Connections: An account of 2022 Christmas airline travel

I was right to expect complications. What I didn’t expect was the generosity and the kindness that I found along the way.   

Seattle

A light snow was falling as I boarded the airport ferry in Ketchikan and started processing how excited I was to be going home. After checking my bag, I got through security and waited for my flight. It came right on time, no delays.

The flight to Seattle was quick and unremarkable, as it always seems to be. SEA-TAC, too, didn’t seem any busier or more hectic than usual, though on my way to my gate I noticed lines of perhaps a few dozen people at some of the customer service desks, and a television reporter setting up to report on the conditions.

I plopped down at my gate and waited, occasionally checking the departures for a delay or cancellation notice. Nothing. The flight was scheduled to leave Seattle just before midnight on Thursday, right on time.

Once it had arrived, we boarded the plane and departed for Chicago.

I didn’t sleep on the flight. The ample supply of crossword puzzles, music, TV shows and games I had brought to entertain me during the delays and cancellations worked a little too well, it turns out. Then, before I knew it, we had landed — or at least I thought we had. Turns out we had hit a patch of severe turbulence on our descent toward O’Hare. (We actually touched down just before 7 a.m. Central Time.)

As we taxied to the gate, I again was surprised looking out the window how un-calamitous the weather conditions were. There didn’t seem to be much snow falling, and visibility seemed moderate. I noticed the wind lashing the runway, thin ribbons of snow writhing on the concrete. A shock of cold air as we got onto the jet bridge made the terminal seem all the warmer.

Chicago O’Hare

As with Seattle, the Chicago airport seemed unusually usual as I walked to my next flight. I didn’t notice long lines or hordes of confused travelers. I headed over to my gate, bought a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich, and made aquaintance with some of the people at our gate.

We boarded the plane and watched the de-icing crews set about their work on the plane, white plumes blasting off the wings. But the plane remained stationary, occasionally shuddering from the wind.

We waited. And waited. And waited. The pilot offered us updates, explaining that the weather was so cold that the de-icing agent itself had started freezing to the plane’s wings. After two and a half hours, he apologized profusely as he announced that the flight had been canceled. Our next steps would be to decide whether we wanted to find another flight to Minneapolis, or to pick up our checked bags at the baggage claim downstairs.

Complications

As I rushed over to the customer service counter in seek of an answer, I ran into a mother and daughter who had sat across the aisle from me on the plane to Minneapolis. They delivered the ugly news: the next eligible flight to Minneapolis that we could take wouldn’t be leaving until Christmas.

The mother explained that they had planned to rent a car in Minneapolis to drive up to Moose Lake, about two hours north of the city, to visit her mom. With the cancellation, they instead would be renting a car in Chicago and driving that same distance. I was familiar with Moose Lake: We drove by it nearly every summer on our way up to our family cabin.

I told the mother that I, too, was trying to get to Minneapolis, explaining who I was and where I had been coming from. I asked if I could possibly join them on their drive, and the mother agreed, though I sensed reservation in her response. It was probably just the stress of the situation.

Baggage

With a tentative plan in place, we and about 100 other people made our way down to the baggage claim to tell the service desk to place our luggage in the carousel. I ran off to use the restroom; when I returned the mother informed me that she had done a “background check” and verified what I told her.

We got to the front of the line and gave the man at the desk our checked bag numbers. It would take about two hours for the luggage to arrive at the carousel, he said.

With nothing else to do, the woman and I exchanged phone numbers so that she and her daughter could pick up the car while I waited for the luggage. Her name was Carla Claus.

While they were out, I disseminated the news about the two-hour wait time, and looked for others who were on our flight. I found orphaned travelers bound for Minneapolis and other desitnations, too: Peoria, Milwaukee, Grand Rapids, Rochester, even Mumbai.

I also tried to connect people who were headed to common destinations. Most people had made their arrangements, but when I eventually picked up our luggage from the carousel, I was glad to find that three people bound for Peoria had made arrangements to drive together after I helped them connect.

With our luggage in hand, we all loaded our things into the back of the rental car — a red Toyota Corolla, or maybe it was a Camry — and started our voyage off.

The drive

The first leg of the drive was quiet. With the chaos of the baggage claim behind us, I tried to make small talk at first, but it was awkward and halting, and I eventually gave up to focus my attention out the window, slipping in and out of sleep. The straight, flat road felt alien compared to the hilly, meandering roads of Ketchikan; the wintry landscape more wasteland than wonderland.

After a few hours, it was dark out, and we diverted to a drive-through for burgers and onion rings at Culver’s, a Midwest-based fast-food chain that I stop at every time I come home. I took a photo of the food for my aunt, who shares my love of the onion rings there.

We resumed the drive. The highway didn’t seem unusually busy, and there wasn’t much snow on the road, but we kept track of the cars that had skidded off the road into the median ditch. Last I remember, it was about five or six. The ice became more frequent as we drove, and eventually Carla, ever the vigilant driver, turned off the road to a gas station parking lot to try experimenting with the rental car’s brakes and turn response. (Her car in Pittsburgh was a Jeep with all-wheel drive, I learned.)

She drove cautiously for the last leg of the trip, closer to 40 miles per hour. As we continued through into Wisconsin, Carla and I somehow fell into a more familiar conversation. We talked about where I went to school, how I wound up in Alaska, about her job as a nurse and her experience living in Pittsburgh. We talked about traditions and travel and family and friends.

We were in the thick of our engaged discussion when, at last, the emptiness of Wisconsin gave way to the familiar ugly concrete and red and blue signs of mattress stores, chain restaurants and convenience stores that marked the edge of the suburbs of St. Paul. We caught all the familiar landmarks: laughing at the windows of the 3M headquarters, with its windows lit up in the shape of a Christmas tree; the Minnesota Capitol building; the neon red glow of the Gold Medal Flour sign; the IDS skyscraper (the tallest in Minnesota), lit up in green and red on top.

We pulled off the highway and into the even more familiar side streets around my neighborhood, when we pulled up to my house. I jumped out of the car and ran inside to give my parents and sister a huge hug.

We gave the Clauses cookies that we had baked and compensation for their generosity, and invited them inside to warm up or to stay for the night. Carla politely declined the invitation, but wished us a merry Christmas and said how glad she was to see us reunited. She thanked us for our generosity, and then Mrs. Claus took her cookies back to the red car and drove off.  

The next morning, I texted Carla to thank her again, and to make sure that she made it to Moose Lake safely.

“You’re so very welcome!” she wrote back. “It was worth it to see your parents and sister so happy to see you!! We made it!! Merry Christmas!!!”