe not. I get airsick and besides, one appreciates the warmer climates a little bit more if you struggle a bit to get there.