Last December, my 2-year-old daughter, Ashlyn, and I had been visiting my parents in Atlanta for the holidays. I had to get home to Minneapolis for work, so we planned to fly back the day before, with a layover in Detroit. My dad works for an airline and I fly for free, but I have to go on standby.
That day everyone, it seemed, wanted to get home, and during the layover in Detroit I kept getting bumped from one flight to the next. Eventually I learned it might be a couple of days until I could fly out. I was tired at that point and Ashlyn was cranky, so what I should have done was book a hotel room and get some sleep. But then I would have missed work—so what I did instead was rent a car and start driving the 13-hour journey home.
Near-Fatal Fatigue
I drove straight through the night with Ashlyn sleeping in the back. After about 10 hours I just couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. At about 5 a.m., I fell asleep at the wheel on highway I-94 just as I was approaching the two-lane bridge that spans the Red Cedar River in Menomonie, Wisconsin. I woke up and realized I was going fast, maybe 70 miles per hour.
We crashed into the cement wall of the bridge. I hit my head against the side window. You'd think the car would've just crumpled, but instead it bounced over the guardrail and plunged about 200 feet straight into the icy river. It felt like I was on a roller coaster that flips back and forth. The front end of the car pierced the ice at a 45-degree angle, with the back end sticking up in the air.
The earlier blow to my head had knocked me out a bit, and I was in and out of consciousness. The freezing cold water from the river seeping into the seams of the front door woke me up. I heard Ashlyn crying and turned around to see that she was fine. Every part of the car was smashed except for my seat and where Ashlyn was sitting. I had glass in my hair, in my skin, and on the side of my face. Ashlyn's face was scraped, but it was very minor.
A Desperate Climb
The driver's side of the car was tilting toward the ice. I grabbed Ashlyn and punched out the chunks of glass that were still in the door window. Then Ashlyn and I fell through the window onto the ice. The ice was literally holding up the car, but river water was forming a pool around it. Luckily the ice never broke open, but I heard it cracking.
We were about 40 feet from the river's edge, and it was dark. I headed toward land and looked up at the embankment—it was steep, maybe at a 70-degree angle, and covered in ice and snow with some shrubs sticking out. I knew there was no way I could climb it, not with Ashlyn in my arms and probably not even without her.
The temperature was -10°F, and we were both soaking wet. Ashlyn had her winter coat on; I was wearing only a light hoodie. We were in the middle of nowhere. Cars were racing over the bridge. No one had seen us go over and no one could see us now. I started climbing the hill. I grabbed onto weeds and little bushes, and I must have tried and slid down 20 times, the shrubbery breaking off in my hand.
Then, the weirdest thing happened, like a wind lifting me under my arms—most likely a burst of adrenaline—and I felt like I was being pushed up that embankment. I reached the guardrail, which was eight feet high. I hate to say it, but I threw Ashlyn over into a big hump of snow before climbing over it myself. I had no choice. I picked her up and ran to the other side of the road so I could flag down a car.
Only a few cars were passing. No one stopped. I saw the headlights of a car coming from the opposite direction and ran across the highway, jumped over the median and to the side of the road. But that car passed us too. Ashlyn and I were frozen ice cubes. I thought she'd lose her fingers and toes. I was dizzy from the cold, seeing black spots in front of me. I kept feeling as though I were about to faint.
I tried waving down cars for 45 minutes with no luck. I was so desperate. I actually thought about leaving Ashlyn on the side of the road and jumping in front of a car so it would hit me and then it would stop and my daughter would be saved.
I started running along the highway, to see if I could find anything, a gas station or pay phone. I held Ashlyn close to my chest to keep her warm. She'd been crying the whole time, but now she was quiet. She spoke only when I stopped running. "Don't stop, Mommy," she yelled. "Don't stop." It's like she knew we might freeze to death.
I thought maybe I would find some help at the next exit, so I ran another quarter mile, and when I reached it I saw a parking lot with a single truck parked in it. Just then I saw its lights go on and heard the engine start up. I thought, This is my only chance, and ran down the hill like a crazy person. The driver started pulling out, and I stood in front of the truck so he couldn't leave. I ran up to the window and told him I'd been in an accident. He called 911.
Other than hypothermia, Ashlyn and I were fine—no concussions, no frostbite—and we were in the hospital only for a couple of hours. To this day I can't really explain how we made it. The people who retrieved the car couldn't understand how we'd gotten up the embankment—they had to go down using ropes. Everyone who saw that car sticking straight up in the river called our survival a "little miracle."
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