It was cold as hell!
Today’s winter storm warning brought back another long forgotten memory for me. I guess that, as an old man, I am paying more attention to them. I try to write them down just in case any of my offspring ever want to learn a little about our trivial historical events.
In January of 1968, when I was 9 years old, My dad got reassigned to Elmendorf AFB in Anchorage, Alaska. We started our journey that winter by driving from Montgomery, Alabama to Somers Point, New Jersey. We went there to spend Christmas with Mom’s parents, my Grandmom and Grandpop. From there, we drove to Maumee, Ohio to visit Dad’s family.
I naively thought Ohio was the coldest place I had ever been. I remember that we had to buy some warmer clothes while we were there. We did things like ice skating on a pond and going down a snowy hill on a toboggan. No matter how many layers I put on, I could not get warm. My feet were so cold that they seemed nonexistent. All I could think about was how Daddy had said it would be a lot colder in Alaska.
The drive from Maumee to Alaska started out okay. The butter-nut yellow 1968 Chevy Nova that Daddy had just bought was warm and comfortable until we reached Minneapolis, Minnesota. That’s where we had a small car accident when the car slipped on the ice. We were freezing by the time the police had come and taken all the details. After that, I never warmed up until we reached the first Canadian lodge, a few days later.
The car wreck turned out to be a blessing. The police told Daddy that he needed to get his tires studded, or we would never make it to Anchorage. We would be traveling on the ALCAN, which at that time was about 2,000 miles of unpaved road, which in winter was covered in packed snow and ice. The police also suggested that we buy a snow shovel, a bucket of sand, and several small candles which would evidently keep us alive, if we broke down.
While they were putting the studs in our tires, the guys at the service station were amazed by how unprepared we were for a trek to Alaska. They gave Daddy some advice and also installed some kind of electric heater on the engine block and a high powered electric heater with a blower for the interior of the car. They would be plugged in when we stopped at night. The one on the engine helped the car to start. The other one kept the interior warm all night long, as it would be impossible to heat the car from cold to comfortable while starting off in the morning.
Anyway, we got off on our journey and entered Canada. I honestly don’t remember how long that trip took. I feel like we probably spent at least ten days to get to Anchorage. We only drove about five hours each day, and I seriously doubt that Daddy drove over 50 miles per hour.
In the mornings, Patti, Mom, and I would get in the car after Daddy had gone out earlier loaded our stuff, started the engine, and turned the heat on. Then he would unplug the two extra heaters, tuck the wires somehow, and get in the car as quickly as he could. We would drive off into the cold wilderness in fairly high spirits.
After about an hour of driving, all of the interior heat was gone, and all the windows would be frozen over. Mom would spend the rest of the day constantly working to keep a small circle of the windshield clear for Daddy, as the cars defroster wasn’t doing much of anything. He was the only one who could see out of the car at all. It was exhausting for both of them. I don’t know how they did it.
Patti and I sat in the back seat bundled in blankets, but never comfortably. I was car sick most of the time from not seeing out the window. We didn’t stop for that. I used a huge coffee can with a lid as my own private vomitorium. I don’t know why I was the only one who got sick. It had to have bothered them hearing me hurling and smelling puke all day. It sure grossed me out carrying it in at night to dump it in the toilet. Talk about a walk of shame. I was convinced everyone in the lobby knew what that can was for.
My feet were so cold that they hurt. Very little heat came back to Patti and me. Even the stops to get gas that took place a few times each day, whether we needed gas or not, did nothing to warm us up. The hot chocolate Mom bought for us turned into cold chocolate milk within a few minutes in the car. We didn’t have time to leisurely drink it in the gas stations. Daddy wanted to get to the next stopover in daylight. The thought of driving in the frozen dark was terrifying.
Eventually, about the time I decided I was going to die from the cold, Daddy would say we were close to the lodge we would be staying in that night. My spirits would warm up just a tiny bit at the thought of it. The lodges were all so warm and wonderful. Most of them were completely built of pine and had huge fireplaces and lots of taxidermied animals. More importantly, there were warm cups of hot chocolate and delicious meals of grilled cheese sandwiches served with large bowls of steaming hot chili. Later, we would take amazing hot showers that warmed us to the core before snuggling into comfy beds with thick and heavy quilts.
Then, once again, the alarm would go off and we would pack back up and get back on the road. It became a routine, which made it a little easier to take. Knowing that a warm lodge was the reward for surviving the day’s drive really was a big mental help in keeping us going.
But then disaster struck. It was really snowing hard. We came to a place where Daddy could not tell where the road was. He later said it was like driving in a white void. Unfortunately, we ran off the road and got stuck in the snow.
Daddy couldn't do anything to get us freed from the icy grip of the snow. He kept the motor running so the heater could still run. Mom lit one of the candles and cried. We knew that if someone didn’t come soon, the car would be buried in the snow, and nobody would ever realize we were there until they found our corpses after the snow melted. Patti and I never said a word. We were young, but neither of us was stupid. We fully understood the danger of the situation.
After a few minutes that had actually seemed like hours, there was a sudden knocking on Daddy’s window. He couldn’t get it to roll down, and a huge bear of a man helped him open the door. He was a trucker who had seen our tracks in the snow running off the road. Fortunately, he was able to see our car and came to our rescue.
It seemed to take about another hour, but the trucker was able to pull the car up onto the road. He told Daddy that keeping the car running was good because it would never start again had the engine frozen. He also told Daddy that keeping the car running was bad because, unless he got out of the car every few minutes to clear it, the exhaust pipe could have gotten blocked as the snow piled. He said that the heat of the pipe would actually cause ice to build up on it. That never made sense to me, but I’m sure the trucker knew more about it than I did.
We made it to our next overnight stop a little after the sun had gone down. Mom went to bed and cried the rest of the night. Daddy went to the bar and had a few whiskies. Patti and I drank hot chocolate, ate grilled cheeses and chili, took hot showers, and went to bed knowing that we would do it all again the next morning.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. It was far from comfortable in the freezing car. But, we made it safely to Anchorage where, for some inexplicable reason, at least that day, it didn’t seem as cold. Little did we know how horrible the drive back to the lower 48 would be in the summer of 1971. But that’s another story.