I looked out the fifth-floor hotel window Monday morning, December 18, and saw horizontal rain, people rushing with twisted umbrellas, and water crashing against Old Port’s wharf. My daughter, Isobel, and I, with our dog, Charley, stayed in Portland overnight to celebrate her 24th birthday, and we had a wonderful time. But then came the ride home to Rangeley.

The inclement weather was not a surprise. Its ferociousness, however, was. Rain and wind were expected, storm advisories given, and with Ignorance as my GPS we entered the highway home, fully stocked with baguettes and bagels. The wind was brutal on 295. Trucks and cars were being pushed around by the hand of Aeolus, the same god who tried to give Odysseus a helping hand. We listened to a podcast as I white-knuckled it to Augusta, hydroplaning so much I invited Isobel to get out and water ski.

Belgrade was a little bothered but no worse for wear. The road was somewhat littered with debris but entirely passable. It was late morning by the time we reached Farmington, and, not sensing any urgency, we stopped at Hannaford for some essentials: cheese, tea, asparagus, cat food, apples, and nuts. Rejoining Rte. 4, the reality of the situation became more clear. A large branch had fallen across the road and blocked traffic for about 15 minutes. Naturally, help quickly arrived and got things moving again. After all, who doesn’t travel everywhere with a chainsaw?

The appearance of the serpentine Sandy River nearly cresting drove home just how sketchy our predicament was. We started calculating the possibility of the road becoming impassable as we progressed. Entire fields were flooded, the wind continued jouncing the car, and a weather advisory was sent to my phone warning us to stay where we were unless we were “fleeing,” which we guessed we were by this time.

Phillips seemed fine but along the river another story was unraveling. We continued past the school and over the flats. The entire field across from Number 6 Road was flooded but the bridge beyond was fine. It was humbling witnessing Mother Nature’s indiscriminate destruction as we drove along. The Madrid Bridge was nearly overtaken by the raging waters of Sandy. Our thoughts were entirely with those under direct threat of the water’s destructive path, still not fully realizing that this included us.

We considered potential upcoming trouble spots and concluded they could be anywhere. Culverts were doing their jobs but this didn’t prevent impromptu streams from piling down the hillsides and battering the road, the very same road that could disintegrate at any moment. We came to several places where the river’s waters were crossing the road, requiring us to plow through without hesitation. Having a FedEx truck leading the way helped. The South Shore Road bridge was our final obstacle. It was under assault from the Cascade Stream that had been converted into a humongous firehose bent on blasting the bridge to kingdom come. Safely across, seeing school buses delivering kids after an early release, we meandered the rest of the way home. Charley had slept the whole way, completely nonplussed.

It became abundantly clear to us how lucky we were to have made the journey back without serious incident, unlike Odysseus. Mother Nature does what Mother Nature does. It’s nothing personal. As always, not enough thanks can be given to those who help keep us all safe: first responders, linemen, tree crews, bus drivers, each other, and the list goes on. That’s enough rain for now, though; bring on the snow.

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