Treacherous routes on the long way home

“My home is Heaven. I’m just traveling through this world.”
– Billy Graham
The big freeway sign flashed a warning: “Interstate 70 closed in western Kansas, limited parking available west of Salina.”
We were on our way home after spending Christmas with my side of the family. Our last stop had been in Lee’s Summit, MO, where my son and his family live.
During the three days we spent with them, cold rain drenched the area.
Because Ted’s mom had passed away, and her funeral was scheduled in Blanding on the December 30, we were making the return trip to Blanding sooner than usual.
By the time we turned onto the freeway, the rain had turned to snow, and I worried about blizzards and black ice even though we hadn’t seen the warning signs yet.
My fear was not unfounded.
The year before, we’d driven back to Utah through Denver in surprisingly mild weather. However, on the west side of Denver, seemingly out of nowhere, the wind howled and snow slashed down as a full-force blizzard hit us.
Our phones blasted warnings to pull off the road, but by then it was too late. We couldn’t see anything.
It was hard to tell up from down, right from left, and with the mountain road totally obliterated by the whiteout, pulling off or stopping might have been fatal.
As Ted continued inching along mile after mile, I prayed.
Time doesn’t behave normally when you’re in dangerous situations, so there’s no telling how long we crept along, hoping no other cars obstructed the freeway, hoping no other vehicles skidded into us from the side or back, hoping we were still on our side of the road, hoping against hope we hadn’t veered too close to the road’s edge.
Suddenly a huge snowplow pulled around us, clearing our path and lighting our way.
Relieved, Ted picked up speed and followed its taillights until the storm eased enough so we could see.
Then, the snowplow turned off on an exit and disappeared.
An angel snowplow, my hubby claims, but even if the driver had been mortal and the plow constructed from steel, they were undeniably an answer to prayer.
This year flashing signs warned us about a blizzard while we were still in eastern Kansas, but because he hated Denver’s traffic, Ted had already decided to go over Wolf Creek Pass.
This was a decision that made me nervous, since in previous years, even in the spring, we’d driven through nearly impassable snows over the San Juan Mountains.
Allaying my fears somewhat, the snow remained light as we found our way onto the transcontinental two-lane Highway 50 which roughly follows the old Santa Fe Mountain Trail.
The Santa Fe Trail had been traveled in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, but became a major commerce route in the 1820’s.
Growing up in Kansas, I’d often seen the historical signs marking the trail. It was a dangerous route, partly because of the weather, including violent thunderstorms, tornadoes, blistering heat, bitter cold, and blinding blizzards, partly because of the rattlesnake population, partly because of lack of water and poor hunting, but mostly because of attacks by the Comanches and Apaches who understandably didn’t like interlopers.
As I thought about the challenges people faced along the route, I felt grateful we were clipping along at 65 miles an hour on the loneliest highway in America.
Suddenly, Ted said, “There they are!”
Thousands, hundreds of thousands, snow geese swirled in the sky and settled on the fields. “It’s like a bird tornado,” my hubby said as he pulled off the road.
Although the geese breed far north on the tundra fields of Greenland, Canada, Alaska, and Siberia, the lesser snow geese winter on the fields and grasslands in North America, sometimes migrating up to 3,000 miles.
We paused only to take photographs, but I thought about my mother-in-law who collected hundreds of bird figurines and watched the backyard birds she fed for hours. She would have joyed in the sight of the snowy wings with black tips.
Miles later, although skiers were making the most of the beautiful powder at the Wolf Creek Pass ski area, the road remained open, and we had no trouble with the steep climb or descent over the Continental Divide.
Even later, I felt closer to home when we saw the “young” San Juan River flowing from its headwaters near Pagosa Springs and even closer when we spotted the Sleeping Ute, still sleeping peacefully.
We finally pulled into our garage Wednesday evening. I had no doubt we’d been blessed to make the journey home so quickly.
By Friday a hundred or more of Ruth S. Palmer’s family members and friends converged on Blanding to honor her.
On Saturday, we all paused in the mortuary to view the slideshow of her life, snapshots that captured her when she was a little girl in Mexico wearing worn-out shoes she hated; at the prom, posing like a model; in the Mexican mission field with her two life-long friends; at the Mesa Temple with her brand-new husband who would soon whisk her away to Idaho and then Blanding; at outings, weddings, and reunions; and in tender moments with her grand and great-grandchildren, her love, even awe, clearly evident on her face, the photographs all showing a lifetime of sacrifice, courage, and love, her way lit by earthly and heavenly angels as she made the sacred journey home.