Tag: blizzard

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Stranded in Quinn

By John M. Thorson


It was right before the blizzard of 1949 when I began my trip back to school after Christmas break. At the time I was a graduate student in Logan, Utah visiting my parents in Crooks for the holidays. I started my trip back to Logan in a convertible stuffed with seven people. The weather was cloudy and wintry, but there was no doubt we were facing a major winter storm. Eventually, the ground blizzard combined with the darkness slowed us to a crawl.

After about an hour we drove to a nearby ranch house hoping to warm up. The rancher’s wife told us that we were only about a mile from town so we started out again. I rode with my head out the window telling the driver where to turn because the car’s heater couldn’t keep up with the ice forming on the windshield.

Later a large cattle truck passed, giving us hope that we could go on, but it turned into the tiny town of Quinn and we followed it in.

On the edge of town there was a small six-unit motel. Usually closed in the winter, the owner opened it up to accommodate stranded travelers. The motel was already full so we were sent to the cafe where there were more refugees from the storm like us.

Many local families took in those who were stranded. Jackson Good, one of the seven in the convertible, and I, being single, were sent to the school dormitory, where we could stay for $2 a night. The first night we stayed in a warm room right off the kitchen. The remaining nights we were in the boys’ room, a cavernous place with several beds. The caretakers had a fire going for us in the evening, but no extra wood was to be seen so we pushed one bed as close to the stove as we dared and piled on a lot of quilts. The fire was always out by morning so we would get up and get to the cafe as quickly as possible.

The next three mornings the wind was relentless and the temperature was well below zero. It’s a good thing we never heard of wind chill or we would have never ventured outside. Drifts six to eight feet tall were common. One truck, stuck crossways in the street, was almost covered with snow. The cafÈ, which stayed open throughout the storm, became a center of activity for locals and the stranded alike. Coffee was always available and there were always a few people around.

The local people went out of their way to make life tolerable for their guests. The cafe opened charge accounts for us and the bank cashed checks with few questions asked. As I had left most of my money in Logan, Jackson cashed a check and loaned me $20, on which I managed to get by.

Like the cafe, the saloon next door didn’t close. A poker game started Sunday night and was still going six days later. If you bellied up to the bar you could get “soaked” without taking a drink. Snow was blowing into the attic, melting and dripping through a seam directly above the bar. Each day the ceiling hung a little lower from the moisture damage.

One night a larger group of people gathered at the cafe and people showed off their talents by lamp light. A local man played tunes on the saw. One Colorado man strummed his guitar and a West Virginian showed us how to clog dance. Community singing drowned out the storm and lifted our spirits a little.

Our outlook improved on Thursday when the wind shifted from the south. Frazzled nerves began to heal. Some highly motivated people set out on foot along the railroad tracks for Wall, six miles to the west. Late in the day they returned with news that we were a lot better off than those stranded in Wall. Some travelers had spent most of their time on a bus.

One of the residents asked for help finding his father-in-law, who had left town late Sunday night heading for his ranch several miles north. After days spent indoors, some of us thought this would be a great way to get out and do something. We loaded his Mercury with shovels and headed north.

We shoveled snow, pushed the car through and drove full-speed into drifts. Hours later we were four miles north of town and the road was still drifted across as high as the fences. Getting back to town was easier, but it took us until after dark. We all felt good about helping with the search, but we did not find the man’s father-in-law. I never did hear if he was ever located.

Friday was a bad day. Nerves which had healed frazzled again because the snowplows had still failed to arrive. One carload of people tried to leave. We watched them attempt to drive to the highway but they got stuck three feet into the first drift they encountered.

Saturday the plow from the east met up with the plow from the west at a big drift just outside of town. We were free to leave. After profusely thanking the good people of Quinn and settling our debts, we joined the caravan going west. Slowly we made our way to Rapid City. The plows had not been able to open the road through some of the road cuts so they plowed trails through the fields. When we detoured through the fields we realized our six-day inconvenience was nothing compared to the devastating losses suffered by ranchers. Some of the thousands of cattle killed by the storm littered the fields, many on their backs with their feet sticking straight up.

We who were Utah-bound stayed in Rapid City because the wind closed the roads through the Hills again. The storm that brought all the snow to South Dakota made the entire trip to Logan difficult, but we eventually arrived.

A couple years later I visited Quinn and stopped at the cafe. A list of people stranded in Quinn was on the wall. The owner said several people had either stopped in or written.

Since Interstate 90 was built, Quinn is just a name on an exit sign to most people, but not to those of us who were stranded there in 1949. In March of 1994, my wife and I left the highway to visit Quinn. As to be expected, many changes were evident. The motel, cafe, saloon and dormitory were gone. The water tower was all I recognized.

Memories of an unforgettable six days are all that remain.

Editor’s Note: John M. Thorson was living in Colorado Springs, Colorado when he shared this wintry memory in our Jan/Feb 1995 issue. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 1-800-456-5117.


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South Dakotans Will Survive

The statewide concern for South Dakota’s West River stockgrowers warms the heart. Despite that big river, we are one state and that is especially obvious in times like this.

Most of us who live in East River have friends, relatives, customers or associates of some sort out West. As Lt. Governor Matt Michels often jokes, South Dakota is big enough to qualify as America’s 15th largest city — if we were all crowded into one big city from Buffalo to Dakota Dunes.

You might think that we would lose the camaraderie of a city, with our 820,000 people spread out over 77,000 square miles. But attend a Jackrabbit or Coyote football game (or better yet a Jackrabbit vs. Coyote game) and you’ll soon know that we have a lot in common. You can get the same lesson during deer season, or the legislative session, or countless other occasions.

We learned it again last week when cold rains doused the sheep and cattle on the West River rangeland, followed by a blizzard now called Atlas that buried the already-freezing and weakened livestock in as much as three feet of wind-driven snow.

Nothing tightens the chest of a rancher more than the sight of an animal lying dead, and it’s far less about money than the simple fact that he or she feels like the guardian of the herd. When adversity hits — even something as impossible to fight as a blizzard called Atlas — the cattleman or sheepherder feels responsible and wonders what might have been done differently.

Catastrophes are always that way.

The October 2013 blizzard was exceptional in its fury, and because it arrived when calves are usually still warming themselves in the autumn sun. But South Dakotans are blizzard survivors.

Exactly 100 years ago, a horrible blizzard blanketed all of South Dakota. The Perry family, new homesteaders, were traveling to their ranch about 10 miles east of Rapid City when the storm hit.

Mr. and Mrs. Perry and four of their nine children were in a wagon. The older children went ahead on horseback. They became separated in the blinding snow.

The bodies of the parents and the four younger chldren were found by the wagon the next day, a quarter-mile from the farmhouse. The other children survived and they made burial plans for a funeral that attracted much attention.

One visiting journalist attended and upon seeing the six coffins in the snow he wrote,”In a little cemetery out on the edge of the Black Hills, where men hunt gold, they have just dug the longest, widest, deepest grave in the great West. In that one grave lie a father, mother and four children — the most touching sacrifice offered up to the great blizzard which has just swept this bleak waste of the Middle West.”

The journalist meant well but he hardly understood this land, and its appeal. We are one community, tied together by pheasants and deer, by a 35-day legislature, a web of wild rivers, mountains and flatlands and hills in between — and by cows and sheep. And tied together mostly by a people who like the freedom of space under a big sky.

For 124 years, the citizens before us have come together to overcome floods, droughts, tornadoes, fires, depressions and blizzards.

Fortunately, in this latest challenge, we didn’t lose any human life to the storm. But some of our friends from the western side might very well lose their livelihoods.

A number of organizations are raising funds to help the ranchers hardest hit. If you have a few dollars, one of the best places to send a check would be the Black Hills Community Foundation, Box 231, Rapid City, S.D. 57701. Make it out to the Ranchers’ Relief Fund.

Updated 10/17: We’ve now learned that four South Dakotans did lose their lives in accidents or misfortunes related to the storm in western South Dakota. The four families have our heartfelt sympathy for their losses.

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Finding Support After the Storm

By Laura Andrews

Last week’s blizzard was devastating to South Dakota’s cattlemen and women, with livestock losses estimated in the tens of thousands. It’s hard for outsiders to understand the impact — both financial and emotional — that this will have on West River ranchers. Joan Wink of Howes, South Dakota said,”There are no words to describe the devastation and loss. Everywhere we look there are dead cattle. I’ve never seen so many.”

Here are a few sites that offer insight into the impact as well as concrete ways to help those affected:

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Our Favorite Winter Sport

By Roger Holtzmann

Remember that old pioneer tale about the guy who gets trapped in a blizzard? He’s lost, can’t get a fire started and is unable to find any kind of shelter. As a last resort he shoots his horse (or in some versions, a cow) in the head, cuts him open and survives by utilizing the warmth of the animal.

Luckily, no one had invented animal rights yet. Aside from that, I’ve always had problems understanding that story. What exactly is the procedure here? Do you climb in the animal’s stomach? Or do you just stick your head in for a while, then alternate with your feet? Maybe you stick your feet up through his neck, running your torso through his stomach, which would put your head right about … no, that can’t be right.

Doesn’t the carcass freeze up after a while anyway? So there you are, covered with blood, your head (or whatever) stuck where no man has gone before, and you’re still freezing.

Right about then, more than one immigrant probably thought, “Geez, I should have stayed back in Europe. Starving to death in a potato famine wouldn’t have been all that bad.”

Unless some of those pioneers were world-class liars, which is a possibility, somehow it got done, and here we are. When we think of stories like that we sometimes feel a little twinge that we whine about such piddly things — we wonder if maybe that pioneer gumption hasn’t been diluted by central heat and factory-rolled cigarettes.

In defense of modern men and women, though, just let me say this: Sleeping inside a dead animal is an accomplishment, all right, but there are few things that will test the mettle of humanity more than today’s favorite winter sport, Getting The Car Stuck.

There are all kinds of variations on the theme automobilae immobilicus, winter variety. There’s one which happens right outside your home that even novices can enjoy since this version doesn’t require you to do anything at all. It occurs when you awaken to find your car — or rather, a tiny portion of your car — peeking out from a gigantic drift.

If you live in a city, and your car is parked on the street, you’ll find that for the first time in history they plowed your street early, piling up additional snow and leaving you a $25 ticket to boot.

If you live in the country, you’ll notice you parked your car with the engine side north. This allowed snow to blow in, completely filling the engine compartment and insuring your car won’t start even if you do get it shoveled out.

For advanced grief, there ‘s nothing like The You Bet Your Life Whirling 360 Spin Of Death. All you need for this is a plain old road, a coat of ice, and the foolish belief that you absolutely must be somewhere else. Someone who ‘s enjoying this activity is easy to spot: They’ re in the ditch with a pulse of about 210, clutching their steering wheel, repeating their favorite expletive over and over. And over.

After the heart attack phase, you sit there thinking should I try to walk for it or not? Every expert says stay with your car, but you know that advice is bogus. They assume you’ve packed an emergency kit in your trunk. but of course you never got around to that. Besides, anyone stupid enough to accumulate experience being stranded in cars doesn’t sound like someone you can depend on for advice.

You’ll try to get a tow truck, but there will be three bozos in front of you. You’ll try not to think of yourself as a member of bozodom but it won ‘t work. That delay will leave your car out there becoming encased in its very own drift. Which will hide it from snowplows.

As you sit in the gas station drinking vending-machine coffee you’ll ponder them –large steel blades welded onto 20-ton trucks whose drivers have been living on caffeine for 48 hours. And your car — your nice, barely half-paid-for car — on the same road.

“Boy, I wish all had to do was sleep inside a dead horse,” you’ll say.

Then there’s plain old garden variety getting stuck, invariably following the thought “I think I can make it.” This situation is (a) a major pain in the caboose (b) embarrassing and (c) often costly.

First, you’ll mentally run down the list of people you consider bosom friends to help you in your hour of distress. Or, people you barely know but who own four-wheel drives and a tow rope. Then get set for physical activity that, when people do it on flat ground in front of their house, frequently causes heart attacks. You’ll be asked to shovel around, over, behind and under — especially under — your car.

When you need a break, try pushing the car. Strain your back, arms and legs in one easy motion. Occasionally fall down and get sprayed in the face with snow and gravel. Work up a good sweat then stand around in the cold. Repeat until dizzy.

As the smell of burning rubber wafts up from your 60,000 mile deluxe radial that now has 134 miles left on it, take heart in your heroic part of a continuing frontier saga.

This year, in a bit of nostalgia, I am encouraging all my friends to do their winter traveling with a large, live animal in the trunk. Then, during winter emergencies, they can recreate their pioneer past. You can too.

Either that or join Triple A.

Editor’s Note: Contributing Editor Roger Holtzmann’s column “Seriously, Folks” regularly appears in South Dakota Magazine. This column is revised from our January/February 1993 issue. To subscribe, call us at 800-456-5117.



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A Somber Winter Read

The Children’s Blizzard by David Laskin revisits the deadly blizzard of January 12, 1888, in which more than 200 people lost their lives.

By John Andrews

There are few more comforting things than a hot cup of coffee and a good book to read while waiting out a South Dakota snow storm. Those are luxuries the characters in David Laskin’s The Children’s Blizzard didn’t have. They were simply trying to make it through the day alive.

I recently noticed a copy of The Children’s Blizzard on our shelves, and was ashamed to admit that I had never read it. Most Dakotans have at least heard of The Children’s Blizzard, which hit on Jan. 12, 1888, and know that ranks among our worst natural disasters. More than 200 people died, most of them children walking home from school in southeastern Dakota. So I thought that in advance of the 125th anniversary of the devastating storm that I should read the book, and I highly recommend that if you live here, or grew up here, or have any ties to South Dakota whatsoever, that you read it too.

I’ve often seen book reviewers claim that a work of nonfiction “reads like a novel.” Then I read the book and wonder if the reviewer and I read the same thing. But Laskin’s book honestly fits that description. You can almost feel the harsh wind and subzero temperatures numbing your fingers as he describes the plight of the children caught in nature’s ferocity. You find yourself hoping that the children walking blindly through the snow are discovered alive, but in most cases you’re left feeling hollow when rescuers find the frozen bodies strewn across the Plains days later.

The day dawned mild for January in Dakota. Some parents took advantage of the unseasonable weather and kept children home from school to help with farm chores. Those who attended that day walked to school wearing light clothing. Laskin traces the cold front as it raced down from Canada, across Montana, Dakota, and Nebraska. Eventually it affected people as far south as Galveston, Texas. The story was the same in every school house: lessons came to an abrupt halt when teachers and students heard the first gust of wind slam into the northwest wall of their tiny schoolhouses. There are stories of teachers who kept students inside. They kept warm by burning everything they could find. They told stories and held recitations throughout the night. But Laskin’s stories are mostly about the teachers and students who chose to brave the elements, thinking they could walk a mile or less to the nearest farmhouse or barn.

They nearly all end in tragedy. One exception is the story of 8-year-old Walter Allen, who attended school in Groton. When the storm struck, fathers drove teams of horses pulling sleighs to the schoolhouse just west of town. Students piled on and they headed into the blizzard. But then Walter remembered his prized possession: a tiny glass perfume bottle of water that he kept in his desk for cleaning his slate. Walter knew it would freeze and crack if left in his desk, so he jumped off and headed into the school to retrieve it. When he emerged the sleighs had disappeared. The boy tried walking back into town but soon became disoriented. Only a heroic rescue mission by his father and older brother saved his life.

Also fascinating is the description of meteorology in 1888. Members of the U.S. Army’s Signal Corps were responsible for taking daily observations and filing “indications” reports, which were fairly crude forecasts transmitted via telegraph. They had a pretty good idea of how weather behaved, but a combination of errors and laziness on the parts of certain observers resulted in citizens hearing the first warnings of the pending storm just minutes before it struck.

Good writing makes you feel something, and Laskin’s work does just that. Back in September we sought help from Watertown bibliophile Donus Roberts in publishing a list of books every South Dakotan should read. Laskin’s The Children’s Blizzard didn’t make Roberts’ final cut, but I’d happily add it to the list.