Editor’s Note: WTOP reporter Dave Dildine is now safe and back in D.C. He returned earlier this week. He agreed to write a column about his experience.

WASHINGTON — Twelve hours into the snowstorm, there was no longer the ability to walk or stroll — only to flail, for what it was worth. An incredible lake-induced snowscape enveloped a swath of Western New York earlier this week. More than five to six inches of snow fell for hours on end inside the narrow squall. The Lake Effect Snow Machine was in overdrive with its sights set on denizens of Buffalo, New York.

Last weekend, when forecasters began calling for an “incredible lake effect snow event,” I decided I wanted to be a part of weather history. On Monday afternoon, my flight from Reagan National Airport to Buffalo Niagara International Airport would fly through the cold front that, hours earlier, had escorted a frigid air mass across the Great Lakes. The record-setting cold set the stage for a localized, but epic, snowstorm.

Moisture-laden clouds were coalescing into a great band of snow as I drove through downtown Buffalo later that evening. I came prepared with a first aid kit, layers of clothing, hand warmers, backup batteries and a week’s worth of non-perishable food and water. Within the first few hours of snowfall it became apparent, however, that driving was unsafe. I resisted the temptation to explore further. I checked into a hotel. Hours later, travel would be impossible.

The storm’s overnight exhibition was extraordinary. As the winds increased, so too did the size of the drifts. And then, in a flash, came the thundersnow — a half-dozen strokes of lightning in succession at close range. The crack of thunder was deafening, not at all diminished by the onslaught of snow.

Next to the hotel, traffic on the New York State Thruway ground to a halt by midnight. Drivers in vehicles of all sizes became stranded, overwhelmed by merciless snowfall. Cars, pickups and semis were left abandoned in the middle of roads nearby, catawampus and clustered. They were soon shrouded in snow, frozen in time.

By the following morning, visibility was often near zero. My periodic walks became more exhausting as the snow depths increased. It was impossible to venture more than a hundred feet or so from the hotel without fear of becoming disoriented and lost.

Back at the hotel, the white walls were closing in. Enormous “snow dunes” swelled upward from the parking lot to the second-story balcony. The windows and walls were rimmed in clumps of ice.

That night, the roof of the hotel creaked and moaned under the weight of the snow. This made for a tense, restless sleep. The storm’s howling winds were now deadened by enormous drifts that banked up against the walls.

By dawn, the squall had lifted north and weakened. The sun rose over a glaciated landscape. Most human things had vanished; the edges of cars were erased. Houses and larger structures appeared lower, their roofs blunted by sagging cornices made of ice. Vehicles abandoned on the nearby roads were nearly invisible.

With skies already darkening by midday and another several feet forecast, a hectic and exhausting dig-out ensued. In the narrow window of clear weather, I was faced with a labyrinth of road closures between the hotel and airport. A 20-minute drive to Blasdell (south of Buffalo) was a nearly four-hour return trip, with many roads, including the New York State Thruway, closed or impassable. I arrived at the airport as the next round of snow was moving overhead.

I learned that every city has its breaking point. In Washington, a mere inch of snow during rush hour will cause the grid to seize. But five to six feet of snow in 24 hours, even in the snow-savvy suburbs of Buffalo, is crippling and downright dangerous.

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