Last week’s snowstorm reminded me of the time I escaped one danger only to be caught in another.

The first danger happened on Oct. 24, 1983, when the 62nd Security Police Squadron went on alert. This was a fairly routine occurrence. You grabbed your go-bag and reported to the assembly point (usually the squadron’s headquarters) and they would check to see if you had all of your required gear.

This time we reported to one of the base’s hangars. It had happened before, so no alarm bells. At the end of the processing line was my flight sergeant, TSgt Stephen Mead.

“How long you got left, Fitz?” he asked. I answered 28 days.

“Don’t ask any questions,” he said. “Take your stuff and go home. Be back here at 7 p.m.”

The next day, I awoke and turned on CNN, which was still a pretty new thing. I saw John Sears, who had been next to me in the processing line, run across the screen. He was in Grenada.

The Army Rangers had secured the airfield there. Our Air Force security police took over immediately afterward so the Rangers could move inland.

At that time, coming off the heels of Vietnam, there was an unwritten rule that you didn’t send troops into a hostile situation in their final 30 days of service. I reported for duty as instructed knowing I was not in Grenada because I was two days inside that window.

Fast forward a month. I was headed home.

My wife and children were already in Colorado, having left in September. I packed what remained of our belongings into our 1979 Dodge Omni and left McChord Air Force Base for the final time.

When I got to Oregon, I ran into what we now call the Thanksgiving Blizzard of 1983.

A Dodge Omni isn’t impressive in any way, but it does travel faster than a blizzard. By the time I reached Idaho, I was between the two pulses of the storm with the weaker first front ahead of me and the monster second pulse chasing.

And that’s where I stayed, in that rocking chair between the two pulses of a major storm. At least until I got to Elk Mountain Pass in Wyoming, where I finally caught up with the first pulse in the middle of the night.

I had planned well enough to have tire chains with me. Knowing it would be foolish to pull over on the side of the highway during extremely low visibility, I took the first available exit which might have been either “Middle of Nowhere” or “Impending Doom.”

Now, 1979 Dodge Omnis had a lot of quirks. On this one, the lock would sometimes engage when you closed the door. That’s usually not a big deal because when you get out of the car, you ordinarily have the key in your hand.’

Not so when you need to leave the engine running in order to leave the lights blazing so that you can line up your tire chains. I was locked out. In a blizzard. With nary another person in sight.

After pondering my situation, I was finally forced to break the passenger-side window and limp back to Rawlins, Wyo. Upon reaching town, I dumpster dived for some cardboard and, with a roll of duct tape, patched the gap where the window had been.

The good news was that the delay had put me back in the rocking chair. There I remained until I got home and got buried by three feet of snow.

Which, ironically, made me wish I was in Grenada.