I was a teenager when we were hit by the blizzard of 1978, living out on Old Mission Peninsula. That storm was like nothing ever before… or since, until Saturday that is. From Saturday night to Monday afternoon, we were buried under 3 to 4 feet of blowing snow at our home just north of Leland. Maybe it has to do with proximity to the big lake, but whatever it was, it was a humdinger (and I don’t use the “H” word lightly).
I shoveled 5 or 6 times on Sunday, and 5 times so far on Monday. I have run out of places to put the snow and am finding myself alternating between shoveling, treating my back for strains, and stretching. I love a good storm, and this one has not disappointed.
By the time you are reading this, the official storm should have blown over, and we will be left to deal with the consequences. My hats go off to the Leelanau County Road Crew for their tireless work. More hats go off to all of the “plow guys” who keep our driveways open (mine hasn’t made it yet). These folks have to face the elements and people out driving to keep roads open and clear.
Back in 1978, we didn’t have quite the same equipment we do now, and it took weeks to open some secondary roads. I remember the snow banks being so tall at intersections that people actually affixed bike flags to the front bumpers so they could be seen.
Back then, our subdivision didn’t get plowed for several weeks, and our driveway, which was quite long and went up a steep hill, was sealed shut by a 7-foot-deep, 70-foot-wide snow drift. My father blamed the drift on our neighbor’s sailboat, which was parked adjacent to the drive, but we would have had a massive drift regardless. Before my dad knew the extent of the drift, he barreled down the drive at top speed, the plow blade ripping through the snow, aimed directly at this impenetrable barrier.
The Bronco made it about 2o or 25 feet into the massive drift and was left elevated 3 feet off the surface of the drive. It was adorable, although I didn’t mention that to my dad. His initial plan was to dig the vehicle out. Himself in good shape and two strapping teenagers with nothing else to do, we began working. Within minutes, it was determined that this was futile. I am glad that he came to his senses; otherwise, we may still be there.
After five days of head scratching, we were no closer to a solution than when we began digging. It was the kindness of our neighbor (the farmer, Norm Buchan) who drove his tractor all the way over to our house and unburied us within hours. I have been partial to Buchan’s blueberries ever since.
In those intervening days, before Mr. Buchan saved the day, my brother and I got along famously. We put aside our respective roles, me as the instigator, and he as the obliging bully, and found a way to cooperate, creating a massive drift fort carved from the windblown snow near our house. This also had to be at least a 6-foot deep drift in which we carved a large room and two adjoining bedrooms, one for each of us. In the large main room, we built a fireplace complete with a chimney to allow smoke to escape without asphyxiating us. I can’t remember if I spent the night out there, but I am almost positive my brother did. His being a typical 16-year-old boy, my parents raised no objections to this prospect. I probably weighed the merits of outdoor sleeping with my warm and comfortable bed and chose to get some sleep instead.
It wasn’t all fun and games, however. Due to the large drifts on our house’s roof, my father was concerned about the extra weight. Maybe not right then, but if we got warmer or had rain, the roof might collapse. We each grabbed our favorite shovels, climbed the ladder, and began the painstaking process of uncovering the roof. I do recall that gravity was working in our favor, since the roof was sloped downward; however, on the back side of the house, gravity would be our enemy, and with one wrong move, we could fall two stories to the ground. I recall doing most of my work with the one story drop up front.
When the job was done, we admired the view of Bower’s Harbor and Marion Island (that’s what it was called way back then). The three of us got along like a crew who had been working together for years. We simply walked off the roof onto the pile we created from the snow removal; no ladder would be necessary.
For a teenage boy, this was one of the best weeks of my life up to that point. Ever since then, I have appreciated the power of nature and a good storm, snow, or otherwise. It is like an involuntary break from the ordinary, dull routine. The storm of 2026 isn’t quite the same, but I appreciate it every bit as much.
Fortunately, we are warm, we have food, and really nothing urgent for which we need to attend. I know this isn’t the case for everyone, and I really do feel for those who experience hardship as a result of this storm, but it is Mother Nature’s way of reminding us of how little control we really have.
I hope that you and yours are safe, warm, and well-fed. Thanks for humoring me as I recall some stories that have long been dormant in the deep recesses of my brain. Stay safe.