ATLANTA — Traffic on Interstate 285 ground to a halt, so I put the car in park and turned off the engine. “It’s too bad the Braves aren’t in town,” I said to my wife, looking toward the future home of the team.
We were still in a joking mood — it was early. We still had eight hours to go, but we thought we were well positioned to be home by midnight.
Running low on gas, we determined we had no choice but to turn off the car, even though the mercury dipped below 20 degrees. In hindsight, it would have been nice if I remembered to bring a proper coat that morning. There was nothing I could do at that point.
It was dark, we were weary and the interstate resembled a drive-in theater showing a bad horror film. Cars were packed in, and no one was amused.
On a normal day, we could have driven to Savannah in the time it took to drive maybe 10 miles. But, we were painfully realizing this was no normal day. How could two inches of snow paralyze the economic engine of the southeast? What would we do in a real emergency or a terrorist attack? I always joked that the city and the state don’t own any snowplows or salt spreaders. Surely, that was a joke. Was I actually passing along a fact all those years?
We were close. So close. We had but a few miles to go. As the temperature inside the car dropped, our thoughts turned to abandoning our vehicle and walking the last few miles. With the highway’s shoulder packed with abandoned vehicles, we refused to be one of those people who ditched our car in the middle of the highway, even though we might have been justified.
We were in this for the long haul. We weren’t stepping out of our car until we pulled into the garage. But, at that point, we didn’t know what long haul even meant.
An hour passed, then another. As we dozed off and on, it felt as though we were sliding in the ice. For the weary, there would be no real rest this evening. Every so often, we glanced at the seemingly endless line of cars and trucks in front of us. It looked like the logjam might be breaking free, but it was not to be.
Despite my pleading with the driver of a HERO unit to find a way to divert traffic onto a side road, we remained on the interstate, and like a chess player facing checkmate, our moves were limited.
Minutes turned to hours. It seemed as if the second hand on a watch was moving in slow motion, almost is if it was freezing before our eyes. Like Bob Dylan, we were “trapped in the heart of it, trying to get away.” But, there was no escape.
Every so often, we would crank the ignition. The car started, we blasted the heat and turned on the radio, hoping for some update. Like castaways marooned on a far away island, there was little news and little action we could take. Midnight. One o’clock. Two o’clock.
The scene kept repeating itself. We were Bill Murray in real life. Today was Groundhog Day. Except that hours repeated themselves, not days. But, it might as well have been days, for all we knew.
We sat for three more hours, the scene continually repeating itself. Suddenly, a headlight in the rearview mirror caught my attention. People are moving? Where? I glanced ahead. No movement.
People were turning around. An off duty Navy member passed by. What’s going on, I inquired. He informed me people were turning around and exiting the highway via an on ramp.
This was our moment. I slammed on the gas, and at an astonishing speed of 3 m.p.h., I whipped around until I was going the wrong way on the highway. Recognizing that we hadn’t seen any cops for hours, I knew there was no ticket in my future. We were finally free of I-285, but the real adventure was just beginning.
We exited the freeway and encountered what countless media have described as a scene resembling The Walking Dead. I haven’t seen the show, so I can’t say whether that was an apt comparison. I saw a scene made possible by the dearth of snowplows.
There were maybe 20 vehicles scattered like a child’s toys strewn about the playroom. Some were smashed. Others seemed fine. All, it seemed, were blocking our route. We had only one option: careful driving in first gear.
We turned in the car’s mirrors and like a captain steering a vessel through a rocky channel, we began the slow journey. The ice beneath was thickening.
We chose our path and rolled down our windows. If my car is five feet, 10.2 inches wide, the chosen route was six feet, two inches wide, and that’s being generous. My wife and I simultaneously stuck our hands out the window, but we couldn’t fully extend our arms. The passageway was that narrow. She touched the trunk of a two-door silver Ford Focus while I touched the trailer of an 18-wheeler, ready to push either or both vehicles from our path. We crept along, our speed better managed in inches per hour than miles per hour.
There was nothing we could do at that point to avert disaster. In our minds, it was seemingly assured. But, there was no turning back and we continued our forward path, creeping along until we finally broke free.
We rounded the corner onto the street that would take us home and encountered the second hurdle: another dozen or so vehicles spinning out of control on an icy incline. But, after more than 11 hours in the car, we were determined. Ice was no match for resolve. So, we dropped the car into first gear again and revved the engine. We weaved to the left, then to the right. Like a running back who tastes the end zone, we broke free of the masses.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. We pulled into the driveway and entered our house. It was 5:45 a.m. “I should probably stay awake,” I said to my wife. “My alarm is going off in 10 minutes.”
Frustrated, but home, we could joke once again. Besides our jokes paled in comparison to the jokes the late night shows would use to describe “Snow Jam 2014.”
