An Amish Winter Trip Gone Wrong (Part 4): Overloaded and Overruled

Author Haley Straw returns today with part 4 of a new winter-themed series, drawing on one of her more challenging experiences as an Amish taxi driver. Part 1 is here, part 2 here, and part 3 here if you missed them.

I was exhausted to the point of feeling loopy. The world felt distant – sounds dulled, everything slightly off. That’s when the talking started behind us.

My husband Allen has always been good with people. Friendly. Curious. Disarming. He genuinely cares, and people feel that. I heard Marvin, seated on the bench behind us, ask Allen how old he was.

Allen smiled and said, “Twenty-five.”

Marvin didn’t miss a beat. “No,” he said seriously. “You’re older than that. I’d guess you’re in your fifties. You must be quite a bit older than Haley.”

The Amish are fascinated by their drivers’ ages. When I first started driving, they asked constantly. To me, it felt intrusive — rude, even — but I eventually realized they didn’t see it that way. It was curiosity, not malice. Conversation, not judgment.

Still, I never answered. Once, after being pressed too hard, I told a man I was born in the Chinese Year of the Rabbit. I figured that would end it.

A week later, he came back proud as could be. A driver friend had looked it up for him online.

So much for mystery.

The storm itself had mostly passed, but winter hadn’t loosened its grip. Sub-zero temperatures and wind still ruled the day as I drove us north on Interstate 35.

Wrecks were everywhere.

Jackknifed semis in ditches. Broken-down trucks along the shoulder. Cars smashed, twisted, abandoned. We counted them out loud, half as distraction, half as warning.

My body was tight with focus. Shoulders locked. Breath shallow.
I was offering silent prayers, asking God for wisdom and direction.

Near Ames, an overpass sign lit up:
INTERSTATE CLOSED AT AMES — HIGHWAY 30

It didn’t make sense. The road wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible either. No active snowfall. Just bitter cold and wind.

But sure enough, flashing lights forced us off the interstate.

Being behind the wheel gave me a sense of control — and I clung to it.
“Alright,” I said. “We’ll take Highway 30 east to Cedar Rapids, then north to Dubuque, and cross into Wisconsin there.”

I didn’t ask for opinions. They came anyway.

No one liked my plan. Not Allen. Not the men.

Allen checked Google Maps. There were no detours marked. No clear way back to the interstate. Highway 30 was open, clear enough, and manageable.

I knew it was the right choice.

But the men grew restless. Save a mile, save a dollar. That’s how they think. Highway 14 was nearby — north into Minnesota, then east into Wisconsin. Shorter. Cheaper.

Something in me tightened.

Highway 30 felt safe. Highway 14 felt wrong.

They overruled me.

So I did what I’ve done too many times before — I swallowed my instinct and turned left.

I stopped at a Casey’s to fuel up. Something told me we’d need it.

That’s when I finally looked back.

Black coats. White shirts. Bonnets. Hats. Packed tight. When they stepped out into the cold, they moved like penguins spilling from a colony.

I counted.

Seventeen Amish.
Plus Allen and me.
Nineteen people in a fifteen-passenger van.

We were pulling a cargo trailer, too.

My chest burned with anger. They’d done it again — boarded extra people without saying anything, knowing we wouldn’t turn back once we’d started.

It wasn’t just unsafe. It was unacceptable.

Allen had to calm me down. He knew if I spoke, it wouldn’t be kind. There was nothing to do now but move forward.

So, I did.

Highway 14 started calmly enough. Straight. Empty. Deceptively peaceful.

Then the wind picked up.

The van began drifting toward the shoulder. Fifty miles per hour became thirty-five. Snow squalls rolled in fast, swallowing the road. I flipped on the hazards, hoping no one else was foolish enough to be out there.

The world turned white.

It wasn’t even snowflakes anymore—it was just solid white. I couldn’t tell the sky from the road. It felt like I was going through a marshmallow.

Not snowflakes — just white. Sky and ground erased. Like driving inside cotton.

My breath shortened. My hands clenched. My foot barely touched the brake.

The wind screamed. Trees bent. Branches snapped. Snow slammed into us in thick waves. The van plowed through drifts with a sickening thud-thud-thud that rattled my teeth.

I wanted to turn around.

I begged to turn around.

But the men urged me on. Allen did too.

So, I shut down the part of myself that knew better and kept driving.

Then came the sound — BAM — the kind of noise that makes your heart skip a beat.

The van jerked hard to the left. I fought the wheel, heart pounding, as we lurched toward the shoulder.

And that’s when I knew: We had crossed the line from risky into dangerous.

Whiteout ahead.
Too many passengers.
And no easy way back.

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.