The fundamental truths I learned about leadership from my time in New Orleans during and after Hurricane Katrina are:

1) Accessing, Trusting & Acting on Your Gut Instincts: The process of becoming a leader starts by engaging your own gut level leadership instincts. It’s about developing your ability to access, trust and act on your intuition. It’s making what I call the leadership switch, which means switching your focus for direction to inside of yourself instead of outside to an "authority" figure. It means using your leadership instinct as a compass by which to navigate when the external landmarks aren’t clear or have been washed away, literally, as they were in Katrina.

2) Learning to be a Leader is an Experiential Process: In order to become the best leader that one can be, one must have direct experience of engaging one’s gut instincts. You can’t only read about how to do this. I believe that directly experiencing a personal challenge, even a crisis, enables one to fully maximize this leadership potential. Going through an outdoor challenge like Outward Bound is one way to tap one’s leadership instincts.

3) The Ability to Deal With Reality is Key: Developing the ability to keep up with a fast-changing reality is key to successful leadership. This involves being able to switch off what you thought would happen to facing what is actually happening. Further, it means being able to shift your "internal frame of reference" to quickly match a new, changed reality. Being stuck on "this isn't what's supposed to be happening" impairs one's ability to respond successfully.

4) Without Resolving One's Own Weaknesses, One Will Not Be Able to Develop One's Full Leadership Potential: Identifying and learning to overcome one's weaknesses is essential to developing your leadership potential. Unless one does this, these weaknesses remain as hidden obstacles, much like logs floating just under the surface of a river. Weaknesses may include fear, a lack of confidence, or even arrogance, for example. The central weakness I faced in Katrina was overcoming my fear of asking for help or even admitting that I needed help. Fear of dependency and "being a burden" followed closely behind.

5) Never Hand Over Complete Responsibility for Your Situation to "Authority Figures." Don't naively trust authority figures as if you'd be trusting God. They will do their best, but they have their own self-interest as well. Always hold onto some quotient of responsibility for yourself and your situation. Never ignore your “leadership instinct.”

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Evening.

It only took Carol and her husband, Joe, twenty minutes to drive from their house to the restaurant. I had never met them before, and prior to Katrina didn't even know they existed. Yet, here I was riding in the backseat of their air-conditioned car on the way to spend the night at their house. But, given the events of the last week, nothing surprised me.

They graciously opened their home to me, which stood in stark contrast to the “every man for himself world” I’d come from. I felt as if I had just stepped out of the Nineteenth into the Twenty-first Century. Everything was a novelty: electricity, hot and cold running water, air-conditioning, television, refrigeration, even food.

I was filthy so I took my first shower. I lingered, letting the water run over my face and rest of my body, but felt guilty for taking so much for myself. I stepped out and grabbed a clean, white towel. I flushed the toilet just to watch it work.

Back in my room, I put on a dirty shirt and pair of shorts while Carol washed some of my other clothes. Now that I was clean I got the full impact of my unwashed clothes. I went to the window air-conditioner and put my face where I could feel the full flow of cool air, which brought such relief, but more guilt. Why was I getting all of this?

Carol knocked and delivered a load of freshly laundered clothes. Selecting a Hotel Monteleone tee shirt and khaki shorts, I dressed and began to feel a little like myself. At the same time though, I felt like a tuning fork, set in motion by Katrina, and I was still vibrating.

I called Kathy to let her know I was safely at Carol's and then Brian to coordinate my morning pick-up. He would drive down with a farmer friend and meet me around 10:00 a.m.

In the kitchen, Carol offered me food and drink. I wasn’t hungry, but accepted a beer, since they weren’t wine drinkers.

I watched a little television with them. An angry New Orleans Police Lieutenant was telling his story to a news anchor on one of the Baton Rouge stations. He had driven his family in his police cruiser from New Orleans to Baton Rouge and dropped them off at a relative's house. He then drove his cruiser to a shopping mall and abandoned it in the parking lot.

"Why did you do that?" asked the anchor.

"We were overwhelmed and the leadership of the city of New Orleans failed miserably. There was no plan to handle a crisis like this, even though this is exactly what we feared could happen," he said.

"What do you mean there was no plan? You mean the plan was outdated?" the anchor asked.

"No. It's not that the plan was outdated, there WAS NO PLAN," he added. "We had no emergency plan. We were told to show up for our normal shifts and do the best we could," he said bitterly. "What the...!?!?" I thought.

Feeling wiped out, I excused myself and went to my room. Being able to close the door and not suffocate nor worry about someone breaking into my room was a luxury. Before dropping off to sleep I turned up the window air-conditioner and made some notes in my journal. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of the last week. Finally exhausted, I switched off the light, slid between the fresh sheets and fell instantly to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke around 9 a.m. and had a light breakfast with Carol and Joe. By 9:30 a.m. I was anxiously listening for the sounds of a truck driving up to the house. At 10:00 a.m. Brian and his farmer friend pulled into the drive. I ran out and gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. He's my baby brother, but here he was rescuing me.

I thanked Carol and Joe, invited them to come and stay with us in California, and threw my bags in the back of the king cab. Since Brian and his friend didn't know what to expect, they had planned for total self-sufficiency. An ice chest packed with drinks and sandwiches was in the back of the truck along with a fifty-gallon drum of diesel fuel. A pump and hose was attached to the drum, as was a car battery to power it so that they didn't have to depend on finding open gas stations. Not knowing how dangerous it might be, they both had pistols with them. "Thank God for these Arkansas boys," I thought.

The drive to Arkansas took us around seven hours. Along the way we passed long lines of utility repair trucks heading south. They were keenly interested in hearing my story so I told them, and doing so helped me stay grounded and begin my transition back.

I marveled at being back in a world that worked. Speeding along in that truck was a novelty as was seeing all of the other moving vehicles and people going about their normal lives.

We arrived back at my mother's house, a place that I hadn't expected to see again this soon. After hugs and dinner, we settled down in the living room and I told my story again. In addition to my mother, Brian's wife Rita was there as were my brother Steve and his wife Sally. When I told them about not being able to light that little oil lamp I had taken from the Carousel Bar, I broke down sobbing. Steve moved over to sit next to me and put his arm around me. Normally I'm the strong one, but here I was, spent and being propped up by my brothers. It felt good.

The next morning, Saturday, Steve and Sally drove me to Little Rock to catch my flight home. I had finally managed to reschedule my Southwest flight to a day and place that it would actually happen. On the drive over, we stopped at a gas station and went inside the mini-mart. As Steve was paying for the gas we could see the Katrina headlines of the newspaper on the counter. "You know," Steve said to the cashier, "my brother just came from there" as he pointed to the headline.

"Is that right?" she asked. "Well, God bless you Honey."

As a final stop we went to the Cracker Barrel, which is a chain of "country style" restaurants in the South. The food was wholesome and the portions were huge. I again picked at my food while Steve and Sally enjoyed a full breakfast. I was amazed at all of the food and water, and had that feeling of almost being sick at the sight of it.

On my way out of the hotel I had carried a little green bag with three small half-filled bottles of water. As I got back into Steve's car, there it sat on the floor right in front of my seat. Not having enough food was one thing, but not enough water was something else altogether. I have that bag and bottles out in my car. I still can't let them go.

After Steve and Sally dropped me off, I made my way to my gate. As I sat waiting I made notes in my journal. Everything in the terminal worked. The people were normal, moving through experiences that they expected to happen: waiting for a flight, boarding, and getting to their destination. Having just come from days where few, if any, of my expectations of "normalcy" were met, I was feeling ill at ease. I wanted to get up and scream, "I've just come out of New Orleans. It's a nightmarish hellhole. Wake up people, we've got to do something."

We boarded and I managed to get an aisle seat at the front of the plane next to a nice tall young man named Congo and his mother. We had a pleasant conversation prior to takeoff and then again on our flight to Las Vegas, where we had a half-hour stopover, before proceeding on to Oakland. I didn't believe that I would actually make it home.

About halfway to Vegas we hit turbulence and I began to feel airsick, which rarely happens to me. With only twenty minutes to go before landing I began to feel really sick. The seat belt sign was on so I felt I couldn't leave my seat. I didn't want to throw up in the bag, so I fixed my gaze on the red heart logo on the front wall of the craft.

The flight attendants seated in front of me could see that I was turning white so one got up and handed me a wet cloth and advised me to turn the air vent directly on my face. These helped only slightly so they gave me the okay to hit the bathroom, even though the plane was bouncing hard.

I barely got in the door before I threw up multiple times into the sink. I sat down on the closed toilet seat and tried to get my bearings. All of this had brought on a kind of claustrophobic panic, a feeling that I couldn't stand another minute on that plane.

Once I felt as stable as I was going to get, I went back to my seat and tried to breathe deep and stay focused on that heart. Another five minutes of hanging on and we were on the ground. Once the Vegas passengers had deplaned, I asked the flight attendant if it would be okay if I stood in the walkway just outside the plane. "That would be fine," she said.

As I inhaled fresh air, I debated whether to get back on or not. I really didn't think I could handle a second flight, but so badly wanted to get home.

When everyone had boarded, I finally forced myself back onto the plane. We had a new flight crew, but they could tell that I was in bad shape. As soon as we left the ground I could feel the nausea and panic swell up, and they could see it too. One of them gave me the nod and I hit the bathroom again, only this time the results were more violent. I wanted to die.

It was all too much for me and now that I was safely out of New Orleans, all of the physical and psychological assaults of the last week came crashing down. I managed to get back to my seat and settle myself enough to endure the rest of the flight.

Once we landed, I exited the plane as fast as I could and made my way out to the curb, where my daughter, Kara Grace and my son, Conor, were waiting for me while Kathy and my daughter, Kaitlin, drove the car around. They both flew into my arms as did Kathy and Kaitlin when they found us. I wanted to pinch myself.

On the drive home we stopped once to get coffee. When we got back in the car I told them some of my story, and again broke down in tears. They all listened quietly and each reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

The next day, Kathy and I went for a bike ride through the vineyards near our home in Healdsburg, in the Sonoma Country wine region. Being September, the vines were heavy with grapes and harvest was only a few weeks away.

Normally, when we ride I look at the vineyards and think how beautiful, what great "scenery" to ride through. Today, however, the first thought that came to mind when I saw those grapes was, "Look at all of that food."

I was back and I knew right then, I would never be the same. Against my will I had suffered through all that Katrina had brought, but now was grateful for the experience. I had become more fully human. I needed to be thrown out of my comfort zone, needed to experience deprivation, because without that, we all risk creating a world filled with people who just don't give a damn.

In the end, Katrina taught me not to let fear, a lack of courage, or the deadening impact of the "everyday" stop me from giving a damn or making my life what I want it to be.

I returned from my bike ride, took a long shower, pulled a corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer, and had a nice glass of wine sitting on the front porch with Kathy.

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Early Afternoon.

We traveled on back streets, driving around downed trees and power lines. Thirty minutes later we arrived in Kenner, the temporary "base camp" for the CBS News crews. Several large satellite trucks were parked in front of a building, from which most of its bricks had blown down and smashed into two parked cars. The rest littered the parking lot.

A Blackhawk helicopter landed in a field just behind us. "Will you have the sound of that chopper in one of your stories?" I asked him. "Hey, the sound of choppers in the background always makes it a great story," Jim said, smiling.

We were parked next to a Radisson Hotel with several shattered windows. Was it open? When I walked into the lobby the hotel manager immediately approached me. “Can I help you sir?” he asked.

“Yes, are you open?” I asked.

“No sir, our last guests are leaving right now,” he replied.

“I need to get to Baton Rouge. Do you know of anyone going that way? I asked.

“No sir, I’m afraid not. The best you can do is ask someone with a car for a ride,” he replied. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help and for being so forward in confronting you in the lobby. You just can’t be too careful right now.”

I approached people loading their car in front of the entry. No, they didn’t have any room for an additional passenger. I crossed the street and walked by the two brick-smashed cars, looking inside for keys. Had I found keys and been able to start one of them, I was going to take it and drive myself to Baton Rouge, cracked windshield, smashed hood and all. I didn’t know what I would do with the car once I got there, but that detail wasn’t important at the moment. Neither car had keys.

I walked up the line of parked CBS vehicles and noticed John Roberts, who at that time was anchoring the CBS Evening News. He was dressed in neatly pressed khaki trousers, a "safari" shirt, and his hair was nicely done. I took one look at him and thought, "Well John, it's clear that you haven't spent anytime in New Orleans yet."

I went back over and borrowed Jim’s phone to call Kathy. She told me that if I could get to Baton Rouge, my late stepfather’s niece, Carol, would take me to their house, where Brian would pick me up the next morning. I thought that was a great plan as well, but I hadn't found a way to get there. Carol had tried to drive to Kenner to get me, but had been turned back at a roadblock just outside of Baton Rouge.

Kathy also told me that one of Brian's friends had a private plane and was ready to fly down to pick me up if I could only get to the New Orleans airport. "The weather is so bad I wouldn't get on a small plane, plus I have no idea where the New Orleans airport is," I told her.

When we had driven in I had noticed a Louisiana Highway Patrol center on the other side of the freeway. I screwed up my courage and asked Jim if he could drive me over to see if I could find a way to Baton Rouge through them. "No problem," he said.

Jim pulled into the parking lot, which was crowded with highway patrol cars and vehicles from other police departments. While Jim waited in the car, I walked in and explained my situation to the officer at the front desk. "Do you know of anyone or have any officers who might be going to Baton Rouge?" I asked.

"No sir, we can't spare any officers to drive you up there," he replied. I didn’t bother to explain that I was simply hoping to ride with someone.

"Well, do you have any other suggestions as to how I might get there?" I asked.

"The freeway on-ramp that takes you north to Baton Rouge is just over there. You might try hitchhiking," he said. I walked back out and got in the van with Jim.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"No. No luck."

We drove back over to the Radisson and I decided to take a look at how many cars were taking the freeway north. I stood on the corner watching for fifteen minutes and no more than half a dozen cars took the on-ramp toward Baton Rouge. It didn't seem wise to give up the seat in Jim's van to try hitchhiking.

As I walked back, a couple pulled into the closed Shell service station next to us to use the pay phone. I waited for the man to hang up and asked if they were going to Baton Rouge. He politely told me that they might be the next day. I thanked him and returned to the van.

When I got back, Jim had just finished broadcasting his report. He asked me if I'd mind giving an "eyewitness" account for CBS Radio and within a couple of minutes I was on air relaying my story. As I finished, the gentleman from the gas station motioned for me to come over by his car.

I walked back over and he pointed to two young men, who were standing by the pay phone, and said, "These two gentleman might be able to help you." I thanked him, at which point he got in the car and drove off. His kindness touched me.

I introduced myself to two guys wearing "CBS News" caps, and asked if they were going to Baton Rouge. "Well, we usually do each night, but we won't know if we're going tonight for about an hour. That’s when they will tell us if we are done for the day," one of them said.

"Well, if you do go, can I ride with you?" I asked.

"Sure," he said.

Their names were Sean and Keith, they were both from New Orleans, and had been hired by CBS News to be local guides. They would also drive to Baton Rouge each night, buy water, food, and gasoline, and then bring it back the next morning. They were pulling an aluminum fishing boat that they used to ferry the news crews around in the floodwaters.

Before they left to go see if they were done for the day, I made them promise to come and find me. I told Jim that I might have a way out, but he said that I could stay with him in the van as long as I needed. I began to settle down.

About an hour later, I found Sean and Keith who had just been released and were, in fact, driving to Baton Rouge. I ran back to Jim's van to get my things, my heart racing.

It was hard to leave Jim. In the short time that we had been together, he had become my "guardian angel." When I said goodbye, he said that he didn't really do much, but that he was glad that he could at least help out one person in this whole mess. I swore I'd never forget him.

Sean's truck was a "king-cab" and I expected to sit in the tiny back seat, but Keith insisted that I sit in front. "Is that gas I smell?" I asked.

"Yea," Sean said, "on the drive down yesterday we spilled a gallon in the cab. I know it's pretty bad." I felt like I had my nose jammed into the end of a gasoline pump hose. Never mind that I might throw up or that we might blow up from even a small spark, I was headed north.

The drive north took just over an hour. "So what's your story?" I asked them at one point. I meant, what do you do, how do you like working with CBS, and stuff like that.

Turns out that Sean was actually a minister for a small Pentecostal church and waited tables on the side to make ends meet. Keith was heavily involved in the church as well.

This might explain how they interpreted my question about “their story,” as "How did you first come to know the Lord?” They didn't try to convert me and their testimonies took my mind off the fumes. Keith told me about the time he spent at a small Christian college back East. In fact, he had been recruited to play football. "Oh, how did that happen/" I asked.

"Well, the head of the college at first thought they'd have an ‘all preachers’ football team, but that didn't work out too well. They kept losing, so they decided they had to change that rule and that's when I got recruited," he said.

“An all preachers football team," I thought. We drove on.

When we rolled into Baton Rouge the city lights were on. All of the stores were open, the shopping centers were busy, and the traffic lights worked. It was a shocking re-entry, so close to New Orleans, but like another world.

I offered to buy the boys dinner and they said it wasn't necessary, but that it would be fine. We stopped at a Texas barbecue chain. While the cool air in Jim's van and Sean's truck was nice, it was nothing like walking into that restaurant. "I'll never take air-conditioning for granted again," I thought.

The restaurant was full of people sitting back, eating, talking, laughing and smoking. Table after table was loaded down with massive plates of barbecue, beer, wine, Cokes and ice water.

As we walked past all those tables I thought, "They have all the water they want and they're not even drinking it." I felt like collecting the full glasses of ice water to bring to our table.

I studied the pictures on the enormous menu and finally settled on a small barbecue plate. After my rations, those "Texas sized" portions were just too much.

What was familiar was now completely alien. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Don't you people know what's going on in New Orleans? Don't you give a damn?"

When our food arrived I could only pick at mine. Something didn't feel right about taking that much for myself. Sean and Keith had great appetites and I was amazed to watch the ease with which they ate. I called Carol to tell her where to pick me up and then said goodbye to the boys.

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Mid-day.

My first goal was to find the missing people and, hopefully, then the buses too. My best shot was the Holiday Inn, and as I briskly moved towards it, the sole of my left sandal peeled back several inches and began to flop. Normally, that would be no big deal, but today, I needed shoes.

When I got to the Holiday Inn corner, a half-dozen young mothers were standing and tending to their kids. I asked them if there was anyone at the hotel. The answer was "no." I realized then that I had no option but to go check out the convention center.

When I asked for directions, one of the women said, "We're going down there sir if you'd like to walk with us. Her kindness stood in marked contrast to the chaos.

"That would be great," I said.

I stood there a few minutes, and the longer I stood and thought about the morning, the greater my urgency was to move on. Walking with this group would only slow me down. Despite their kindness, I told them I was going to go on.

I walked a couple of blocks and then cut over to Canal St., where I came upon two guys loading their car. Awkward, I approached them. "Are you guys leaving town?" I asked.

"Yea, we are," one said as he put another bag in the car.

"Well, I need a ride. Do you guys have room for one more? I asked anxiously.

"I don't really think so. We've got a lot more stuff to pack and there's barely room for the two of us," he said without looking at me.

"Okay, can you tell me how to get to the convention center?" I asked.

"Well, you go up Canal Street to the Casino and turn right, but if I were you I wouldn't go down there," he replied.

"Why not?" I asked.

"There's some bad shit going on down there." I turned and headed up Canal.

I felt driven to see if the convention center held anything for me. The further I walked, the heavier my bags felt, so I stopped to see if there was anything I could throw out. After rummaging through my clothes and catching my breath, I decided that it wasn't quite yet time to throw things away.

The only other time that I've felt that same urge to throw things away to survive was when my seven-year-old daughter, Kaitlin, and I nearly drowned on a family vacation in Kauai. We had gone snorkeling and had been pulled too far out by the undercurrent. When I realized our situation I put Kaitlin on my back and started swimming for shore. I had an underwater camera on one arm, and my mask and snorkel on the other. The more I swam, the more the current pulled against us. I could feel the camera holding us back, so I let that go. Next, I threw off the mask and snorkel. We finally made it to shore, but not before I felt that our survival was in doubt. I felt that same way now.

I zipped my bag and started walking when I looked over and noticed a large ABC News satellite truck parked on the streetcar tracks in the middle of Canal. I hustled over to it. "Do you know where the CBS crews are?" I asked, now out of breath.

"I haven't seen them, but they might be down towards Bourbon," he said. I began walking down the line of news trucks that stretched for several blocks. When I encountered trucks that weren't marked, I would stop and ask if they were CBS. No luck.

As I approached Bourbon, I came upon a group of CBS vehicles with four guys talking in front of them. I introduced myself. "My name is Dr. Greg Ketchum. I'm the CBS 5 Workplace and Career Expert for the San Francisco CBS affiliate. I've been stuck in New Orleans for a week now and need a ride out. Are you guys leaving today?"

"Yea, we're leaving in about half an hour because it's too dangerous to be down here," said one of them.

"Could you take me with you?" I asked.

A young guy, who looked to be "on-camera talent" said, "Well, we really don't have that much room. I'm even going to have to ride in the satellite truck myself. We might have room in there, but I really don't know for sure." My stomach tightened.

What seemed like minutes passed before a guy behind me said, "I've got room in my van. You can ride with me, but we're only going to Kenner, which is about ten miles away."

"Hey, I don't care where you're going. I've got to get out of here," I told him. If he had told me I was to ride on the luggage rack of his van, I’d have done it.

I set my bags down. Jim Krasula, a national correspondent for CBS Radio Network, based in Charlotte, N.C., was the one who offered me the ride. As I stood there letting the relief start to sink in, I wondered, could I really trust this? What could I do to boost the chance that they'd actually take me?

I decided to pursue a strategy to make them connect to me as an individual, instead of seeing me as just some guy off the street: I would become a "super-networker." I went up to each person and introduced myself, showed them pictures of my children, and asked about their families and where they were from. The more I met, the more secure I began to feel.

After making the rounds of introductions, I saw an unfamiliar guy walk up to the group and announce, "We just got a call from Bob, a V.P. at a CBS affiliate station. He says he has three elderly relatives stuck at the convention center and he wants us to get them and drive them out of New Orleans." If they did that, guess who was low man on that totem pole?

While Jim was packing his van, the group began to debate whether they could meet his request. "It's pretty dangerous to go down there," said one.

"How in the world would we know who they are and be able to find them in that crowd?" asked another. The young "on camera talent" spoke up.

"Are we sure that these are Bob's relatives and not just some friends of his? That would be just like him to try to get us to go down there with a bullshit story about his old relatives," he said. If I was going to get tossed out it would be this guy, I decided.

While they were having this discussion I quickly hatched another plan: figuring it would be harder for them to throw me out of the car than it would be to prevent me from getting in, I picked up my bags and quietly set them inside the back of Jim's van. No one noticed.

I walked back over to hear the end of the discussion about the relatives. Led by the young guy, they had come to a consensus: if the old folks could make their own way from the convention center to us in the next fifteen minutes, they could come along. I knew that meant I was probably safe. Even if they could somehow get word to them to come on down, the walk itself was longer than that. It was a faux solution.

I felt bad for the folks, but realistically, there was just no way. If they drove down to the convention center people wanting food, water or a ride would mob them. Besides, it was too dangerous.

The New Orleans Police were out on the street guarding the news crews. From time to time a truck from Wildlife and Fisheries would drive by pulling a boat loaded with a half-dozen fully armed, flak-jacket-helmet-and-goggle-wearing-military-style-police-officers. They looked edgy and ridiculous, but I knew they meant business.

We were about ten minutes from leaving when I looked up Canal Street toward the convention center and saw the four people from the Holiday Inn who had been next to me in the bus line. I now realized there had been no buses. I felt immediate relief.

I ran to meet them and they recognized me. "What the hell happened this morning?" I asked.

"Well, the hotel told us they were out of food and water and that there was no place else for us to go but the convention center," one of the men said.

"Where are you going then?" I asked, as they were walking away from the center.

"We walked down and took a look and there's no way in hell we're going to stay there." Next came the question that I hoped they wouldn't ask: "What are you going to do?"

What am I going to do? What am I going to do? It was two questions: what was I going to tell them I was going to do, versus what I was actually going to do.

I don't know how long I paused. If I told them I had a ride I knew that they’d beg me to take them too. That's what I would have done. If I told the CBS guys that I now had four friends with their luggage who wanted a ride too, I was afraid they would call the whole thing off. They could have rightly said they didn't have the room, and it wouldn't be fair just to take one person. I hesitated, mulling over this moral dilemma.

"I'm just going to hang out with these guys for awhile," I finally said. "What are ya'll going to do?"

"We have no place to go," one of the women said.

"Well, the back door of the hotel is jammed part-way open and you can get in there. That's your best shot," I said, trying to help them in a way that I could.

"Good luck," they said.

"Good luck to you as well," I said. And with that, they walked off towards the hotel.

I couldn't believe what I had just done, but I knew it was the only way. I made a decision to boost the odds of my own survival when I might have been able to help someone else. I didn't even know them. Still, it was one of those decisions that I would revisit, over and over again.

Finally, it was time to leave. I started to get into the back of the van and ride in the cargo space, when Jim motioned for me to come and sit in the seat behind him. I moved up, but didn't want to make any move that might have him change his mind. Whether I got out of New Orleans today was, at this moment, totally up to Jim. I felt like a child.

Traveling with Jim was Cami McCormick, another CBS Radio correspondent, who was sitting in the front passenger seat. Just before starting the van, Jim offered me a beer and some trail mix. "Thank you all-powerful father," I thought.

The caravan of five CBS vehicles, with a New Orleans Police cruiser at either end, pulled out for Kenner. I had no idea where that was, nor how far away, but it was out of New Orleans.

Our route took us down towards the convention center, but we turned by the Doubletree Hotel, a couple blocks before it. As we made that turn I spied the first National Guard troops in full battle gear, M-16's at the ready. Their steel cold expressions combined with the positions they had taken around the hotel, told me they were protecting themselves, not us.

It started to rain. We passed many people including an old man, in terrible shape, pushing an old woman in a wheelchair through the rain toward the convention center. We drove on.

We drove up the on-ramps to the bridge that crosses the Mississippi leading to the "West Bank." Hundreds of people found shelter from the rain under the overpass amidst tons of trash. Others were going up the on-ramps, hoping to walk across the bridge. We passed a small pick-up with perhaps fifteen people standing up in the bed, whipped around by the wind and rain. One man was shirtless.

At mid-span, I was now officially out of New Orleans. I was headed for Kenner, not knowing if I had just jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. I didn't care.

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Morning.

It was near impossible to get any decent sleep. I woke up and glanced at my wristwatch. It was 8 a.m. Since my door was open, I could hear voices out in the hallway. Through the fog of waking up, it began to dawn on me that I hadn't heard any announcements about buses being located. Disappointed, exhausted and with no place to go, I dozed back off.

After getting a bit more sleep, I woke up, looked at my watch, and it was now 9 a.m. I could still hear people talking in the hall. "God, I'm still here," I thought. "I'm never going to leave." I drifted back off.

Forty-five minutes later and I woke up again. It was quiet. I froze and listened, but I couldn't hear anyone talking out in the hall. I got up, walked over to the door, stuck my head out into the hall, and didn't see anyone. "That's odd," I thought.

I came back inside, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk to see what was happening. The phone still worked and it rang twenty-five to thirty times. No answer. "That's weird," I thought. "Maybe I dialed the wrong number."

I hung up and dialed "O" for the hotel operator. Again, twenty-five to thirty rings later, there was no answer. "That's weird," I thought. "Maybe I dialed wrong a second time." I thought about that for a second. "How could I dial wrong? All I did was push 'O.' How the hell could I get that wrong?" I was trying to find a rational explanation as my heart beat faster.

I threw on my tee shirt, shorts and sandals and headed for the one elevator that still worked. Since this one didn't come to my floor, and was in a different part of the building, I had to go down my hallway, take the emergency stairs one flight to the fourteenth floor, and then reverse directions and cut back across the hotel to the elevator.

As I ran across the fourteenth floor I passed many rooms that had the doors propped open. Each one after the next was empty. I saw several trays with dirty plates on them, sitting on the floor just outside the room. Some even had leftover food. They looked like they had come from breakfast this morning. My heart and feet sped up.

I finally got to the elevator, relieved to see that it still was in operation. I pressed the call button and waited.

Damn! Where is the elevator? Finally, the doors creaked open and I hopped in. I hit the button for the first floor. My mind and heart were racing far faster than that old elevator could go. Finally, I got to the first floor, the doors opened, I popped out, rounded the corner, and was met by my worst fear: the lobby was completely empty. I had been abandoned.

"No, that's not possible," I thought, despite facing the evidence right there in front of me. The lights were on, papers were on the front counter, and everything was the same as the night before, except all of the people were gone.

I yelled out, "Is anyone here? Is anyone here?" No answer. I ran across the lobby. I looked over and the front doors were chained and padlocked shut.

My God. My one chance to get out of this hellhole and I missed it. At that moment, my greatest fear was the thought of facing Kathy and telling her that she was right, I slept through the P.A. announcements. "Get on with it man. Find the damned people!" I began to move again.

I ran up the mezzanine stairs and down the hall to the hotel executive offices yelling, "Is anyone here?" as I ran from locked door to locked door. Silence.

I ran back downstairs. I didn't know if I could even get out of the hotel, let alone find the people. I ran out to the garage exit, my heart pounding so loud that I could feel it in my ears. The sliding glass door was jammed open, leaving about a twelve-inch gap. I tried to push it further open, but it wouldn't budge. I was able to wedge myself through.

I wasn't trapped, but I didn't know where everyone went, and most importantly, what I was going to do. I decided to try to find them. Maybe I could spot the buses on the street, or maybe the buses were at the Holiday Inn loading up right now.

I ran through the lobby, caught the elevator up to fourteen, ran across the hotel and up to my room, threw my things together and flew back downstairs.

As I was running across the lobby in the direction of the garage, I was startled to see, through the glass front doors, two New Orleans Police SUV's and four officers in bulletproof vests, with guns drawn. The SUV's were parked in the middle of Royal, two officers were in the street, and the other two were up on the sidewalk right in front of the hotel doors.

One of the officers saw me and yelled out, "There's someone in there." "Thank God. I'm saved," I thought. The officer tried the door.

"You'll have to go around to the garage," I shouted. She understood me, so they got in their vehicles and backed down Royal. Feeling elated, I ran out to the garage.

As I rounded the last corner, I could see that they had backed both vehicles all the way into the garage, in a defensive posture. I squeezed myself and my bags through the small opening and two of the officers walked towards me, guns still in hand. "Where are all the people? What happened to the people?" I asked, in desperation.

"We have no idea. We heard that one of our officers was down here, so that's why we came," said the one closest to me.

By now, I was standing right next to an SUV. "What do you mean you don't know? I pleaded.

"Sir, we have no idea in the world where the people are. We just came to retrieve our officer," he said.

"Well, I haven't seen any officer," I replied.

I still didn't know if I slept through the announcement or what happened to the people. In addition to figuring out what I should do next, I was stuck on solving that mystery. I just couldn't believe that they had left me behind. "Well then, just what do you suggest that I do?" I asked him.

"About the only thing you can do is go to the Convention Center," he said blandly.

"You're kidding, right?" I asked.

"No sir, that's about all you can do right now."

"Well, can you guys at least give me a ride down there?" I asked.

"No. We can't really do that. If we drive down there in these police vehicles, we're going to draw gun fire," he said.

"You're joking, right?" I stammered.

"No sir, I'm not," he said.

Wait a minute. These folks were heavily armed, in fast vehicles, and they wouldn't drive me to the Convention Center, but they were suggesting that I just walk over there by myself. I was struggling to comprehend what he was saying and what that meant when he said, "Good luck." With that, they got back in their vehicles and sped off.

So there I stood, in the hot deserted garage, with one bag over my shoulder and one in my hand.

I realized now, in a way that I hadn't before, that this wasn't just an uncomfortable situation; it was downright dangerous: I could lose my life.

I had waited for the federal, state or local governments to help us. I had waited for the Red Cross, the National Guard, the Salvation Army and any other aid organization to help us. I had depended on the hotel management to take care of us. They had all, finally, failed.

As I stood there by myself, my thoughts became clear: if I was going to ever get out of New Orleans alive, it was going to be because of my own efforts. I had to find my own way out. No more looking outside for authority figures to make the decisions and make it happen for me. I had to trust my own instincts to lead me out. I walked out of that garage. I knew I wasn't coming back.