By Jim Stanford on December 23, 2006
“Caution: Moving walk is nearing its end. Please watch your step. Thank you.”
The last few days have proven that going back East for Christmas can be a nightmare, and not just of the fruitcakes-and-frankincense variety.
Here’s an insider’s account of the slumber party at Denver International Airport.
Two nights ago, as the snowstorm stranded thousands of holiday travelers inside DIA, I told my friend Elle Dubs that I don’t like flying at this time of year. A big storm usually hits Jackson around New Year’s, I told her, recounting the time about five or six years ago that my editor-in-chief at the Jackson Hole News, Angus Thuermer, got stranded in Denver and we had to put out the paper without him (while we skied deep powder each morning). He returned to pen a memorable editorial reminding us that when it comes to weather in the high country, Mother Nature bats last.
Sure enough, my flight from Jackson to Denver got canceled Thursday, and I spent an hour and a half in the JH Airport getting my ticket changed to Delta through Salt Lake. Not a big hassle, especially in light of the 4,000 or so refugees sleeping on the floor at DIA. Last I heard from Elle Dubs, the National Guard was bringing in water bottles and baby formula.
Today DIA reopened after being closed for 45 hours. Lo and behold, who did I discover has been stuck in that hell for nearly three days: Angus MacLean Thuermer Jr.
I called Angus tonight and got the inside scoop. The first night was humorous, he told me. But preparing to spend a second night in a hotel, he sounded weary. He has been wearing the same clothes he left JH in on Wednesday. Twice today he tried to fly standby and was denied. On his last trip to the airport he observed a security mob of what looked like 5,000 people, stretched out in two lines each a half-mile long.
True to form, Angus wrote a story about the ordeal. Turns out the experience wasn’t as bad as most of us imagined. Although … the airport folks NEVER TURNED OFF the recorded intercom messages the whole time, he said. Aaaargh! At the 2,500th reminder for me to report unattended baggage to the nearest security personnel, I would have thrown a chair through a window and set out through the snow, like Dennis Quaid skinning to New York in the apocalyptic climate change thriller The Day After Tomorrow.
In a few hours I’m about to test the friendly skies, with no small degree of trepidation about delays, missed flights and overzealous security screeners. Angus seems to have adopted a good strategy: Hunker down and wait it out. Others have been freaking out. The New York Times reported this evening about folks trying to buy a used car to drive to Ann Arbor, Mich., to make it home for Christmas. Angus has two tickets, one going East and the other West, both on Christmas Eve. Here’s hoping AT shares in some much-deserved holiday cheer, whichever direction he ends up!
The following is his story, originally penned for the Denver Post:
Snowbound at DIA, a carpet community gels
By Angus M. Thuermer Jr.
It was a gamble to fly into Denver on Wednesday, but my man behind the counter at Jackson Hole, Wyo., told me, after calling “flight ops,” that my connection to Dulles was a priority.
Indeed, after arriving in Denver and long after other flights had been canceled, the tractor driver began to push our United Airbus back from the concourse and I felt smug. The first letdown came when the push-back stalled and the tarmac jockey began to rock the plane, nine seats wide, back and forth to get through the drifts. The pilot finally made the inevitable announcement. Back in the concourse, there wasn’t a rental car, motel room or airline customer service representative to be had, so I joined the carpet community centered at Lefty’s Mile High Grille.
Chris, a farrier and outstanding bullshitter from Durango, became my first buddy when he caught my eye across the bar. Perhaps it was because we were dressed identically that we bonded. To placate our respective parents, we had shucked our mountain-town outfits for leather shoes, jeans, button-down oxfords, tweed coats and ball caps. But he also looked familiar, which he blamed on his brother, a well-known Jackson Hole kayaker, and we began to trade stories about the dozens of mountain skiers, climbers, boaters and anglers we knew in common.
Andrew, from New Mexico, joined the club and recruited Angie, a teacher from Anchorage as our “great Alaskan hope.” Chris had at least a two-beer head start, and all I could try to do was keep pace as Mylea, our waitress, kept us in spirits. Being stuck wasn’t too bad until about 9 p.m., when Mylea and her boss enforced city rules and shuttered the place.
Outside the blizzard raged. Icicles two feet long grew from the noses of the jets parked 20 yards away. Snow drifts half buried baggage carts outside.
Off we went to find our corner — somewhere around gate 48. Up and down Concourse B the stranded spread out to sleep, the wise ones covered in blankets and comforted with pillows taken from their aircrafts. Like grizzlies in the wild, the stranded kept an equal distance between their bivouacs, except at the location of highly prized resources. As bears concentrate near food sources, like salmon leaping waterfalls, our carpet community was densest near electric outlets where cell phones and laptops were recharged.
Andrew let us vote on which DVD to watch, and we elected a football movie of some sort. In a star pattern, we stretched out, our heads together watching the movie on Andrew’s laptop as we fell asleep. The cold woke me soon after midnight, and I moved to an awkward position spanning two rows of chairs, feet in the air, for the remainder of the night’s fitful sleep.
Five a.m. saw most of us awake. The bathrooms were functioning perfectly and remained clean. I thought of the Superdome and felt lucky. The line for the red United customer service phones was now tolerable, and our community continued to gel. When one traveler concluded business, she would keep the agent on the line and pass the phone on. It was another expression of the camaraderie and thoughtfulness that was blossoming.
I got a reservation for Christmas eve (Sunday) to Dulles, and bought a separate ticket for Christmas eve to Jackson Hole. Now, Thursday morning, it didn’t matter which way I went, and through my laptop, I reserved three nights at a nearby airport hotel.
Back at Lefty’s, Chris had chosen a bloody mary to continue our party. I wandered off, proud to buy what looked like the second-to-last toothbrush in a gift shop that had way too many Colorado key chains and far too few razors. I spent $60 at the bookstore, figuring a tome a day, and hit the ATM, sensing it would be busted sooner than later.
A line 600 yards long in the main terminal marked the bus evacuation to Denver. It seemed natural, at this point, to find the longest line and get at its end. But I went to the curb, tried to bum a ride with a TV crew, and finally hooked up with a limo driver. My hotel was only six miles away, and my friendly driver announced that he would charge no more than he usually did — $40. We were the only car on the highway.
I slept all Thursday afternoon and later rolled up my jeans for a workout in the hotel’s small exercise room. The bar at the hotel that night wasn’t half as fun as Lefty’s, and I missed my buddies. By 6 a.m. Friday I was back in line at the airport, and within two hours had a standby ticket for Dulles. Andrew hailed me as I began my trek down Concourse B, and we, along with a new buddy of his, adjourned to Lefty’s to recount our seemingly long time apart.
Thursday night’s party had been better than Wednesday’s, by all accounts. Over a morning beer, Andrew said he laughed all night, but I don’t think anybody got lucky.With the day breaking clear, we said our good-byes. Strangers were filling Concourse B, and our small society disbanded and dissolved into the human current. It may be days before we gather with friends again, but I think we will all look back at our time at Denver International Airport with more fondness than frustration. We had all known we were screwed, and making the best of it had been a better strategy than being bitter.
e-mail: angus@jhnewsandguide.com
