Author and Podcast Host:
Sandi Ault
Episode 6
It has been very cold here in the Rockies this week. And, even though it’s late in the season to say this, I think we all know Winter Is Coming. And I’m not talking about the weather.
As I wince at the news and find myself unable to sleep, I’ve been thinking about something that happened some time back when I lived in a cabin in a high mountain valley. This true story occurred smack in the middle of one of the worst winter storms we had ever seen.
A woman friend, let’s call her Mary, who lived in our community called me in a panic, at around eleven at night. She was a new mom, and her baby boy, just eight weeks old, had a high fever. She’d talked to the doctor’s office and they told her to take him to the emergency room. There was just one problem: the highway was closed with more than three feet of snowpack; fierce winds were creating whiteout conditions. Meteorologists on the local channels cited record snowfall totals and upslope conditions, which meant we were in for plenty more snow. Lots of folks in the valley had shoveled their roofs before dusk, to prevent them from collapsing under the weight. Now it was dark, with zero visibility. Mary asked me if she should call for an ambulance, even though she was sure none could get through. I told her yes.
In that little alpine community there were less than three hundred homes, one street lamp at the intersection of the county highway and the road to the fire station, an archaic water plant that pumped too little water out of the river, and a couple of tiny restaurants that closed up for much of the winter and whenever else they felt like it. And a volunteer fire department homed in a firehouse converted from a small ranch-style house with an attached three-car garage. The bay door openings were designed for cars, so we used to joke about needing lubricant on the mirrors of the fire vehicles to back them in. At any given time we had from twelve to twenty volunteer firefighters, every one of them worth a mint for their courage and generous service to the community.
I hung up the phone and picked up my fire radio and thumbed the key to talk to dispatch, asking for a tone for our firehouse, meaning every firefighter in our valley would get paged to respond.
Now, in a mountain valley like this, the roads aren’t paved. They might not even be graded. And driveways were measured in quarter-miles, not in yards or even feet. There was zero chance anyone could drive to the firehouse because when the highway was closed down due to snowpack, the local graveled roads were much worse.
I pulled on bunker gear, because it’s not only fire protective, but also warm, and neon yellow in color with reflective tape on the arms and legs. I had snabbed this old beat-up gear when the assistant chief got a new set. I took the light and goggles off my helmet and put them on over a fur hat. And then I put on some snow shoes that sat in a bucket by the door. I had not snowshoed in a really long time, but if ever I needed them, this was it. I grabbed an extra flashlight and some ski poles, and off I went down the slope from my house to the firehouse on the other side of the highway—a highway I could not make out at all until I stumbled into the snow-filled ditch on one side of it. I learned from that experience, and I also learned that several of the members of the squad who made it to the firehouse that night had a similar experience. We needed to find a way to mark the edge of the highway on one side. Because, beginning just over the hill from our little valley, one side of the road was a cliff edge, falling off steeply into the river hundreds of feet below.
Nearly a full complement of the squad responded that night, and we quickly gathered in the little lobby area where the radio to dispatch sputtered with voice traffic. Those not already in bunker gear suited up, and our captain—the incident commander for that call—began to strategize with dispatch. One of our team worked on the county road maintenance crew during the day, and he got on the phone to his boss to inquire whether a snow plow could be assigned to help. I broke out a big box of slap-activated handwarmers and divided them up among the crew. Two of our fittest left on snowshoes, to start down the mountain to get themselves as far as they could, and stationed a mile or two apart where they could hopefully rest up before the infant arrived. Most of the remaining firefighters left for the highway area just beyond the valley, marking their locations on the radio as they posted up along the route. One of our longest serving firefighters left on snowshoes to get the baby.
I called Mary to convey the plan. She dressed the baby in his warmest clothes and outerwear, then wrapped him in blankets and put him in his car seat, with a light cover over him to keep the snow off. I manned the radio in the station.
Over 8 twisting miles of treacherous cliff-lined S-curves below us, an ambulance inched its way slowly up from the nearest town with a snow plow leading, working to clear a path. We knew they couldn’t get all the way up to us in these conditions, but we hoped they could get halfway.
A couple of the firefighters’ spouses arrived at the station with hot food, and they made coffee. While I was on comms with the team, a group of teenagers trudged in from the car they had abandoned up the road a mile or two. They had tried to leave a friend’s house in our valley to drive home and quickly plowed off into the ditch. They looked like slim snowmen, covered in thick frozen clumps of white from head to toe. We broke out some sleeping bags for them and they spread them out in the meeting room, then helped themselves to soup and chips and sodas.
Meanwhile, the radio was abuzz with chatter as members of the squad began to spread out, positioning themselves at intervals along the highway marking where the roads’ edge became a precipice. They waited with their headlamps and flashlights on to show the way and to be ready to relay the infant.
One resident who had a tractor with a snowblower had managed to create a narrow track down one road and across the highway to the station, where he cleared the drive in front of the station so we could get the trucks out as soon as the plows got to our valley. But he couldn’t get under the eaves of the building so he left a high ridge of snow halfway up the front of the bay doors. I asked the defrosted teens, well fed and warm now, if they wanted to help. They didn’t hesitate. I showed them the shovels. “The highway can’t stay closed forever,” I said. “The plows will eventually get through, and then we’ll get calls to rescue the drivers who already got stuck or who try to drive before it’s safe. We’re going to need those bay doors cleared so we can get our vehicles out.”
The water plant manager wandered in about an hour after the squad had left on their mission. “Want to see something cool?” he asked.
He led me out the door and down the freshly-cleared drive. The wind had let up and the snowfall had lulled. “Look at that,” he said, pointing up the highway towards the gateway to our valley.
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At first it was hard to make out. A light in the distance. Then another a little farther on. And another. It was a line in the snow. It hadn’t been there when the squad left. But the families of the firefighters, plus some other people in the valley who monitored the fire and police dispatches…and who-knows-else had brought camping lanterns, high-powered flashlights, portable work lights out and were either holding them or had strategically set them every twenty or thirty yards or so along the edge of the highway to help guide the firefighters safely back home.
Truth be told, saving that precious life was a longshot. If the odds were what dictated over hope, this could be a tragic tale. But it’s not. It’s a story about how a small but courageous group of folks banded together to save a baby. The snowplow got the road clear far enough up the mountain for the ambulance to get to the pre-designated mile marker to wait to receive the child. The paramedics said later, when we saw them on the next incident, that they had gone well beyond where it was safe, but the plow had to stop at a wide spot where it could turn around without going over the side. A handful of selfless volunteers relayed the precious infant to that destination. The other firefighters lined the cliff edge with light and provided fresh handwarmers to place under the blankets in the car seat to keep the baby warm.
By morning, Mary was able to get down the mountain to the hospital where her infant son was recovering. With hydration and medication, his fever had receded in the night and he was kept a few more days for treatment of a respiratory infection. I often think about how hard it must have been for Mary to hand over her tiny child in a blinding whiteout to a guy wearing snowshoes and bunker gear. She was full of fear. But she never gave up hope.
Neither did our little band of firefighters, and other members of the community.
I wonder if there is something we can draw from this true tale as we begin to grapple together with the harsh conditions that are befalling us now in deluge after deluge. They are sure to continue and even to get worse.
I wonder if we are strong enough in ourselves, in our small teams and outreaching wider connections, in our small and our large communities… to be innovative and courageous and even creative to answer the threats in radical new ways and band together to rescue our democracy. I wonder if we will go to any lengths to save what is precious to us, what deserves defending, what needs our strength and solidarity and bravery. And if we are ready to bring everything we have to light the way and make a line in the snow.
This has been Sandi Ault—Reporting from the WILD. You can also listen to my stories on the companion podcast to this blog—wherever podcasts are found.
If you want more stories from the WILD, look for my WILD Mystery Series in book, audio book, and e-book. You can start with any book in the series and go WILD.