Whiteout

The remarkable thing was, if you lifted your gaze about 15 degrees up from the horizon, you'd see mostly blue sky with a few dotted clouds. But that needed to be a quick impression in passing, for gazing longingly at it was not a good plan for keeping the car on the road that one could barely see most of the time, and not at all the rest of the time.

It was not an advertised whiteout. I'd switched to the local MPR station, and not a word was said. There was plenty of commentary on Science Friday to soothe a mind trying to overload on adrenaline, but nothing on the weather. It was a non-event.

Save for those of us who were trying to drive through it.

After climbing the hill out of the river valley that St. Peter snuggles in, taking Hwy. 99 towards New Ulm, there's a whole lot of flat. This morning there had been a bit of light and fluffy, and this afternoon brought steady increasing winds to move it about. Perfect whiteout conditions at roadway eye level.

Slowing way down helped, but even at 30 mph there were times when the road disappeared completely and one could only hope that it kept going straight for the next 20 to 100 feet or so until a glimpse was available again, and that the oncoming traffic could see it better than you could. When they were there, you could generally see the tops of the cars, more of the tops of trucks, and guide yourself by steering to the side of them until the road reappeared. You were fine as long as there were no stalled cars, pedestrians, wandering cows, or deer. Luckily, there weren't.

Windbreaks earned their names, breaking up the wind enough that the road became visible. It didn't matter if it were a lone tree or a row, a clump or a section, as long as it was within a quarter mile upwind, it did its work. The really dangerous places were where it was just open fields for as far upwind as you could see. Approaching them from a place of visibility, you could see what you were in for. Once there, you were taking your chances. Often there was enough roll in the landscape that you could see that the road went straight, or curved left or right, and adjust accordingly. If following another vehicle, like a tall truck, you at least had a road guide, but for the first 12 miles, there was nobody in front of me. I was the slow leader. Even after I pulled over at the first good spot to let others pass, which was at Nicollet, the first town, and proceeded to follow the others for a change, they quickly outpaced the speed I was willing to go. I still slowed down for the zero-visibility stretches, and was starting to have to slow for building drifts.

By the time I passed Cortland, the road dropped down to parallel another river valley, and conditions eased. It would have been great if I didn't have to come back. But I did, and by the time I'd made my stop and was heading back, conditions had worsened slightly. There was no longer blue sky. Drifts were now building on the downwind side of the road, but still were easy enough to drive through.

There was just one spot on the road where, once there, I wondered if I could forget the whole thing. Maybe park for a week or so. I'd just bitten off more than I could chew. At the western end of Nicollet, Hwy. 99 and 14 join - or split, if you're heading east. I needed to make a left turn across oncoming traffic. It had been no problem on the way out. I could see a full quarter mile, the buildings of town creating enough windbreak. On the return, however, I was completely blinded. I could see cars coming out of the snow only about 20 feet from where I had to cross.

Oh shit!

A quick glance behind me revealed a large truck patiently waiting for me - and keeping me from backing up and changing my mind about maybe taking 14 instead. Across the intersection was a red pickup waiting to make a right turn, heading the same way I had on my way out. I didn't know if he could see better than I could. I could only hope. I watched him. He sat. Cars came. He sat. Nobody came. He sat. Nobody came. Finally, he moved, and I could only pray that he had some sort of clue that it was safe to do so. When he moved, I did too. And, I noted, so did the truck behind me, up above the swirling blinding snow, and I presumed with a view that indicated it was safe for him to do so.

Crossing that intersection was a pure act of faith.

This time it worked.