By the time you read this, I will be far, far away from the icy wonderland that is Virginia and enjoying some sun, sand, and so, so many cocktails. Well, actually, by the time you read this, I leaving the Disney Destiny as we wrap up a cruise that was planned long before we knew that the polar vortex was going to move in for the latter half of January.
For those who don’t know, once you get below the Mason-Dixon line, you enter a world that is devoid of snow plows, salt trucks, or the ability to stay calm after the first sighting of a snowflake.
The lead-up to mid-January’s weather was a forecast that ranged from 0 to 834 inches, arriving sometime in early 2026. In addition to the lack of useful snow-clearing methods, we also lack useful snowcasting resources. Our local forecast started at 24” and then dropped continuously long after every loaf of bread, carton of eggs, and gallon of milk had left the stores.
As Winterstorm Fern moved closer, she loaded her delivery bag with sleet and freezing rain. Great. Also, is there really a difference? Don’t they both wreak havoc wherever they land? Can we just call it what it is? Pain-in-the-Ass Precipitation?
Here, the precipitation came in every form and, in a surprise twist, never left. Typically, in this area, snow is almost always followed by an immediate warm-up, which melts all that white stuff away. It’s kind of perfect, actually, as you get a day or two of absolute beauty and then can move on with your life. This time? This time, the snow and ice delivery was followed by countless days of freezing temperatures. Countless. Like, what day is it, actually? Are we still in January?
The first few hours, post-storm, were kind of okay as we leaned into being locked-in and forced to slow down. We were thrilled to have power though aware that that could change at any moment. And then…we encountered our first big problem: this was not a layer of ice; this was inches of ice. The ice was so thick that it didn’t give so much as a millimeter when stepped on and, well, that sent us into a tailspin. Us? Well, mainly Finley, our senior dog.
Our dogs access our backyard through a doggy door so it was by pure luck that I was standing outside with them when Finley took two steps off the back porch, lost her footing, and took a dramatic luge ride down our hilled back yard before being stopped by the fence 100 yards below.
As I was shitting my pants, I was praying that she missed all the trees in her path (she did) and remained upright (she did). I started after her, quickly realizing that I absolutely should not do that, as our backyard had become a skating rink with a twenty-five-degree slope. After yelling for Rich, he arrived ready for a rescue, with a harness and ropes in hand. He had to crawl along the fence to reach Finley, while I talked to her from above, telling her good and patient dog she was being. Once collected, Rich crawled back up the fence, pulling Finley behind him.
Desperate times take desperate measures, right?
We made a space in our basement to serve as a pet relief zone, though the dogs were quite confused. I could almost hear them thinking, “But we’re not supposed to do that inside, Mama.” We chopped out a small, grassy area in our front lawn, but neither dog had a lot of interest in ice skating over to it from the front porch. On day five, we used a chainsaw to chop out a larger area in the backyard, surrounding it with a poultry fence to keep the dogs contained while still offering them some potty privacy.
It took days, but we eventually managed to make a path to get one car out, finally able to make contact again with the outside world and, most importantly, get me to the airport and away from this mess. No, I know, that’s not really the most important thing. The most important thing is how Finley will fare at the 2028 Winter Olympics.
Admittedly, I’m about to punch Punxsutawney Phil in the throat, but I’m too locked into warm-weather relocations on Zillow to track him down.