Power Outage

If you are lucky enough to live in the geographic area affectionately known as the Great Pacific Northwest, and more precisely between, say, Portland and Vancouver, B.C., and have been here longer than the latest Amazon migration and subsequent real estate scramble, you know, or now know, about power outages. 

We had another one last night caused by some hellacious gale-force winds that blew boughs, limbs and occasionally entire trees onto the power lines that keep our computers computing, our toasters toasting and our heaters heating. I have been here in the Pugetopolis, since 1974, so as the commercial jingle goes, I know a thing or two about power outages because I’ve seen a power outage or two. 

One of my most enduring memories from my time in the cabin was the winter storm of 1989. I have always taken a great deal of pride in being prepared, and that storm put that emergency readiness plan to the true test. 

Late afternoon, a Friday, I am at work monitoring the radio for updates. The forecast is for a doosie, stay home and batten down the hatches they advise. As I hear this I look out my office window and see that the sky is a dark background with winds pushing snow flurries as big as I have ever witnessed. This, I say to myself, is going to be a mother. 

I grab my coat, announce my departure and run down the stairs to my Blazer. There is already a foot of snow on the streets of Seattle as I race to the ferry terminal in four wheel drive. The 35 minute ride aboard a jumbo Washington State Ferry, wind whipping from the starboard, into the driving snow, tested my sea-legs and my ability to keep the pastrami sandwich I had for lunch where it belonged. 

We finally arrive and I have the 20 minute commute home that I have taken a thousand times, but now it looks more like a mine field on a frozen battle-field. There is debris everywhere atop snow, black ice and downed trees blocking thru traffic altogether, barricades are up. I might not make it and if I do it might be necessary to go the last mile on foot. I am not sure how my cordovan wingtips will fare under this bleak circumstance but we might be about to find out. 

I make it to the cabin where my headlights reveal a cedar tree on the roof, main power and phone lines dangling from it like snakes of obsidian tinsel. 

I make my way to the front door and open it to a chilling darkness as my breath creates a eerie smoke effect in front of the flashlight’s beam. It is a scene I will never forget, set design by Steven King. 

The work begins with starting a fire in the old Franklin and inside of ten minutes it is ablaze. Lamps and candles are lit and a quick damage report filed. Looks like we’ll be OK, minimal roof damage and it is already getting warm and toasty inside. No power? No problem.

I am opening a celebratory beer when I remember my neighbors down the road. Hurriedly I change into my Sorrel boots, don a down jacket, find another flashlight with fresh batts and trudge off to check on Frank & Pat through the now almost knee-deep snow. 

Knocking on the French Door of their beautiful home-made cabin I can see they too are sitting in front of a robust fire and sipping tea. I immediately smile at the cozy Norman Rockwell scene as Frank comes to open the door. He says smiling,

Welcome to the Great Pacific Northwest.