Our Snowstorm Adventure

by S. Dilworth Young ((Member of the First Council of the Seventy))

We left Salt Lake City, Elder LeGrand Richards ((Member of the Quorum of Twelve)) and I, on the morning of Friday, March 20, [1953], under a cloudy sky and with three inches of new snow on the ground, but we were soon into good weather. By the time we reached Ogden, skies were clear and the road dry and safe. Our run to Butte was uneventful. The ride was extremely interesting to me, for Elder Richards is excellent company and has a vast field of interesting experiences and comments with which to keep a brisk, stimulating conversation going. There wasn’t a dull moment the whole time. At Butte, Montana, we received our first hint of trouble. The car radio brought in a report of a big storm crossing Glacier Park—heading east—with high winds and roads blocked from drifting. Deciding that we might need the extra time Saturday, if we had trouble, we drove to Helena for the night.

Consultation Saturday morning brought the decision to go to Great Falls. Here the road forked, one going straight north to Lethbridge, via Shelby, the other going west through Browning, skirting Glacier Park to Cardston. At this place we could consult the state highway police for direction. Elder Richards’ conference was at Cardston; mine, at Lethbridge. At Great Falls we learned that either direction was bad; that people had traveled as far as Browning, but from there on was anybody’s chance, while the road north appeared at the moment to be impassable beyond Shelby. We reasoned that if the storm were moving east, after three days of it, the western edge might be east of Browning by night. (This proved to be wrong, for the storm didn’t move east until Sunday.) I asked Brother Richards what his impressions were. He said that he felt that we should go west to Browning and try for Cardston. He asked me how I felt. I upheld his feeling to go west to Browning.

We drove about twenty miles before we began to feel the storm. Another thirty miles and we were well into it. A hard driving wind whirled the falling snow, and the fallen snow, into one great blinding confusion. In places the road was blown clean and we could see the edges of it. Then almost immediately a rapidly forming drift would block us, and the road would be invisible. We did not dare to “go easy” through the drifts. We had to hit them at forty miles an hour to get enough momentum to clear them. Often they were piling up on curves so that we didn’t know whether or not we’d be off the road into the ditch. Fortunately, we managed to keep equidistant from the fence posts which lined both sides of the highway—fifty feet out on each side. There was one time when the sky, the earth, the road, and the barrow pit were one great confusion. I could not tell where anything was, and there we hit our largest drift. Fifty yards of plowing through, the flying snow plastering the windshield, and we were on the bare road again, on a curve. I gave a silent prayer of thanks, which I am sure that Brother Richards echoed in his heart.

During the last forty miles the road was through the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. In the gloom of the storm the hills and valleys were especially bleak, not a homestead or a barn looming up as a haven in the storm. In one especially bad spot we came to three men walking into the storm; their bodies bent into the blast, their great hats pulled down over their faces. We stopped and offered them shelter and a ride. They proved to be two Piegan Indian men and a white boy. They were glad for the ride. We took them into Browning, which we reached without mishap.

At Browning we purchased a shovel and had our chains put on the tires. Then at 1:30 p.m., we headed north through the reservation toward the Canadian border. The road skirting Glacier Park was closed by drifts, so our best chance was over the gravel road through the reserve. The plow had been through, we were told. The driving was not so difficult here, for one could see the black dirt edges of the road, and thus stay in the middle of it. It was a weird, fascinating country through which we drove. We had occasional glimpses of timbered hills, of grassy (dry grass) swales, blown clean of snow. Then the wind would close the picture, and we would be swallowed up in the gray swirl all about us. We forced our way through some drifts which an hour later would have virtually defied any effort to pierce them. We went through just in time.

At the Canadian immigration station we were informed that we had reached the end of the trail. Only fifteen miles to Cardston, but fifteen miles of road solidly drifted with heavy snow from six inches to three feet deep. Canadian road equipment could not cope with the miles of drift all over the territory. A plow was promised at 3:00 p.m. At 6:00 p.m., there were no signs of its arrival.

Brother Richards phoned into Cardston and informed President Gordon S. Brewerton of the Alberta Stake that we had come as far as we could. President Brewerton was relieved that we were so near in safety and said that he would send the snowmobile out to get us. This is a closed vehicle with skis for front wheels and caterpillar tread in back for deep snow. We visited for two hours. Then the phone rang. The snowmobile had stalled and had returned to Cardston. It looked as though we would spend the night in the immigration office.

Then the phone again—the snowmobile with six men, shovels, and other necessary equipment would try it again. Again the long, anxious wait! Then down the darkening road we saw a dim flicker of light—not enough to be certain—then a steady beam. In a moment we heard the roar of the engine and then in a great cloud of snow the machine turned up to the door.

Happy greetings were exchanged. President Mark L. Spencer, a member of the stake presidency; Brother Lloyd Cooper, owner of the snowmobile; and Brothers Jim Cooper, Gordon Sloan, Morgan Beazer, Lynn Caldwell, members of the crew, made us feel welcome, and a little as though the rescue was like that of Robinson Crusoe or of Byrd at the Pole. With baggage and some joking we boarded the snowmobile. The engine roared, and we were off.

Never have I had such a ride. From where I sat, it looked easy and exciting. Yet I watched the driver tense up and the crew brace itself as we would plow into the old track through the deep drifts, snow being thrown over the machine often completely covering it, yet the snowmobile wallowed through and on. Into the night we roared.

“Brace yourselves,” yelled Brother Cooper. “If we make this one, we can do the rest.” Ahead I could see the great drift. The up-surging tractors had cut a sharp curve through the drift. The job was to stay in the tracks and keep up momentum enough to break through.

We braced ourselves! A great cloud of snow covered the windshield. The machine lurched one way, then the other, groaned, and then shot clear—we were through the worst drift.

Fifteen minutes later we could see an occasional light. Soon we were roaring down the main street of Cardston. With a flair for the dramatic, Brother Cooper brought his snowmobile through the piled drifts right up to the door of the lighted chapel. We stepped out into the light, and into the united smiles and greetings of the stake officials. The meeting was waiting. A little late but happy, Brother Richards was soon delivering one of the best sermons I’ve heard on missionary work.

Sunday morning, with the exception of a bad drift, which delayed us for an hour, I was delivered by Brother Melvin Wynder to Lethbridge in time to speak at the morning session.

The return trip Monday was uneventful. Roads had been cleared; President Brewerton delivered us to our car at Canadian customs at 11:00 a.m. At noon we lunched at Browning. At night we were in Butte.

To look at the country, lying quiet and beautifully white under its blanket of new snow, one wondered how the wind could create so much mischief.

Incidentally, we went the only way we could go to get there. The road through Lethbridge was closed until late Sunday. Airplanes were grounded, even the railroad trains didn’t get in. Brother Richards’ impression was right—we went west as inspired.

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Left to right: Ronald L. Holland, stake clerk; Willard L. Smith, President Alberta Temple; Elder LeGrand Richards, Council of the Twelve; President S. Dilworth Young, First Council of the Seventy; Gordon S. Brewerton, President Alberta Stake; and Lloyd Cooper, owner of the snowmobile.