Storm

by George R. Stewart

  Now and then one of the men spoke to the other—some word of direction about steering or about the working of the plow. In a few minutes the sense of tension grew less, and as the nerves grew accustomed, even the motion of the plow seemed to become steadier. But still the two leaned forward, peering; for some of the snow which the rotary threw aside blew back across the windshield, and their vision was cut down almost to nothing.

  From the corners of his eyes the Superintendent watched Peters. Running a rotary wasn’t as easy as it looked, and Peters was an artist. Now and then the muscles of his big, powerful hands sprang out into sharp lines as he fought the wheel, holding the plow steady or working it a little this way or that. His boot-sole was thick and hob-nailed, but still his foot rode the throttle-pedal with a curious delicacy of touch. It was like a good mouth-organ player, thought the Superintendent. Those fellows didn’t read notes and think of their harmonicas as something separate; they just thought of a sound and out it came—like whistling. Peters was the same—just as if the snow-plow had a brain and he was it. He didn’t need to think: “The engine is laboring; I’ll give it more gas.” He just gave it more gas. From long-practiced skill the snow-plow had become part of him like arms and legs.

  The Superintendent opened the side-window a few inches. The gusts blew streams of snow into his face, but he could see out a little. A few feet ahead of him he could make out the orange cutter-bar rising high above the piled-up snow, slicing it off to a sharp four-foot wall as the plow ate its way forward, inch by inch. Below the cutter-bar he could not see, but he envisioned the great augers working from both sides toward the middle, carrying snow to the swiftly rotating “blower.” Now and then, as some gust cleared the snow away momentarily, he saw the high fountain of snow which the blower was throwing out among the pine trees. Peters had ordered the angle set high, and the spout of whiteness rose at more than forty-five degrees. At intervals an orange-painted snow-stake seemed to move slowly nearer, come even, and then fall behind out of view. Never did the cutter-bar miss the snow-stake by as much as four inches; sometimes it almost scraped the paint. To come as close as possible and yet not hit the stake meant a good rotary operator.

  “Clank!”—without warning. Peters cut off the power, and the sudden quiet was almost as startling as a thunderclap.

  “Shear-bolts gone!” said Swenson, but the other two knew it as well as he.

  The three of them piled out into the storm. Some passing car had cast a tire-chain; the augers had picked it up and jammed. It was a veritable monkey-wrench in the machinery, but the machinery was designed for just such emergency. The only damage was that two little bolts had sheared off neatly; Swenson had a pocketful of such bolts and could replace them in a few minutes.

  8

  From the San Francisco Register:

  MILLION DOLLAR RAIN

  The headline in the Register was three inches high; Storm to Continue, ran the smaller lead. The news account waxed lyrical: “From the Oregon line to the summits of Tehachapi agriculturists and businessmen rejoiced as a soaking rain from the Pacific swept across pasture and plowed field.”

  From the Los Angeles Day:

  STORM FLAILS NORTH

  “As Angelenos basked in the warm sun, San Franciscans huddled beneath waterproofs and umbrellas; heavy seas pounded the coast and devastating rain drenched the valleys. Damage reported from several points was considerable. A continuation of tempestuous conditions is forecast for tomorrow.”

  From the Seattle Press-Inquirer [Editorial]:

  our weather. The past twenty-four hours have refuted the ancient and honorable myth that “it always rains in Seattle.” We have enjoyed fine sunny weather with just that tingle of frost in the air which puts the natural roses in our girls’ cheeks. During the same period (to point the moral better) California has been deluged.

  From the Winnipeg Royal Manitoban:

  MERCURY AT 34 BELOW

  PROVINCE IN GRIP OF COLD WAVE

  From the Minneapolis Gazetteer:

  TWENTY-SIX BELOW

  THREE FREEZE

  From the Kansas City Planet:

  NINE BELOW; FIFTY-MILE GALE

  From the Dallas Lone Star:

  NORTHER SWEEPS STATE

  ZERO IN MID-TEXAS

  From the San Antonio Texas Sentinel:

  FREEZING WEATHER; HUGE

  DAMAGE TO CROPS FEARED

  From the Mexico Gaceta:

  TEMPESTAD FURIOSA

  MUCHOS DAÑOS; DESGRACIAS DIVERSAS

  From the San José (Costa Rica) Prensa:

  TIEMPO FRÍO É INOPORTUNO

  On this day news about the weather was more important over the length of the continent than news of murders, strikes, politics, or international affairs. Although the individual man went on stolidly about his usual tasks, he in most cases resented this sudden change in his environment and considered it essentially local. His attitude of mind was primitive, as if he felt that some angry storm god had overwhelmed his own city and district for no better reason than a spiteful whim. He did not realize that the wind which blew upon his cheek was part of a planetary system. Rain in San Francisco, sun in Sitka, sub-zero weather in Calgary, a norther in Tampico, an east wind in Boston—their conjunction was as reasonable as that when one spoke of a wheel rotates all the others should rotate at the same time.

  9

  EXTRY! EXTRY! ! EXTRY! ! ! This is Ye Old-Time Newsy calling you the headlines over KTEY. And the first big news is that it’s a grand million-dollar rain. I’ve got the reports right here, and it’s just raining around everywhere you can think of. And another nice thing is that it’s been a big rain, but not too much in one place—not any big winds or cloudbursts, and so, not much damage. But—uh-uhh—this isn’t so good. “Peter Goslin, salesman for a flour company, was killed today when his automobile skidded on a wet pavement and overturned ten miles south of Colusa. State-patrolman Hardy who investigated the accident declared that death must have been instantaneous.” That’s the first casualty of the storm, folks, and maybe we’d better all make a note just to drive a little slower the next day or so.

  10

  When he sighted the broken wire through the flying snow, Rick edged the little green truck to the side of the highway, and parked it carefully.

  Just getting started at all was something of a job. The rotaries had cut a four-foot sheer wall of snow along the road, and farther back the snow was heaped up still higher. Rick first laid his skis and ski-poles up on the snow-surface. Next he loaded himself with his wire and climbers and tools. Then, using the fender for a starting-place, he scrambled and floundered up; he ended by being more or less on top of the wall, but hip-deep in soft snow. After more floundering he strapped his skis on, climbed out of the hole, and got going. By this time the parts of him that had not actually been buried in the snow were well covered by the hard-driven flakes which the storm was blowing in.

  Between him and the broken wire lay a fifty-yard space of treacherous-looking hummocks. It must be full of gullies and big boulders, and the snow was not yet quite deep enough to have drifted in and leveled the surface. As a shrewd storm-fighter he took his time, for in the storm and the soft snow broken skis and a sprained ankle could mean serious trouble for a man working alone, even though he was close to the highway.

  The wires were heavy with clinging snow, and every pole had four or five inches caked on its windward side. Rick maneuvered so that he came first to one of the ends of the fallen wire. Several feet of it were buried, but he pulled it up and knocked the snow off. He saw that it had broken close to the insulator. The end was tapered neatly to half its diameter as the heavy copper wire under the pull of its snow-load had first stretched out like warm taffy, and then snapped.

  Rick snipped off the damaged end; the fresh red of the cut contrasted sharply with the dark weathering of the outside surface. He took
a little hollow sleeve of copper from his pocket, fitted one end of it over the wire, and squeezed it with his pliers to make it hold temporarily. From the coil of shiny, new wire on his back he cut off six feet, inserted one end into the sleeve, and squeezed it also. He unhooked from his belt his sleeve-rolling tool. Fastening this over the copper sleeve, he turned its crank, and by this mechanical aid squeezed the sleeve and the wires into a permanent joint stronger than the wires themselves. Then, moving over the soft snow on his skis, he found the other end of the broken wire. It easily reached the new copper wire by which he had extended the other broken end; he twisted the two together loosely and laid them at the foot of the pole.

  He stopped for a moment, slapped his hands to warm them, and shook the snow from his stocking-cap and wind-breaker coat. The thick-falling flakes shut him in like fog; he could not see the line of the road, though he heard the rumble of a passing truck. He made his preparations to climb the pole. Every move was meticulous; a man working by himself in the storm does not dare make mistakes. He stuck the ski-poles upright in the snow within reach of the base of the pole. Close to the windward side of the pole he took off one ski and strapped on his climbing-iron. He detached the other ski, but still standing on it he put on the other iron. He faced the pole, picked up the loosely joined wire, laid it across his arms, and clasped his hands around the pole on the bare, lee side.

  He went up suddenly with the effortless, rhythmical movement of a skilled lineman. As he climbed, his body scraped off the snow from the pole, and at the shaking of the pole loose snow cascaded from the wires. It deluged him in its passing, but almost before it had hit the ground he was at the lowest cross-arm.

  There were four cross-arms, and the broken wire belonged on the highest one. Rick snapped on his safety-belt. To get the broken wire upward he unfastened its loosely twisted ends, raised it above the lowest arm, and rejoined it. Then he unsnapped his safety-belt, raised it also above the cross-arm, climbed up through the wires, and re-snapped the belt. Methodically he repeated the process until he arrived at the highest cross-arm.

  Detaching from his belt a little block-and-tackle, he fastened its ropes to the two parts of the broken wire, and tugged with all his strength. By means of this added mechanical power he was able to pull the wire almost to the tautness of the others. He snipped off the excess length, and by the aid of another copper sleeve joined the two ends permanently. Then he unfastened the block-and-tackle, and again attached it to his belt. With some of the extra wire he fastened the mended wire to the insulator. The short length which remained he dropped carefully to the ground, taking care that it did not tangle with the other wires. The work was done.

  He shook off the accumulated snow, and rested for a moment. From its position he judged that the broken wire had been one of those leased by the radio companies for their transcontinental programs. Well, he thought to himself, I guess some girl can start squawking over that one again. For to Rick the wires were all-important, and to keep them working he would labor through any storm that blew, but for the messages which the wires carried he had a curious contempt.

  But the thought of a girl who might be singing over the radio brought to mind the other girl, and for a moment still he rested in contemplation. Then he worked down through the wires and the cross-arms, and rapidly descended the pole.

  11

  “Sure, Bob, check the oil too. Say—you seen Max Arnim today?”

  “No. No reason why I should, though. Why?”

  “He wasn’t at the office this morning. Didn’t get back from Frisco, I guess. I tried to smooth things over, but I think the old man is sore.”

  “Oh, yes I filled Max up with ethyl—Friday, I guess it was. He said Jen was ridin’ down with him.”

  “Say! I didn’t know that. Is Jen back?”

  “Come to think of it, I know the answer to that one. Jen’s roommate, Marge, was in here, and she said Jen hadn’t got back yet.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, it’s not my business. I fill the tanks, and I don’t ask ’em where they’re goin’.”

  “Well, it’s a nice storm; there’ll be ski-ing at Mt. Rose after it’s over. I don’t see anyway why Max didn’t get back in time for work.”

  12

  The Assistant Divisional Engineer at Emigrant Gap and the Chief Trainmaster at Norden kept the trains going through on schedule. On this day they had no great trouble; the snow was falling thickly, but had not yet had time to pile up. First, the little plow on the front of each locomotive threw aside the newly fallen snow. When the ridges by the side of the tracks were a foot or so high, a flanger went through. Pulled by a locomotive and looking much like an ordinary caboose, the flanger carried a cleverly designed plow-share. When lowered, the plow-share had two projecting knives which scooped out the snow from the inside of each rail. Pulled along at thirty miles an hour it threw the snow well back from the tracks and piled up a long ridge. Every flanger had to have orders just like a fast through train or a heavy freight. Sometimes, when traffic was heavy, there was difficulty in finding a space to send one through between trains, or (the other way round) to get the flanger off the track in time for the other trains to get through on schedule. But the snow was not yet deep, and on the whole the day was an easy one.

  13

  The planes were going through. There were delays and a few cancellations of flights, but service was never really interrupted. The storm seemed to have settled down into a good steady rain—no severe turbulence, and ceilings sufficiently high everywhere. There was some icing over the Hump, but by keeping above twelve thousand feet the pilots could either avoid it altogether or fly through before it got serious.

  14

  The General had not gone to the office that morning, but had kept in touch by telephone. He gazed at the rain through his windows, and it looked very wet. He was sixty-four, and dampness was likely to arouse tinges of rheumatism. He himself saw the humor of his present situation. Retired from the Army, he had taken his present job, which had to do chiefly with rain; and yet the state of his joints was such that he must shun actual contact with rain.

  The General was of that older generation which kept Collected Works in its libraries and looked upon Bret Harte as an important writer. After lunch, before going to the office, he pulled out the proper volume and again read what was to him, partly for professional reasons, a favorite passage:

  It had been raining in the valley of the Sacramento. The North Fork had overflowed its banks, and Rattlesnake Creek was impassable. The few boulders that had marked the summer ford at Simpson’s Crossing were obliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the foothills. The upstage was stopped at Granger’s; the last mail had been abandoned on the tules, the rider swimming for his life. “An area,” remarked the “Sierra Avalanche,” with pensive local pride, “as large as the State of Massachusetts is now under water.”

  Harte, as the General had decided, was thinking of the great floods of ’61, which had transformed the whole valley into a lake. Since Massachusetts contains over eight thousand square miles and the plains area of the Sacramento Valley not much in excess of five thousand, the General had sometimes suggested that the local editor was exaggerating, but remembering that much of the adjoining San Joaquin Valley must have been flooded at the same time, he always admitted in the end that the editor may have been within the limits of accuracy.

  The General was professionally interested because, roughly speaking, he was responsible that it did not happen again, at least not without warning.

  When he got to his office that afternoon, he found that his secretary had received and codified the rainfall reports from all the stations in the Sacramento drainage system. The General glanced at the record—moderately heavy everywhere, nothing startling, heaviest in the Feather River basin with Pulga reporting ninety-eight hundredths in twelve hours. He had no great interest in the immediate situation; this f
irst rain would mostly sink into the ground, and yield little run-off.

  Sitting at his desk, he looked with satisfaction at the map on the wall in front of him. It represented the Valley. Ramifying pairs of parallel black lines indicated levees. Blue coloring between the black lines showed the regular river channels. But paralleling these blue channels were even broader spaces of red; these were the by-passes into which the flood water spilled—great auxiliary rivers. There were also green-colored areas, representing regions which must be allowed to flood in times of very high water in order to lower the level and prevent a more serious break elsewhere.

  The General liked to explain matters in military terms. “The blue is enemy country. If he attacks strongly enough, we give ground and he takes over the red territory; if that doesn’t hold him, we yield the green, and then put up our last fight along the levees to hold the white.”

  Upon the General’s map each blue and red channel bore a figure for its capacity in thousands of cubic feet per second. Above Colusa the river could carry 155 and the by-pass 120. But at Colusa Weir the river, if it was necessary, spilled 87 into the by-pass, for its own capacity was reduced to 66 and that of the by-pass rose proportionately. Lower down, the dimensions of the whole system grew larger. Below Sacramento the river carried 110 and the by-pass, miles wide between its levees, carried 490.