A Donner Party Christmas

A five-day Christmas vacation turned into a Homeric journey that threatened to repeat history in an infamous mountain pass.

When my husband, Jeff, told me and our daughter, Val, he had five days off for Christmas, we were overjoyed. For many years, he had commuted between Truckee, CA and the Bay Area for work, so those weekend days with him was precious. A major winter storm hit the day he set out for home, however, and hovered over Donner Pass for days.

Every time a big storm hits California, CNN drags out the archive footage of snowplows clearing I-80 over Donner Summit for beleaguered tourists and semis. This always reminds me that Truckee’s deep snows had trapped the Donner Party here in 1846.

Getting off a few hours early, Jeff started the five-hour drive. The storm had already soaked the Central Valley to flood stage. Just above Auburn, the CHP stopped traffic, forcing him to sleep that night parked between two semis on the Applegate off-ramp.

Meanwhile, Val and I waited, wondering if he’d slid off the highway, only to be found in spring. This was way before cell phones made it possible to keep track of a traveler's journey. Donner Pass always challenged those crossing in winter, but this storm created blinding conditions and hurricane-force winds over the summit. The power blinked off and on several times leaving Val and I huddled in oil lamplight next to the wood stove. I couldn’t help thinking of the Donner pioneers hunkering inside their makeshift shelters chewing on cowhide to stay alive. At least we had a larder of canned goods to heat up on the wood stove.

At last, Jeff called from a cafe where he met a trucker who complained bitterly about the cheap chains his company had furnished. Cable chains on semis just don’t cut it with all that weight on the wheels. Most semis carry heavy strands of steel links underneath the trailers, dangling there throughout the year until needed. Actually installing them, however, can prove a herculean task. One trucker suffered a heart attack he didn't survive.

Lucky to Have Spiders

As usual for holiday weekends, thousands of skiers and snowboarders crammed I-80. They all log-jammed at the summit to chain-up and pass through inspection. While hundreds of drivers stopped helter-skelter in the road, Jeff clipped the spiders onto the Saturn’s drive wheels. Then he weaved between cars until he reached the station. Jeff had to wait while the inspector checked out the spiders. The man couldn't believe these “new-fangled” gadgets actually plowed through snow as well as chains.

Muttering in frustration, Jeff finally drove on, thankful he didn’t have to lay in the wet snow to install chains or risk his life in case some driver lost control and ran over him.

Granted many unprepared tourists rely heavily on the chain monkeys, guys who sold and installed chains along the highway, earning a hefty sum for their labors. Forty to sixty dollars for the chains and twenty to install them. Take it or leave it! And you can't very well leave without chains on your car. Oh, and do you know which wheels to put them on? That's another dark comedy.

Once through chain control chaos, stop-and-go traffic inched along at five miles per hour.  Even at that speed, dozens of cars spun out of control, bunching up at the bottom of the hill. Jeff wove around these cars, their drivers clutching steering wheels with white-knuckled hands.

Plan B

When Jeff reached the Truckee off-ramp, he wove around more spin outs up Northwoods Blvd. that led to our house in Tahoe Donner. Midway up the hill, a sheriff’s deputy stopped traffic to inspect, yet again, for chains. With the Saturn’s momentum broken, Jeff slid back to the main thoroughfare. So close to home, but he would never be able to get up the hill. Snow lay several feet deep and local snowplows were overwhelmed. With the hotels crammed with stranded motorists, he decided to drive on to Reno.

Meanwhile, back at the Hobbit House …

During that first day, I worked up quite an anxiety attack wondering about his progress. It had been about twenty-four hours since he’d called from that cafe. I needed to plow the driveway, but opening the garage door revealed only a thin strip of daylight at the top.

Where do I even begin? Knowing this snow was only a drift blown by the wind over the house, I took a shovel and started pushing it outward from the door. It worked, opening a gap of about two feet. Then I fed snow to the blower and aimed it out the gap. After an hour or two, I could start on the driveway itself.

Snow piled three to seven feet high, depending on how the snow drifted. For hours, I wrestled the snow blower, first clearing a spot then shoveling snow into the blower to toss over the drifts. To my surprise, Val joined me. We took turns plowing and shoveling until exhaustion and wet clothes stopped us. As daylight faded, we’d only cleared a narrow path halfway to the road. Luckily, our driveway was flat and straight, but it was 165 feet long.

Back inside, we watched the snow blasting horizontally past our windows. Drifts grew like fungus up the walls. A berm had buried the eastside windows, creating a cave that cast Val’s room into darkness. Another berm threatened to close off the view to the south. We’d soon be as encased as the Donners, but at least we had a supply of food. We would not follow history's disastrous story.

Val and I huddled next to a meager fire in the wood stove. Apparently, snow had built up on the flat roof of our Hobbit House, burying the stovepipe. I’d have to snowshoe up there and dig it out. But how could I find a stovepipe buried in snow?

Then I remembered Jeff’s ham radio antenna marked a spot against the house that aligned with the stovepipe. After snowshoeing up to the roof, I paced off the space and started digging. Suddenly the crusted snow collapsed under me. I lay in a four-foot-deep cup of powder, but there was the stovepipe. I knocked the soot built up inside the cap and pipe, climbed out of the hole and waded back along my snowshoe path.

The fire flickered with heavenly warmth. Now, all I wanted was to know where Jeff was. Watching the blizzard beyond our windows, all sorts of horrid scenarios passed through my mind. Maybe the spiders didn't work as well as expected and he lay freezing off the side of the mountain. CalTrans will find his remains in spring. Or he turned back to spend a warmer, much jollier Christmas with his family in San Jose. They were masters at making things cheery and bright. Or … ???

At last, the phone rang. Jeff’s voice settled my nerves. He was in Reno and regaled me with his Homeric adventures so far.

Trucker Double-Take

On I-80 and away from the chaos in Truckee, he and a Cal-Trans sand truck were the only ones on the road. The driver stared down at him in terror, probably wondering how this guy in a Saturn no less got on the highway. Jeff learned that east-bound I-80 had officially closed. No wonder traffic was so light. This leg of the trip was more like a luge run than the bumper cars.

Even at lower elevation, snow collected in Reno's streets. Hospitality workers were walking to work. The desk clerk at Circus Circus told him hundreds of reservations had been cancelled and Jeff had his pick of rooms and the casino to himself.

Day Three: Home At Last

His call from the hotel didn’t improve our Christmas moods. Val and I kept hacking away at the driveway, reaching the end just as a snowplow scooped away the last ten feet. Back inside, we threw another log on the fire and made the best of our lonely Christmas Eve.

By late Christmas morning, Jeff walked in the door, covered in a rime of ice. I have never been so happy to see the Abominable Snowman in my life. He managed to park the Saturn at the Nordic ski center and trudge that last quarter-mile home. It had taken him four days.

With only twenty-four hours remaining of his holiday, we had just enough time to open presents, do laundry, and listen to each other's tales of our separate Christmas saga. As I drove him back to the Saturn in the Jeep, the sun burned through the clouds. The storm was finally over, as was our holiday.

Our bittersweet kiss that morning sent him on his way. He would have a safer journey back to work. At least I hoped so. After that crazy trek just to get to the ski resorts, thousands of tourists could enjoy lots of deep powder for their winter vacations instead of clogging the highway. Maybe he and that sand truck driver would meet up again and chat over a cup of coffee in Auburn. Wow, what stories they could tell. I hope he took his sweet time reporting for work.

If you enjoyed this epic tale, feel free to explore the poems, essays, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archives.