COLUMN: The Trip to Nowhere

By Tobin Barnes

When told that his obituary had been published, Mark Twain said, “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” That circumstance may have produced two joys for Twain: first, the obituary was inaccurate; second, the obituary, like most tend to be, was complimentary.

Nevertheless, it had to be somewhat startling.

Well, at least I didn’t read my obituary this morning, but, nevertheless, I am not at this writing in early April where I am supposed to be.

Now that could be linked metaphorically to a lot of different categories, but in the present case, no metaphor is intended.

I am not now where I am supposed to be. I just took a trip to nowhere and am, therefore, right back where I started. And, as Queen Victoria used to say, “We are not amused.”

I am supposed to be in South Carolina reveling in an extended and, I’d like to think, somewhat deserved Easter Break. I am supposed to be walking sunny beaches next to rolling surf. I am supposed to be enjoying southern springtime amenities we SoDakers don’t usually get until June. And I’m supposed to be gathering snarky observations about travel for this column and several columns in the future yet to be written, but now necessarily billed as “Not appearing on this page.”

Yes, instead, I’m trapped in the land of ice and snow that the Black Hills have recently become. Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s description of a frozen wasteland aptly applies to western South Dakota after three major spring snowstorms in two weeks: “The ice was here, the ice was there,/The ice was all around./It cracked and growled and roared and howled/Like noises in a swound.”

And oh my goodness, the aborted trip was so well planned. Down to the smallest details. I am nothing if not a detail man. (In so many areas that I consider insignificant, if not trivial, my wife would beg to differ.) My main, perhaps only, personal strength is organization. And this trip to South Carolina was superbly organized. Details, details, details--all considered and dispatched.

Heck, we even had snow shoes at the ready if, God forbid, the weather broke all rules of nature and somehow hit our home with a third blizzard in two weeks.

But how could that happen? Forgettaboutit! No way on God’s frozen tundra could a third blizzard occur in two weeks. Never happened before. And even if this distinct impossibility did became miraculously possible, even for that we were prepared.

With snowshoes! Why snowshoes? Ah, country living says it all.

Before the first snowstorm hit in late March, I had prudently put our second vehicle, a 15-year-old, small-sized pickup, next to our subdivision road at the end of our 500-foot driveway (costs a ton to plow it out). It would be a long walk back and forth through drifts, but at least we could get into town. Besides, the exercise is beneficial, unless, of course, it brings on the potential heart attack.

Remember? I’m a detail man. And good thing. Our main vehicle, a Toyota RAV, has been trapped unusable in the land of ice and snow ever since. It is, as I write, forlornly sunk in a snow bank. A week ago, my wife thought she was going to gradually bull doze a trail with it, a few feet at a time (Mr. Detail Man had not been consulted), through two-foot average snow depth and four foot drifts. She got about 15 yards out of the garage. And there it still sits.

But we still had one vehicle free to make it to the airport. And even with another foot and a half of powdery snow compliments of the third blizzard, we could still carry out our luggage to the distant pickup on our snowshoes. All we had to do was make it to the airport now that the storm was over. Then we’d be in South Carolina.

And we did. We made it to the airport. We were going to South Carolina! Sure there might be a delay, but we were definitely going now.

Except...we weren’t. The airport was closed. You could go into the building if you wanted to, walk around, sit down, wait and mope, but no flights in or out all day.

But, airport people, we snowshoed to get to you. And now you say it didn’t make any difference? Come on! We’re more than willing to risk our lives to get out of here.

Sure, we could have rescheduled to fly out two days later, but fly two-thirds of the way across the country for three days stay instead of five? No way. So we cashed in. We’ve got our money but no South Carolina. We’re crying in our beer.