It’s been a week since we were all preparing for Hurricane Ike, but I came across this photo submitted to ABC News and thought it was hilarious.

This post is part 2 of a two-part series about our nightmarish evacuation during Hurricane Rita. Part 1 is here.

The stampede got us as far as Moscow, TX at midnight. By then, the traffic had backed up again due to some accident. I was exhausted. The cats objected whenever my fiance took the wheel, so I’d been driving for over 20 hours straight. We also had lost contact with my parents. Cellphone coverage was pathetic. Every time we’d hit a town, we’d know the quality of our signal by how many phone calls we received from worried relatives. How do you tell somebody who is worried sick about you to stop calling so that you can conserve your batteries? There were two resources we desperately needed to conserve, gasoline and cell phone batteries, but the people we loved most were draining us dry of the latter.

We got ahold of my parents and told them we were 0.2 miles beyond the burned-out RV carcass on the right-side of the road.

In Moscow, I decided to pull over in a little grassy area on the side of the road and rest. We got ahold of my parents and told them we were 0.2 miles beyond the burned-out RV carcass on the right-side of the road. They were two hours behind us in Livingston, despite being right behind us when we’d arrived there. Apparently, it took them that long to find suitable bathrooms. We told them we would wait for them in Moscow, and then tried to get some sleep. One of us had to keep watch while the other slept, because it was too hot to sleep with the windows closed. I slept first since I’d been driving all day. It wasn’t a very good sleep though, because I could here the roar of engines and horns the whole time. For some reason, people’s car alarms kept going off. I think other folks were trying to sleep in their cars with the alarms engaged.

After about an hour and half of trying to sleep, Angela woke me up. “Baby, there’s a gasoline truck! Follow him!” Before starting the car, I decided to ask him where he was going. After all, he was stuck in the same traffic as the rest of us; he clearly wasn’t going to be getting away from me. So I walked up to the cab. “You full?”, I asked. “Yes!”, he replied, “with milk!” What a pathetic Texan I make. I can’t tell the difference between a gasoline truck and a milk truck. Fortunately, I now know that gasoline trucks wear the code 1203 on a diamond placard.

What a pathetic Texan I make. I can’t tell the difference between a gasoline truck and a milk truck.

I was up then, so I decided to keep watch while Angela slept. I stood by the side of the road and watched the cars process past. It was an unbelievable sight. Taillights as far as you could see to the north, and headlights in the other direction. Cars occupied every inch of asphalt including the shoulders. Eventually my parents showed up and we found a nice spot on the grass for them to park. They were on fumes and had no idea how much farther they could go before they ran out. There certainly wasn’t any chance they’d make it to Lufkin 20 miles away, where there were rumors of gasoline.

About the time desperation was setting in, a couple police cars pulled up in front of our campsite and blocked off traffic for about 15 minutes. They were redirecting trucks from the southbound lanes on to the northbound lanes in order to “officially” open those lanes to contraflow. With the lanes blocked off to only a couple of trucks, we jumped at the chance to quickly gain some ground. We started our cars and shot off down the freeway. We made it about two miles before reencountering traffic, so we found a sidestreet between the trees to pull over for more sleep.

We slept in this new spot for about two hours. Angela’s friend Megan called around 7am to see where we were and how we were doing. We told her my parents’ gasoline situation and that we were about two miles from a town called Corrigan. A few minutes later, Megan called back to tell us that, according to Corrigan PD, a TXDOT gasoline truck was in Corrigan handing out gasoline. Shortly after that, Angela’s dad called to tell us he was going to load up his truck with 22 gallons of gasoline and drive down to us from Enid, OK. I told him I didn’t think he had a chance in hell of reaching us. The highways were contraflow and moving at a snail’s pace, but he felt he had to try something. Honestly, I didn’t put much hope in that option.

We set out on the road again. Angela and my mom decided to walk ahead to Corrigan (since walking was faster than driving) to see what the situation was there. About halfway to Corrigan, Dad’s car ran out of gas. We were so close to Corrigan, and we knew we had to get the car there. So I used my precious Audi as a battering ram to push his car down the road. Whenever a spot would open up ahead, I’d gingerly push my car up against his and nudge it a few feet.

Just as we were entering Corrigan, Angela showed up without my mom. Angela had lost my mom in a store trying to buy gallon-sized milk jugs. Yes, there was a TXDOT truck in Corrigan giving out two gallons of gasoline, but we needed to supply our own gas cans.

In our delirious state, it seemed perfectly reasonable that the Sonic would be open and serving weary evacuees.

The good news was that there was a Sonic Burger just up the road. In our delirious state, it seemed perfectly reasonable that the Sonic would be open and serving weary evacuees. We pushed my dad’s car into a Sonic Burger, and parked mine at a console. I’m embarrassed to say how many times I pushed that red button waiting for someone to answer.

The FEMA truck was expected at a vacant lot up the road. I poured out one of our water jugs to use for gasoline and headed out that way with my dad. Not surprisingly, there was a long line of people waiting for the truck. A few organizers were making sure people stayed in line. After about an hour, the “truck” showed up, and all chaos broke loose. People broke ranks and charged the truck. The operators had no choice but fill up cans on a first-come first serve basis. By the time we pushed to the front they were out of gasoline. So we had to wait again for the truck.

This time, while we waited, the organizers handed out tape with numbers written on the back. Under the new system, the pump operators would call your number when it was your time to fill up. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this system wasn’t going to work. It was no surprise that there were “duplicates” when they started calling out numbers after the truck returned. To make things worse, the pump broke down just two numbers before it was our turn. I thought God really had it in for us this time. While we were waiting the wind had picked up and flags began fluttering. The reminder of impending doom added a sense of urgency to the whole ordeal.

Fortunately, they got the pump working again after several minutes, we filled up with our two gallons of gasoline and hiked back to the cars. My car was on fumes, but dad’s was completely out. So we put a gallon and a half in his car, and half a gallon in mine. Then we decided to leave highway 59 and venture off onto some back roads to see if we made better time.

It was a breeze. No traffic at all taking 287 west to Groveton. The miracle of Groveton was that they had a gasoline station that actually had gas. Of course, there was a line down the street and around the block to get gas, but it seemed like our only hope of getting to Dallas. We stopped at the end of the line and waited. Angela and my mom went into an open convenience store to get food, water, and some kitty litter for the cats. They hadn’t eaten anything or peed since we left, but they still didn’t take too well to the make-shift litter box we prepared for them.

To give you an idea of how small Groveton is, this is a picture of the Groveton jail. The guys in the orange pants are prisoners watching the storm roll in. The guy in jeans is the sheriff.

In the meantime, clouds were starting to roll in and rumors were circulating that the gas station would soon run out. That’s when Angela’s dad called. He was on the highway heading to Corrigan. We told him we’d made it to Groveton and how to get there from where he was. He arrived just a few minutes later with 22 gallons of gas and cooler full of sandwiches and cokes. We filled up the cars, then took off down the highway towards Dallas.

Angela drove the car on this leg. I was exhausted and probably suffering from sunstroke. I couldn’t read anything. It was the oddest feeling. I recognized the letters, but my brain just wouldn’t process the words. So I sat in the backseat with the cats. After we’d been on the road for awhile, I noticed our white cat, Ofalia, digging through the clothes stuffed in the footwell. I mumbled, “Oaf’s digging for something,” and Angela veered right off the road. I was new to cats and didn’t realize at the time that cats start digging before they’re about to do their business. Unfortunately, Angela’s quick reflexes were no match for Oaf’s bladder. After all we’d been through, our triumphant ride into Dallas smelled of pipi du chat.

A few hours later, we arrived in Dallas. Angela’s dad wanted us to follow him all the way back to Enid, but none of us had the energy. A Hampton Inn took us in, and the manager conveniently looked the other way when we smuggled the cats into our room. I took a long shower, turned on the TV, grabbed a bottle of scotch from my things, then crawled into bed. Then, I opened my laptop and responded to multiple queries about my whereabouts:

I’m safe in Dallas. It took me 45 hours of hell to get here, but I’m finally here. I’m sunburnt, dehydrated, (probably suffering from sunstroke), exhausted, filthy, reaking of gasoline, and starving. My car is covered in cat hair, smells like a litter box, and has been used as a battering ram to push my Dad’s car to gasoline. I never thought my life would become a Mad Max movie where the entire plot revolves around finding a remote fuel depot.

I’m now going to watch the hurricane on T.V. with a tall scotch.

-g

Since Hurricane Ike seems to be heading this way, I thought I’d post the story of my nightmarish evacuation experience for Hurricane Rita. Believe me, I have no intentions to evacuate this time.

So far as I know, I hold the land-speed record for driving from Houston to Dallas, Texas. My fiance, Angela, my parents, and I did it in a little over 44 hours. We started out at 3:45 on a Thursday morning. At the time, a category 5 hurricane named Rita was heading for someplace between Galveston Island and Matagoro Bay. Nobody knew what the hurricane would do to Houston — the mayor hadn’t even ordered voluntary evacuations yet — but we weren’t sticking around to suffer through the end of summer without air-conditioning, working toilets, and decent BBQ. So we packed our most cherished possessions, including two cats, into our two cars and headed inland. When we left, the online traffic report showed a stop-and-go mess on I45, but clear sailing out of town on 59.

That clear sailing came to an end just outside of town. It took us two hours to cover the distance between Houston’s two loops, a distance we normally drive in about 5-10 minutes. Once we got to the outer loop, Beltway 8, we were really wondering if the hurricane wouldn’t just clobber us on the freeway less than 20 miles from home.

I have never been stuck in gridlock like this before. It took us 5 hours to cover 9 miles of highway 770.

On the radio, people were calling in with their secrets for getting out of town in a hurry. Somebody called in just as we were approaching the beltway and said that I10 East, was wide-open all the way to Louisiana. So we decided to loop around on the beltway to I10, and shoot out towards Saint Charles. It was a good plan, and would have worked if Rita had gotten with the program. About the time we were approaching Beaumont, TX, the forecasters changed their predictions. Rita would now strike land further east at Beaumont. Civic leaders in the area immediately called for mandatory evacuations, and we suddenly found ourselves stuck in a traffic jam for life and death.

I grew up in Los Angeles. I know traffic. I had an hour commute through downtown L.A. to get to my high school. I have never been stuck in gridlock like this before. It took us 5 hours to cover 9 miles of highway 770. We would move the car a couple of car lengths, then turn it off for twenty minutes. We couldn’t run the car constantly because we were hearing on the radio that people and gas stations were running out of gas. It was a mid-September day in Texas, triple-digit heat, and we were without air-conditioning.

We weren’t happy, but the cats were worse. Cats aren’t amenable to travel in the first place. These cats were stuck in unbearable heat and frightened out of their minds. They weren’t eating or drinking. This all created a huge strain on my fiance who feared she might very well lose both of them before they even got a chance to face the hurricane.

One guy said he’d labeled some duct tape with this name and address and wrapped it around the tails of his cows so he could find them after the hurricane.

We thought about turning back or finding another highway, but the folks in the other vehicles assured us that the other highways out of here were as bad or worse. We weren’t familiar with the area, so we had no choice but to stick it out. The amazing thing was that everybody seemed in such good spirits. Some boys were tossing a football around while wait for the next opportunity to advance their car. People called into the radio station to tell jokes. One guy said he’d labeled some duct tape with this name and address and wrapped it around the tails of his cows so he could find them after the hurricane. Another guy called in offering his radar detector for sale. If you were interested, just wrap on the window of the red Tacoma pickup in lane two.

Eventually we got through to highway 105 and were able to make it west to highway 146. All lanes on 146 were open for northbound traffic, so things were at least moving in the direction of Livingston. We got to Livingston around 10 pm, and that’s when I first realized I was living in a Mad Max movie. There were just so many cars, trucks, and people milling about. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. They were either broken down or out of gas. Little communities had sprouted up in gas stations where people were camping out waiting for the next shipment of gasoline. Supposedly gasoline tankers were going to show up at 6 am, fuel up all these cars, and send them on to safety. I have no idea if that really happened.

“Yeeeeeeehhaaaaaaa!!!!!!” everybody just took off over the median and started down the other side of the highway. I felt like a cowboy in a stampede.

By midnight, we had passed through Livingston and made it back onto highway 59 North. 59 had the same bumper-to-bumper traffic we’d been dealing with all day. Throughout the day, we’d been hearing reports about how citizens had taken it upon themselves to impose contraflow traffic on 59. To outsiders, that might seem to be a drastic measure, but it’s very Texan. Since moving here, I’ve learned that traffic laws aren’t absolute; they are prudent advisories except when they aren’t. So it didn’t surprise me at all, when a few good ol’boys decided to instigate their own contraflow on 59 that night. It started with a police car running down the other side of the freeway escorting a few buses. People around us seemed to take that as an invitation, and “Yeeeeeeehhaaaaaaa!!!!!!” everybody just took off over the median and started down the other side of the highway. I felt like a cowboy in a stampede. Cars charging down the highway without any motivation but north. Occasionally, we’d encounter the unfortunate driver who thought he might slip by in the other direction. He would flash his headlights at us in protest, but eventually realize that a column of cars was in his lane and there would be no arguing.

Continue on to Day 2…

photo credit: ( Krikit )

As you’re preparing for the storm tonight, you might want to review the tips at weather.com for driving in various types of severe weather:

• Floods
• High Winds
• Thunderstorms
• Tropical Storms & Hurricanes

Good luck and stay safe!