Friday night, I got a late start on my drive to visit with my son’s family
in New Orleans. Usually I would be west of Jackson, Miss., by 8 p.m., but
Friday, I was just east of Monroe, La.
It was a perfect night to listen to a library audio mystery. The wind was
still, the night sky lit by only a fingernail of moonlight. I set the
cruise control, unwrapped a stick of gum and listened carefully for clues
to figure out whodunit.
My night time drive exploded as a fierce orange light cut the darkness in
front of me, reaching to the moon lighting up the horizon and trees ahead
of me.
The car’s digital clock radio read 8:04 p.m.
It was obvious something had exploded, but what? The horizon continued to
stay lit far above the horizon. As I drove on the orange sky became flames
leaping up between the trees on the skyline. A couple minutes later the
flashing blue lights of official cars and waving state troopers directed me
off the interstate at the exit for the small community of Delhi.
I turned off the audio book and rolled down my window. The roar of the
fire, I could now see and smell, dictated that I would not be driving any
closer to the wall of flames spread out before me, just behind the
tree-lined interstate. It looked as if a whole community had exploded in
flames.
It was dark. I was off my familiar road and I did not have a map. I pulled
into the parking lot of the nearest gas station. The cement was covered
with crickets and an overflow of parked cars and trucks . The station’s
lights were dim compared to the light from the looming flames.
I parked and contemplated my options. I could drive blindly north or south
hoping to stumble back onto the interstate, or I could get out and make my
way across the cricket infested path to find out: What had happened, where
I was and how to get back on the road.
I opted for cricket covered cement and answers. With the roar of the fire
in the background and an escort of hundreds of creeping crickets, I made my
way through the fire watchers to the gas station. One clerk was crying,
another scurried past me saying, “we’re closed,” just as I spied a map of
Louisiana on the furthest wall. I asked my questions and left.
A natural gas line had broken and ignited near the intersection of
Interstate 20 and the Bayou Macon bridge. The Louisiana State Police were
re-routing traffic through Delhi. The town was deserted. Only darkened
shops, fast food places and gas stations greeted the parade of lumbering
semi-trucks and impatient cars snaking their way through the streets of
Delhi, from I-20 to U.S. 80. Small fire trucks blared uselessly for
passage on the narrow road to get to the fire. East of Delhi, where the
flames were no longer visible, officers directed me back to I-20.
As terrifying as a natural gas explosion is, it happened in a non-populated
area, leaving scorch marks on an area the size of several football fields.
By 10:30 p.m. interstate traffic flowed freely again.
Back on the interstate, I shifted into high gear, reset cruise control and
resumed listening to my audio murder mystery as I traveled to visit family
in New Orleans.