Posted - 01/17/04 9:01 PM PST
There were many names for it. For some, it was Winterblast. Others labeled it The Worst Winter Storm in Over a Decade. For me, it was just a Huge Pain in the Ass. On New Years Day Portland was hit with an unusual snowstorm. Most of the city was blanketed with six inches. As is the standard for a winter flurry in this part of the country, most of it melted within 24-hours. With the city rolling into a holiday weekend it inconvenienced almost no one. As the weekend came and went, there were further reports of a second storm approaching. Not a single flake fell. Regardless, the news reports on the night of Monday, January 5th practically guaranteed a blizzard. Their sooth-saying fell on my deaf ears. There would be no snow. Outside, the wind chill dropped into the single digits. This sort of thing is unheard of in the Willamette Valley. I decided to take a walk and see what 0 felt like. The wind tore through four layers of clothing like nothing. I walked until my exposed face went numb – a single block. I was convinced. Back home, I prepared. Snow pants, gloves, stocking cap, two jackets, a scarf, a camera, and a Tri-Met schedule. If the storm hit I would be ready. There was no way I was going to waste a Flex Day on something like a few paltry inches of the white stuff. The news assured me that MAX, Portland’s light-rail system, would running the next day no matter how much snow fell. What no one planned on was the ice.
Tuesday, January 6th.
The anchors on KGW are acting like they’re standing in the middle of a Baghdad firefight. "If you do not NEED to leave your home, DON’T. It is that DANGEROUS out here." Over Winter Break, a friend from Chicago had filled my head with stories of commuting through sub zero temperatures. It’s downright balmy 16 degrees outside. If he could handle –5, I could handle this. I eat a bowl of Coco Krispies and suit up. Dressed entirely in black, I look like a cross between a ninja and the little brother from A Christmas Story. 0820 - The air temperature is in the teens and there is something...wrong...about the snow on the ground. It’s stiff and slippery, nothing like the gentle, fluffy stuff that Portland usually gets. For lack of a better term, I dub it Evil Snow. At this point, still trying to get out of the driveway, there is no telling the extent of its malevolence.
0850 – The Beaverton-bound 58 is nowhere in sight. I’m sweating under layers of clothing but the skin around my eyes is beginning to feel like a frozen Foster Farms chicken. A bus is rolling up the hill. A plan forms. I’ll go downtown and ride the Max back up through suburbia. It can’t fail. I dash across the street to catch it. I have ten minutes to get to my desk. 0900 – The downtown-bound 58 is a tin can full of humans. With little room left, I stand in front of the yellow line, a huge no-no in the world of mass transit. The bus driver, a timid, frantic man, could care less. He pours sweat and looks like he’s driving a truck full of TNT through a forest fire. I look at everyone around me. Their eyes are anxious and we’re all boiling under layers of Columbia sportswear paraphernalia. Earlier, I hadn’t stopped to consider what stood between this bus and downtown – Sylvan Hill. At 750 feet above snow level, Sylvan becomes a skating rink every time the weather takes a turn for the worse. On a day like this it will be the North Pole.
0920 – This feels like Apocalypse Now on Ice. Stranded, howling yuppies attempt to flag us down but the bus is already filled beyond capacity. The crest of Sylvan is as blank as White-Out and the snow is still coming down. Cars slide sideways on the overpass. In the distance, there is the sound of crunching metal and faint screams. A shivering woman in a thin Eddie Bauer parka hysterically waves her arms. There’s no telling how long she’s been waiting for Tri-Met to bail her out of these snow-soaked badlands. Stopping for her isn’t an option. We leave her to die on the sidewalk. 0925 - "We’re not actually GOING onto the freeway, are we?" Someone towards the back has asked this question. Everyone is too afraid to respond. "I figured there would be a snow route down a side street. We can’t head down Highway 26…we can’t, we can’t, we..." ...are. The bus has become the Little Engine That Could. It groans as it pulls its 4-ton butt towards the onramp. The woman next to me is praying. Her lips move silently. We stop and the driver looks like he’s trying to break the seal on a bag of courage in his stomach. A pause. A gasp. And down we go. The bus jerks left and right but holds its course. With the herky-jerky motion of the tire chains and the flying slush, it feels like the alls are being pelted with gunfire. 0930 - Highway 26 is a sheet of Xerox paper. More abandoned cars, more frantic yuppies. A salting truck has clogged an onramp. Two others behind it wait angrily. Cars honk at our swerving monstrosity. To avoid an accident, the bus plows through a long patch of snow and skids as it struggles back into the right lane. Purses and backpack fly. Someone standing falls. Other commuters give us a dozen middle-finger salutes.
0950 – There is no one in Pioneer Square with the exception of the bronze statue of the guy with the umbrella. The city is mostly deserted and few are walking the streets. Nothing’s open. Eastbound Max is vacant and stationary - another portent of doom.
The driver looks like he’s a sophomore at Lincoln. "Are you going to Beaverton?" "Maybe. Not sure yet." I’m already an hour late for work. This is my best bet and only option.
"I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do," the driver explains. "I was told to head back downtown." We don’t want to go there and argue with him. The driver is flustered. He jumps out into the wind to look for a supervisor. The center is all but abandoned. He hops back in and calls dispatch. No answer. "Who wants to go to Beaverton," he asks. Everyone throws their hands in the air. "We’re going to Beaverton."
The trip is slow and tedious. I pass a frozen swimming pool and broken crosswalk signs. A cop pulls over a teenager for driving recklessly without traction devices. According to a sign at an auto-body shop, it’s 19 out here. For a native Portlander, it may as well be negative 19.
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