“A terrible storm of wind and snow set in last evening and throughout most of the day,” reported the Hudson Daily Evening Register of March 12, 1888. “The snow was light and dry and floated through the air like smoke.”
The snow quickly accumulated on the ground creating massive snow drifts that (literally) halted business in Hudson—the county seat—and surrounding communities in Columbia County, N.Y., in its tracks. A howling wind blew in from the north east making conditions worse.
Business along the wharves, piers and slips was suspended in Hudson. Train and mail service slowed and finally stopped. The mills and schools were closed. Warren Street in Hudson was nearly impassable. Milkmen had a hard time getting out of town after their early morning deliveries. Special men were placed at all the hose company houses to make sure the firefighters could get out in case of an emergency.
“Did you blow in?” the shopkeepers jokingly asked the smattering of customers who made it to the Warren Street businesses.
The only conversations there revolved around the storm that people were already calling the worst they could recall seeing in more than 60 years. Telegraph wires were snapping all over the county prompting the Register to complain that “the snow raised the devil with the telegraph lines today” and that “our Associated Press news is very meager.”
The Register began its local storm coverage with a poem during each of the three days affected by the blizzard. The first was somewhat hopeful.
“Oh, this is the month of the year where nature says to the snow
It is time that you disappear you must take yourself off, you know
Just get yourself ready and go pack up your drifts and march”
While that newspaper provided poetry, their competition, the weekly Columbia Republican, preferred to insert poetry into their prose.
“The storm increased in violence hour by hour until it finally broke loose in a mighty effort,” reported the paper. “The rage of a howling gale swept over the city, blinding pedestrians with pelting snow and forming great drifts everywhere.”
And this was just the beginning. By the 13th they were referring to it as “the Great Storm.” Columbia County was not alone. The blizzard paralyzed the East from Virginia to Maine and killed more than 400 people. Sustained winds were reported to be 45 miles an hour, snow accumulation of between 40 and 50 inches and massive drifts covering entire buildings. One drift, in Brooklyn, was reported to be 52 feet high.
New York City was almost “shut off from communication with the outside world” according to an AP report, with an “embargo on traffic and travel” in the city. There was an elevated train wreck, people were “overcome by the weather” and snapped telegraph lines were everywhere in Manhattan, wrote the AP. A train wreck blamed on the storm near Dobbs Ferry, in Westchester County killed four. In Troy, the Albany Iron Works’ roof collapsed burying four men who, when found, had severe injuries.
Back in Columbia County, train service from six different railroad companies was completely halted.Three trains were stalled at the Hudson River railroad station. Large gangs of workmen spent the night and morning trying to dig out the engines. One mile from Chatham, heading toward Kinderhook, a passenger train with 25 people aboard was stuck and had been since the night before. Help, in the form of provisions, was sent to the train that was so buried in snow only the engine’s smokestack was visible.
In Chatham village there were 15-foot high snowdrifts. Several narrow escapes were made by residents who were nearly buried alive. Stockport saw 10-foot drifts with the highway between Stockport and Stottville impossible to pass. Area farmers took in “storm bound travelers,” reported the Republican. Blue Stores was “nearly buried in snow” with the tops of fences unable to be seen and “roads that will be impassable for some time to come,” according to the Republican. In Greenport the drifts looked like “small mountains” and the road between there and Hudson was also inaccessible.
As the storm continued, Hudson’s town clock could still be heard chiming on the hour, but the snow muffled the sound to the point of nearly being inaudible. The roads into Hudson were so drifted that “no communication with us could be reached,” reported the Register. Doors and windows were snowed over with drifts reaching to the second story of buildings. One newspaper carrier reported that half the houses on his route were under snow banks.
Hudson’s mayor and the common council were “doing everything possible to keep our streets passable,” stated the Register on March 13. “Teams of men are at work and the sidewalks on the principal streets are such that people can find their way through them.” The resulting passages through the snow were described as “miniature Suez Canals” and “an immense fortress.”
The Register’s readers, on March 13, were treated to a second poem. This one was a bit more mournful than the previous piece.
“Ah there my weather so cold, so bright
How do you do after so stormy a night?
Do you feel like an owl or a dickey-bird dear?
Or a defeated candidate finding solace in beer”
The next day, March 14, saw the storm begin to subside and clean-up begin in earnest. In New York City the AP reported that business was partly “revived” and that the stock exchange had reopened. Hudson was back open for business as well and its streets were sufficiently cleared to allow teams of horses, without loads, to make it through.
More than 20 inches of snow fell on the area during the storm, but by the 14th the Register was already chiding people for not clearing off their walks. “Only those negligent to their duties failed to clear the walks and gutters,” stated the paper. The road to Greenport once again opened thanks to that town’s supervisor, Fred Jones, along with 70 men and 20 mules. Train and mail service also began to trickle back into the county.
The train stuck outside of Chatham was finally dug out and the Register’s final poem of the storm was published.
“When the winter cold is over and we gambol in the clover
Or escape the shining sunlight in some cool and shady spot
When the snowdrifts have disappeared and the birds sing happy-hearted
Then we’ll kick around and grumble that the weather is so hot”
A different version of this story appeared in The Register Star on Feb. 26, 2011.
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