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Fascinating story, local hero. Should be made into a movie.
In February, 1956 the man shown here, John D. Hearon, was driving a Continental Trailways bus bound from Amarillo, Texas to Tucumcari, New Mexico. John wasn’t anyone famous or powerful — just a working man doing his job. But his actions that day turned him into a hero.
That day, a record-setting blizzard swept across the High Plains. Winds howled, snow drifted shoulder-high, and visibility fell to nothing. Somewhere west of Adrian, Texas, near the state line, Hearon’s bus bogged down in the snow and refused to budge. He kept his passengers calm, doing what he could to conserve heat and reassure them, but as the hours wore on it became clear that no help was coming. The highway was deserted. Snow was piling higher by the minute. Hearon made a decision: he bundled himself up as best he could, stepped out into that blinding storm, and started walking.
He followed the telephone poles that paralleled Route 66, counting each one in the whiteout. The snow was waist-deep in places, the wind cutting like glass. He trudged mile after mile — thirteen or fourteen — before finally staggering into the little border town of Glenrio, Texas. There he collapsed near this diner, owned by Joseph Brownlee. John was barely conscious, his face burned and swollen from the cold. Folks in Glenrio rushed to his aid, got him warm, and when they heard about the stranded passengers, they gathered trucks, blankets, and shovels and headed back out into the storm. Thanks to their combined effort, every passenger on that bus was rescued alive.
John himself suffered from exposure, exhaustion, and snow blindness. He spent time in a Tucumcari hospital recovering, and when newspapers got wind of what he’d done, they called him a hero — the man who walked through hell and snow to save his passengers. I've read different accounts regarding how many people he saved. Some say 15, some say 35.
By the way, the storm that week was one of the worst in the region’s history, dumping as much as sixty inches of snow in parts of the Panhandle.
John David Hearon died at the age of 47 in 1965. He is buried in the Lummus Cemetery in Flo, Texas. Photo courtesy his family.
In February, 1956 the man shown here, John D. Hearon, was driving a Continental Trailways bus bound from Amarillo, Texas to Tucumcari, New Mexico. John wasn’t anyone famous or powerful — just a working man doing his job. But his actions that day turned him into a hero.
That day, a record-setting blizzard swept across the High Plains. Winds howled, snow drifted shoulder-high, and visibility fell to nothing. Somewhere west of Adrian, Texas, near the state line, Hearon’s bus bogged down in the snow and refused to budge. He kept his passengers calm, doing what he could to conserve heat and reassure them, but as the hours wore on it became clear that no help was coming. The highway was deserted. Snow was piling higher by the minute. Hearon made a decision: he bundled himself up as best he could, stepped out into that blinding storm, and started walking.
He followed the telephone poles that paralleled Route 66, counting each one in the whiteout. The snow was waist-deep in places, the wind cutting like glass. He trudged mile after mile — thirteen or fourteen — before finally staggering into the little border town of Glenrio, Texas. There he collapsed near this diner, owned by Joseph Brownlee. John was barely conscious, his face burned and swollen from the cold. Folks in Glenrio rushed to his aid, got him warm, and when they heard about the stranded passengers, they gathered trucks, blankets, and shovels and headed back out into the storm. Thanks to their combined effort, every passenger on that bus was rescued alive.
John himself suffered from exposure, exhaustion, and snow blindness. He spent time in a Tucumcari hospital recovering, and when newspapers got wind of what he’d done, they called him a hero — the man who walked through hell and snow to save his passengers. I've read different accounts regarding how many people he saved. Some say 15, some say 35.
By the way, the storm that week was one of the worst in the region’s history, dumping as much as sixty inches of snow in parts of the Panhandle.
John David Hearon died at the age of 47 in 1965. He is buried in the Lummus Cemetery in Flo, Texas. Photo courtesy his family.
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PBS: From Rails to Trails . . .
The 60-year struggle to convert thousands of miles of abandoned railroads into trails for cycling and walking.
Facing fierce opposition and legal challenges from private property owners, leaders fought to reclaim these corridors for the public, creating a national network of scenic, car-free paths.
www.pbs.org
The 60-year struggle to convert thousands of miles of abandoned railroads into trails for cycling and walking.
Facing fierce opposition and legal challenges from private property owners, leaders fought to reclaim these corridors for the public, creating a national network of scenic, car-free paths.
From Rails to Trails
The story of a 60-year struggle to convert abandoned railroads into trails for cycling and walking.