An Amish Winter Trip Gone Wrong (Part 6): Stuck
Author Haley Straw returns today with part 6 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, part 3 here, part 4 here, and part 5 here if you missed them.
We should have been home by then. Instead, we were still chasing taillights through the dark.
Highway 30 was clear.
Highway 151 was manageable.
Seventy extra miles.
But we were moving. In a storm like that, moving felt like victory.
Sixteen hours after we first started, we reached Melbourne, Wisconsin, and dropped off our first group. Relief washed through me as families stepped out into the brittle night air and disappeared into warm, waiting houses.
Safe for now, but we still had more stops.
Another hundred miles.
Another community.
Another stretch of road coated in drifting snow.
By the time we reached Woodville, the roads narrowed into white tunnels. Snow drifts swallowed the pavement.
I eased forward carefully, nudging through the drifts like a hesitant bird testing the air.
Allen rested in the front passenger seat beside me, eyes closed. He would need strength to drive home later.
After half an hour of white-knuckled concentration, I admitted what I already knew.
“I need you.”
He slid back into the driver’s seat.
Some men collect tools. Allen collected skills. He knew how to handle bad roads. As a young man, he used to treat snow and ice like a challenge — getting stuck on purpose and figuring out how to work his way back out. That kind of foolish practice actually prepared him perfectly for Amish taxi driving.
That night, it mattered.
Around three in the morning, we turned down a narrow country road. Just two miles from our next drop-off.
Two miles.
A sheet of ice hid beneath the drifts.
We broke through one drift, then another, and there it was — a two-foot wall of snow across the road. The house sat just beyond it. The house lights glowed softly through the storm.
Close enough to see.
Too far to reach.
One of our passengers, Joni, directed us to a nearby farmhouse. He knocked on the door and woke a family in the middle of the night to borrow a shovel. This is common in Amish communities. Neighbors show up.
Always.
He returned with a single snow shovel.
One shovel.
Nineteen passengers.
Twelve-below-zero temperature.
And no one suggested turning back.
I watched in disbelief as the scrawniest Amish man in the group attacked that drift like his life depended on it, and maybe it did.
The wind cut through his coat. Snow blasted his face. He shoveled with furious determination, breath rising in clouds that vanished instantly.
Twenty minutes later, we rolled forward.
Victory again.
Small.
Hard-earned.
Fragile.
When we reached the final driveway in that community, drifts blocked the long gravel lane. Allen powered through them. And then something unexpected happened. The two young Amish women in the back — each holding a bundled baby — started laughing.
Letting go of the proper little smiles they usually wear. Letting go of that careful control. It startled me.
Amish women are taught young to keep themselves in check.
Be modest.
Be respectful.
Don’t make a scene.
Especially out in public.
But in that moment, they were just young mothers on an adventure.
Their laughter loosened the men, too. One grinned widely and declared this a trip he would never forget.
For a moment, the storm felt like a story instead of a threat, but winter doesn’t let you celebrate long. Another drift blocked us near the house.
The men climbed out again, fighting wind and snow. They shoveled for twenty minutes while the cold chewed at their fingers.
Normally, if a road became impassable, the Amish would unhitch a buggy or sled, load the women and children, and make the final stretch that way. We’ve done it before in mud season.
Not in this kind of cold. Not with babies along. At twelve degrees below zero — and far worse with wind chill — frostbite doesn’t negotiate. We had to get to the house. So they unhooked the trailer. Without it, we had a better shot at backing up, rocking the van, and digging ourselves out if we got stuck.
I watched those men work, shoulders bent into the wind, and felt a shift inside me. Earlier, they argued over miles and money, but when it came to protecting their women and children, they did not hesitate.
In Amish culture, men are providers and protectors.
The women are the steady backbone at home.
But out there in that storm, everyone was simply trying to survive the night together.
Finally, we broke through.
The van rolled into the driveway.
Doors opened, and families unloaded quickly, hurrying children into warmth.
Steam rose from the animals in a nearby barn. Porch lights flickered against swirling snow.
Another family delivered safely.
I should have felt relieved, but instead, exhaustion wrapped around me like wet wool. Allen and I still had to drive home.
The trailer sat abandoned miles back on the roadside. Would we be able to get fuel? How would the roads be?
And the storm wasn’t done with us yet, but we were safe, for now.
But we weren’t home.
We had delivered everyone else safely. Now we had to find our own way through the storm.
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.
