I grew up in Michigan, where I still live and where it can get very cold and snowy in the winter. So I’m used to frigid weather. But the winter of 2014 was especially harsh. One evening, during the tail end of a blizzard on a Saturday evening, my wife was called in to work. At the time, she was pregnant with our first child. 

We live in the country, and because of the inclement weather, I offered to take a quick drive down a few of the back roads to make sure they were safe for her to travel. I didn’t expect to have any problems, so I grabbed my cellphone and—wearing only a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops—jumped into my SUV and headed out. It was nearing dusk, and high winds were still prevalent. But I didn’t pay attention to the bitter chill, since I figured I was safe in my car and only going out for a quick drive. 

About three miles from home, I was traveling into a slight valley when I noticed the winds were blowing violently, whipping up snow and creating a virtual whiteout in front of me. Before I realized what was happening, I was rolling downhill, plowing through ever-increasing drifts. They got larger, and I suddenly found myself stuck in impassable drifts up to the hood of my SUV.