This Side of the Pond

Do you think we might be safe from any more blizzarding? I’ve had quite enough of it for one year after spending three times the expected number of hours on muddling my way home from a long-awaited visit to the UK.

More about that trip later, because right now the thing I want to do most is have a good, old-fashioned complain. Not about the heroes in snowplows – basically the only reason I made it home to write this – or the impossibly brave linesmen and first responders who clamber through snowdrifts in the name of community safety.

Nope, my beef is with Mother Nature.

And also with my own audacity in trying to outwit her.

I should have known not to be complacent. It’s not as though this is the first time I’ve been thwarted by weather while crossing the oceans – I once spent four full days trying to get to the end of my journey.

But this time, Mother Nature employed the element of surprise. I’d been tracking last week’s spring storm for over a week and hadn’t thought it was likely to cause problems.

What’s a few inches of snow for a Wyomingite? I’d booked my return flight a day earlier than usual and, as we all know, being prepared for the worst to happen means the worst is not going to happen.

Oh, how I now curse my naivety.

Blissfully unaware of what was coming, I headed for Heathrow Airport at a soul-crushing 3 a.m. I was to arrive late afternoon on Saturday and step straight into the welcoming arms of my husband.

Everything was going so well. I’d been crossing all my digits that I’d luck out with seating on the plane, and I did – twice.

On the way to the UK, I’d enjoyed two seats to myself, and let me tell you: it was luxurious. I could stretch my legs without tripping up a single flight attendant. I wasn’t expecting the same divine favor on the way back, and in hindsight I do rather wish I hadn’t used up my luck so early on the route.

Sure enough, the seat next to me was empty – and even better was available across the aisle. Not a soul was sitting in the three rows over from me and that seemed like an awful waste.

I flagged down a passing attendant and asked in my politest voice whether it might be acceptable to move. I was followed to my new haven by a couple of meerkats from the surrounding seats and there we sat, reveling in such a golden opportunity.

And then, to my great excitement, we landed in Chicago an hour early. This turned my frighteningly short transfer window into a stroll through the park.

I swanned through customs, sailed through re-checking my suitcase, kicked back on the train between terminals and paused for a sandwich. I even had time to eat my sandwich (kinda dry, but it did the job).

I boarded my next flight and found that, once again, the seat next to me was unoccupied. More blissful hours without the need to rub shoulders with a complete stranger.

But then, with 18 of my 22 hours of traveling complete, I landed in Denver just as the storm was hitting its stride. I emerged to a hundred-strong line of people at the help desk, where a harried bunch of airline reps had been trying to get the stranded home for hours.

Every flight into Rapid City and Gillette had been cancelled. I had no idea, of course, because I’d been quietly reading a book on an airbus at the time.

By the time I reached the front, every single seat on every single plane to both airports had been filled until Wednesday. This wasn’t going to work – you guys were going to need some news to read before then.

I managed to get on a flight to Casper, where I had no choice but to wait in a hotel until the roads opened and my husband and mom-in-law could mount a rescue mission. By the time the sun came up, I was hitting refresh every few seconds on WYDOT’s road info page, hoping I-90 would be clear.

At noon, the first portion opened. I believe the text I sent to my husband read, “Go, go, go!”

It wasn’t yet open between Gillette and Buffalo, but they decided to roll the dice and get as far as they could. That way, they’d at least have the first third of the journey done when the all-clear came.

But as they got to Gillette, they found themselves in what I suspect may be the longest traffic jam ever seen in northeast Wyoming, with no way to the exit ramp and no sign of movement ahead. It got bad enough that the road was closed behind them.

When they finally managed to extricate themselves, the relative whose house they’d planned to use as a rest stop said there wasn’t much point as the road was still blocked with three feet of snow. They parked up where they could see the interstate and waited.

As did I, but only because I had nowhere else to be. The hotel was kind enough to give me a late checkout, but after that I became their resident hobo – a bump on a log taking up room in the breakfast area, my suitcases scattered around me like a child’s fort.

It was 3 p.m. by the time WYDOT broke through the drifts. It was gone 6 p.m. before the sun broke through my clouds as a familiar truck pulled up outside the hotel.

We made it back more than 50 hours after I’d set off. In an attempt to be philosophical about the whole ordeal, I commented that this was exactly why I’d booked my flight a full day early – to make sure I had enough time to overcome any delays.

Mom-in-law regarded me sympathetically in the rear-view mirror.

“I hate to burst your bubble,” she said, before sharing some basic math. She was right, my organization had been flawed from the very start. If I’d only been brave enough to book my ticket on the Sunday, as I usually do, we’d have been back in Sundance hours ago.

And that, dear readers, was the last time I will ever try to outsmart Mother Nature.