An Amish Winter Trip Gone Wrong (Part 2): The Call You Shouldn’t Take

Author Haley Straw returns today with part 2 of a new winter-themed series, drawing on one of her more challenging experiences as an Amish taxi driver. Part 1 is here if you missed it.

Have you ever known—deep in your bones—that you should say no… and said yes anyway?

That was me on the eve of Christmas Eve, standing outside the barn at our farm in the Amish community, feeding our cat Binx a fried egg while the wind howled like it was angry at the whole world.

The storm dubbed “Elmer” had already moved in, and along with it, the kind of cold that bites your skin before your brain can even process it. When I stepped outside earlier, my nose burned instantly, my ears stung, and my breath caught in my throat through a scarf. Five layers of clothes and I still felt the wind cut through to my bones.

My husband Allen—proud, stubborn, capable, and convinced he could drive through any storm—had insisted we try to make it the twelve miles to our farm. I went with him, heart in my throat, bundled up like an Eskimo, because love sometimes looks like sitting beside someone you’re worried about and praying they don’t prove you right.

We made it two and a half miles on sheer ice before common sense finally won. We turned around, knowing full well we had no business being out there.

By dusk, the roads had been treated, so we ventured back out—this time to check on our cat. The thermometer read -12°F, with a wind chill of -33°F. It’s not the kind of cold that looks pretty in photos; it’s the kind that kills.

While I fed the cat his egg, Allen’s phone rang.

I could hear only his side of the conversation at first:

“Why, yes, we are.”
“Yes, we have several.”

I already felt that familiar knot tighten in my stomach.

When he covered the phone and waved me over, I stood up from petting Binx.

“Marvin from Blaire needs a fifteen-passenger van,” Allen said. “Says it’s an emergency. They need to go to Wisconsin tomorrow.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I pressed my lips together, narrowed my eyes, and slid my pointer finger across my neck in a silent, firm No.

If you’ve ever tried to warn someone without speaking, you know that look. The one that says, Don’t do this. Trust me.

Because I did know. I knew that community. I knew how often one small ‘emergency’ grew into an overpacked van, extra stops, and expectations that stretched far beyond the original ask. I knew how fast boundaries could vanish once you were already on the road.

But we were also building a house, paying cash, and had lost days of work to the weather. We needed the money. And the holidays have a way of softening even the sharpest edges of your resolve.

So we listened.

Marvin was a minister—wealthier, more composed, and more polished than most in his community. I had been in his home before. His children were exceptionally well-behaved, and his wife was respectful. Compared to others from Blaire, he felt… safer.

Still, that little voice inside me whispered, Don’t mistake polite for predictable.

Have you ever done that—trusted someone because they seemed different, only to find out later that the situation itself was the problem, not the person?

While Allen talked logistics, I checked the weather on my phone. The storm had passed, according to the app. Roads should be clear. Safer than they felt.

That’s the funny thing about winter travel: sometimes the danger isn’t what you can see—it’s what’s coming next.

Against my warnings, Allen agreed to the trip.

We would leave in the morning. Wisconsin. Two drivers. Long haul. Winter roads.

I packed that night: warm clothes, snacks, extra blankets, a thermos of herbal tea, and a gut feeling that something was wrong, even if I couldn’t nail down exactly what.

We told ourselves it was an emergency. We told ourselves we were helping. We told ourselves we were prepared.

But as I lay in bed, I kept thinking about that phone call.

The cold.
The ice.
The Blaire community.
And the fact that sometimes “emergency” means something very different when you’re the one behind the wheel.

Morning came quickly.

And so did the problems.

Before we even picked up a single passenger, the van started acting strange. Hesitating. Struggling. Not quite right.

Small things… but enough to make your stomach drop.

Allen brushed it off. Winter engines can be finicky, he said.

I pretended to believe him.

Outside, clouds were gathering again on the horizon.

The kind that makes you glance twice.

The kind that makes you think, maybe we should stay home.

We didn’t. We made a commitment after all, and it was an emergency.

We turned the key and drove west to pick up our Amish, then north to Wisconsin, straight into the trouble my gut warned me about.

And somewhere behind us, winter tightened its grip.

Haley Straw is a barefoot Amish taxi driver with a storyteller’s heart and a knack for gathering the kinds of tales the Amish share on long, quiet night drives. She tells these stories the way she experienced them —with raw honesty, a healthy dose of fear, and the hard-won wisdom that comes from surviving the storm. This winter series is drawn from her book Amish Christmas Mishaps. You can find her books, free Amish-inspired goodies, and more at haleystraw.com.