Miles of cars are idling in front of me on the west side of Lookout Pass on Interstate 90. More than an hour has passed and people are getting antsy, exiting their vehicles and wandering around in the rain for no apparent reason – rain that turns into snow a few miles ahead and has caused this massive delay for travelers, many, like me, returning from their Thanksgiving weekend spent with family and friends. I suppose we might have to camp here, which makes me feel fortunate I brought along my ski gear, headlamp and sleeping bag, just in case I have to crash in the chain-up area.
I have driven this road more than 100 times, this last stretch of interstate that has connected me to my family in Spokane, Wash., for 15 years. From my homes in Powell, Wyo., Yellowstone National Park, Missoula, Bismarck, N.D., Bozeman, and now the Flathead Valley. After so many trips, I consider myself an expert on this particular artery that begins at St. Regis and passes the 50,000 Silver Dollar Bar (which once was the 10,000 Silver Dollar Bar, but added more silver dollars), winds up past Lookout Pass Ski Resort and down the other side of the rugged spine into the old mining towns of Wallace and Kellogg, on through the Idaho panhandle and into Washington.
I subconsciously check off these mile markers as I pass them, measuring the distance I’ve traveled and how far I have to go. But sometimes, like today, that internal clock is disrupted. Sometimes the snow falls too hard, too fast. Sometimes there are obstacles in the way, like that deer, whose legs were splayed across the icy interstate several years ago.
I had pulled over in front of an officer, his vehicle’s lights flashing. It was a sad scene, this despondent deer. And with the officer’s nod, I slowly approached the animal. Because of its small size, I thought I could push it along the ice onto the grass, where it could gain more traction. Bad idea. I had barely grazed the deer with my hand, when all the energy it had built up lying on the road was delivered with a swift kick to my ribs. And in an amazing recovery, it somehow regained coordination and dashed off the road. Now I took its place, the wind knocked out of my lungs, wondering if I was going to vomit. I tenderly stood and skated on my shoes back to the car, gave the officer a good-Samaritan salute and resumed the haul back to Bozeman. Already behind schedule.
But another pass loomed several hours down the road. Homestake, near Butte, is treacherous in the winter and on that bitter cold night it was covered with sleet. It was so slick that drivers traveling up the west side simply slid onto the shoulder – not crashed, just slowly drifted until their wheels spun and the vehicles were made obsolete. Like today’s scene on Lookout, hours passed while drivers crawled out of their cars and stammered around befuddled by their helplessness. Eventually, a plow drove by and sprayed sand and chemicals in the left-hand lane. That was it. That was all the assistance we would get.
With the right-hand lane still a sheet of ice, drivers banded together and slid vehicles off the shoulder, over one lane and onto the sand. My sister, who lived with me at the time, was in the driver’s seat of one of those first vehicles. She maintained a terror-stricken face as three of us shoved her car, its wheels spinning, and yelled at her to “floor it and don’t stop!” It was a fine example of Montanans’ durability and we both safely made it home.
Since my teenage years, mountains and forests have separated me from my family and we literally dash through the snow to see each other during the holidays. It’s worth the replaced bumpers and occasional white knuckles. And despite this delay (which would end after two hours), it’s always worth the trip. Drive safe this holiday season.