So Much Snow

Christmas presents lay in nests of shredded wrapping paper around the tree. Christmas cookies had been haphazardly deposited in the freezer. Daylight glimmered off the Christmas lights on the tree, looking dull with their electric sparkle diminished. The post-Christmas home was quiet. The garage was empty. 

Where were we, you wonder? We’d run off to a winter wonderland in Wyoming, of course!

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/tcU5Nx3tvmnJyPTa6

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December 27th, 2024 - Winter in Wyoming Day 1

I slid down in my seat and sighed. Around me, the Chicago airport was full of tired eyes, puffy faces, and bedraggled hair. Universally, we were having a difficult time. We were all struggling with post-holiday exhaustion and the agony of delayed flights. Tyler sat slumped beside me, scrolling furiously through the Southwest app in a last-ditch attempt to circumvent our own issues. It wasn’t looking good. For the time being, we were stuck.

Originally, we had scheduled a tidy series of evening flights from Columbus to Denver, then Denver to Bozeman, Montana. From Bozeman, we would drive south to Yellowstone National Park. Simple, right? Unfortunately for us, the weather intervened. As we dutifully completed our workdays, Tyler began receiving emails from Southwest. By lunchtime, it had become apparent that the plane that we intended to utilize from Columbus to Denver was never going to make it. It was trapped in Dallas in the captivity of tornadoes. That’s right, tornadoes. In December.

Dismayed, Tyler had switched our flights during his work lunch break. It was an ordeal for him to make the change, especially with the rental car company. When I came home from work, my harried, stressed husband met me at the door to explain the mess. We were no longer flying to Bozeman. Instead, our destination would be Salt Lake City. That was how we found ourselves in the Chicago airport at 8 PM the day after Christmas. 

Despite the Christmas trees glimmering cheerfully at every counter, the Chicago airport was tense. Tyler was looking more and more stressed. He was trying to make more changes. Evidently, while we were in the air above Ohio, a small miracle happened with our original flight. Somehow, they got the plane out of Dallas and were heading towards Denver 45 minutes ahead of schedule. If we caught a plane from Chicago to Denver, we could board our original plane and head to Bozeman as intended! For a few moments, our spirits were lifted. It would be a blessing to fly to Bozeman like we hoped. Winter weather was hitting the United States in torrents. We strongly preferred to make the short drive from Bozeman to Yellowstone if we could help it!

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Just as Tyler finished switching our arrangements back to Bozeman, we were hit with another delay. Our flight from Chicago to Denver was being held up because the flight crew was stuck on another plane. If we didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, our situation was hopeless. We’d miss our connecting flight to Bozeman.

The minutes ticked by. No flight attendants appeared. I ran my hand down my face. A knot was growing in my stomach. Tick, tick, tick. The minutes plodded on heartlessly. At last, the moment came. It was too late. Hope was lost. Now thoroughly exasperated, Tyler returned to his agonizing routine. With no better option, he switched our flight and rental car back to Salt Lake City. We’d just have to risk the long drive to Yellowstone. There was nothing more to do. 

At 9:45 PM, we were still in Chicago. We were tired. We were stressed. I just really wanted to go to bed. That’s when the other shoe dropped. Tyler had been keeping an eye on our luggage as it was unloaded from our Chicago airplane. He had been sure to stand in line at the counter to notify the agent of our changed flights. The agent even called down to the luggage people to let them know of the change. Don’t put the luggage on the Denver plane. Put the luggage on the Salt Lake City plane.

Can you see where this is going?

Tyler’s ears turned pink when we got the notification in our Southwest app. Despite his best efforts, our luggage had been loaded on the Denver plane. It was destined for Bozeman, even though we were heading to Salt Lake City. Thoroughly defeated, he dragged himself back up to the agent at the counter. Through heavy eyes, I blinked down at the clothes I was wearing. A flannel shirt, jeans, and a coat. Was I going to have to wear this outfit for the entire trip? Heck, we didn’t even have our toothbrushes. Or deodorant. I groaned. This was the worst start of a trip we had ever experienced. Was this a bad omen? Were we doomed?

Tyler worked his tail off to get everything sorted out. We landed in Salt Lake City at 2 AM the next morning. Our luggage, redirected due to my wonderful husband’s hard work, was due to land in Salt Lake City around 8 AM that same day. Only six hours before we could get our luggage? That didn’t seem so bad. Delirious with exhaustion, I was fully prepared to sleep on the airport floor until we could retrieve our suitcases. Tyler, bless him, had a better plan. Operating on his last ounce of resolve, he ordered us a car and booked a room at an airport hotel. It was horribly expensive. After four hours of sleep, a hotel breakfast, and a shower, we didn’t even care. It was worth it. 

Morning dawned dreary and grey over Salt Lake City. We hardly noticed. Tyler had just pulled into the hotel with our rental car, and, hallelujah, our suitcases were in the back! Full of tired glee, we hit the road. We put on an audiobook, opened the snacks, and settled back with contented sighs. Things were getting back on track.

Our destination was West Yellowstone, Montana, a quaint town on the western border of Yellowstone. From Salt Lake City, it was nearly a five-hour drive through the hills of Idaho. Within the first hour, it began to snow. Big, featherlike snowflakes hit the windshield with audible “poofs.” It began to accumulate like powdered sugar on the black pavement, frosting the landscape like a cake. Within the next hour, the snowy cake roads started to claim victims. A semi in the median was wedged, jack-knifed, against the concrete barrier. Further down the road, an SUV was thirty feet off the road and stuck in deep snowy ruts. It was beginning to feel like survival of the fittest.

Just over the border into Idaho, we got off the highway to get some gas. The snow was coming down in thick, fluffy sheets now. As we passed under an overpass bridge, we were surprised to see a little red sports car parked in its shadow. The driver's seat was empty, but up ahead, a lone man jogged up a snow-covered hill to the gas station. The man’s sweatpants and tennis shoes were quickly getting buried in snow. 

“It’s a strange day to be jogging,” I remarked to Tyler.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at the red sports car. “I bet that’s his car,” he mused. “I bet he couldn’t get up the hill.”

“Ohhhhh.” I peered through snowflakes at the hill ahead of us. At the top, CJ’s Travel Stop perched like a friendly, snow-covered lighthouse. The jogging man plodded steadily upwards towards the blue beacon of a gas station. Tyler’s theory seemed right. He probably was the sportscar’s owner, heading up the hill for some gas station snacks. 

We slid to a stop at an intersection at the base of the hill. We waited for a minivan to pass, watching as it approached the hill and the jogging man. A car appeared over the top of the hill, so, politely, the minivan stopped to avoid plowing over the running man. It was a major mistake. As soon as the van stopped moving, it got stuck. For several long minutes, we watched the minivan’s wheels spin fruitlessly on the slick road. The jogging man, unaware of the hassle he had caused, disappeared into the gas station for his snacks. The minivan still spun. Its wheels twisted and turned, desperate for purchase. It sat diagonally in the road, blocking the hill entirely. 

A roar jerked our attention away from the suffering vehicle. A massive diesel truck came flying up the road, throwing snow on the little red sportscar under the bridge. The beastly engine propelled the truck right up behind the minivan. When the truck’s driver realized he couldn’t get past, he jerked the wheel. Skillfully, he sent the truck into a skidding fishtail, spinning around in a perfect donut. With hardly a glance backward, the truck roared away, disappearing into the snowfall to wreak havoc elsewhere. We returned our amused gazes to the minivan. It was still spinning. A snowplow appeared at the top of the hill now, heading right towards the van. Defeated, the van’s white taillights kicked on. Skidding and slipping, it backed down the hill miserably. It retreated back to the highway, undoubtedly on a mission to find gas elsewhere. CJ’s Travel Stop, snowy lighthouse that it was, was simply unobtainable for the poor van.

Thankfully, we had four-wheel drive (because Tyler is amazing at getting rental cars). We got up the hill without an issue and found refuge from the snow under the gas pump awning. A burly man wearing a flannel shirt was vigorously shoveling snow from the sidewalk outside CJ’s. Inside the gas station, it was warm and cheerful. It was if we gas station patrons had silently bonded through our circumstances. We were the survivors, the triumphant conquerors of the snowy gas station hill. None was a greater conqueror than the man who jogged up the hill in sweatpants! He sat comfortably inside near the window, happily thawing out. It was the coziest gas station we’ve ever visited!

Snow became the defining element of the rest of our drive. We passed more ditch-bound cars, silently praying we wouldn’t become the next victim. Thankfully, we reached West Yellowstone late that afternoon without a scratch. We found the small town to be a delightful place. With a population of only 1,200, West Yellowstone doesn’t offer much in the way of diverse restaurants or niche shops. What it does have is snow. Lots of it. A winter snowmobiling hotspot, the town receives so much snowfall that nobody bothers plowing the roads or sidewalks. They grade down the snow on the roads so that they remain drivable. Sidewalks are anyone’s guess, so everyone just walks in the street. That’s it. No salty slush like we have in Ohio. No dangerous patches of black ice. Just pure, packed snow. 

Tyler and I love small towns like West Yellowstone. They are quaint, community-focused, and friendly. They are built through hard work and grit. Residents of small western towns are tough and unbeatable. Most of the time, they’d give you the shirt off their back too. We spent our evening enjoying the environment of West Yellowstone. It still glittered with holiday cheer, bolstered by the natural friendliness of the locals. After such a harrowing trip, we felt extremely blessed to be in West Yellowstone. Heck, we felt blessed to be alive. The trip may have started rough, but things were looking up. And at the end of the day, we were together. That’s all we really need to be happy, so in the West Yellowstone snow, we were content.