Up here on the Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland February blizzards come up right quick, and when they do, watch out!
Snow blows in heaps from the northeast, pack ice piles up and you can’t see five feet in front of you. A man can lose his way just walking to a neighbor’s house. It’s weather you don’t want to get lost in.
I should know. I had my own brush with a blizzard when I was just 25. It happened on a chilly February Saturday here in Raleigh, where I’ve lived all my life.
Raleigh’s a tiny fishing town at the very tip-top of Newfoundland. The town’s on a bay. Across the bay is Burnt Cape, a three-mile-long spit of rock joined to the mainland by a skinny isthmus. No one really lives on Burnt Cape. It’s mostly limestone barrens and stands of stunted evergreen trees with gnarled roots called Tuckamores. Most of the cape is ringed by cliffs, some of them more than 200 feet high.
That day I was home with my parents when my uncle Gersh asked me to go to Ern Taylor’s place at the south end of Raleigh, near the Burnt Cape isthmus, to pick up the key to the church. Gersh was the church caretaker and Ern was a friend of his. I needed the key to open up the church the next morning. Every Sunday I rang the bell to call the town to services.
It was a beautiful day, sky clear as a bell, air crisp and still. The temperature was around freezing but I didn’t mind. As a salmon fisherman I’d been out in all kinds of nasty weather. I pulled on my fishing boots, my coat, a wool cap I’d knit myself and worsted mittens.
I’m tall, six-foot-four in my stockings, and my coat didn’t quite fit—left a big gap between the bottoms of my sleeves and the tops of my mittens. Ern’s was only a five-minute snowmobile ride away so I thought nothing of it. On the way I stopped at my friend Willie’s for a few games of cards.
Willie was just dealing a hand of Five Hundreds when I looked out the window and saw thick snow falling. Uh-oh. Snow coming that fast meant only one thing: a blizzard. “Better get going,” I said and hurried outside to start the snowmobile. I made it to Ern’s, got the key and pointed the snowmobile home.
The blizzard howled out of the northeast, straight into my face. I jammed my cap low, pulled my coat collar close and gunned the snowmobile. I could hardly see, especially with my arm shielding my face. Soon I’d lost all sense of direction. The snow was a total whiteout.
I plowed on, praying I’d see something I recognized. Whatever road I was on bumped wildly. Something about the ground didn’t look right. I peered closer. My heart leaped into my throat. It was solid ice under my snowmobile. Somehow I’d veered off the mainland and out into Pistolet Bay, onto the pack ice. If I went the wrong way I could end up driving off the ice and into the water. I had to get back to land. I made my best guess as to the right direction and gunned the snowmobile.
I bounced along in a howling world of white. The snowmobile groaned and wedged itself under a chunk of ice. I tried to back out but the engine died. I peered at the fuel gauge. Empty. I listened. For some reason the wind seemed to have died down here. Above, looming out of the drifts, I saw an immense dark shape. I was terrified until I realized the shape must be one of the cliffs of Burnt Cape. I’d chosen the right direction. I’d reached land.
I made my way to the cliff and looked up. The face was rocky and pitted. The skin between my mittens and coat was raw. I flexed my fingers. They moved—a little. I took a breath and began climbing. Fortunately here in the shelter of the cliff the wind hardly blew. I climbed in silence, forcing my aching hands to reach from rock to rock. Finally I saw white above and all of a sudden the wind returned with a vengeance. I hauled myself over the lip of the cliff and collapsed on a lichen-covered rock.
The blizzard raged around me. If I didn’t get up I might lie there forever. I staggered to my feet and walked toward what I thought looked like a stand of trees. It was Tuckamores. I skirted alongside the windblown shapes, remembering that Tuckamores grow more numerous as you move south along the cape, closer to Raleigh.
The going was rough. Snow banked up around the roots and I kept plunging into drifts, terrified each time I’d tangle my feet in those roots. But I had no choice. If I strayed from the trees I could fall down the cliff.
Suddenly I spotted lights ahead. Raleigh! Hope flared in my heart but just as quickly died. The ground sloped down as it neared the isthmus and I lost sight of the lights. I walked and walked, trying to rub life into my frozen hands and wrists.
At last a building appeared. I recognized Lewis Evans’s fishing shed. I was at the very southern end of Raleigh, near the Anglican cemetery. For some reason I thought about Lewis’s sister, Sadie, who’d died just a year before and was buried in the cemetery. She’d been a spinster, much beloved in town for her helpfulness.
I struck out into the storm again, thinking I knew my way. The wind seemed to slacken a little and every now and then I thought I saw shapes of buildings. But everything looked so different. I rubbed my eyes to see better and tiny icicles fell from my eyebrows and beard.
A voice cried out, “You’re going the wrong way! Follow the light!”
I looked around wildly but saw nothing. A human form seemed to retreat into the snow—but no, it was gone, and maybe I was just seeing things. I was in the cemetery. Once again I’d taken a wrong turn. If I kept going this way I’d walk right back out onto the bay.
I retraced my steps until I saw a light. It was my friend Elijah Taylor’s house. I burst through his door. Elijah’s parents, Eve and Harve, took one look at me and set to work removing my coat, hat and mittens. Eve put a cup of hot tea in my hands and I croaked out the most heartfelt thank-you I had ever uttered.
The next morning I was at church at 7:00 a.m. pulling the bell rope. With every peal I thanked God from the bottom of my heart. I still don’t know whose voice I heard out there in the howling storm. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. There will always be storms in this life. What’s important to remember is that God will always see us through them.
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