Walter Cronkite coined the phrase on the evening news, calling it “the Miracle on Burnside Street.”

Every so often, reporters get a chance to report on “miracles.” This one occurred on Dec. 28, 1978. It was in the middle of the night. It was bitter cold. I jumped at the chance to chronicle the event.

A DC-8 jetliner was making an approach to Portland (Ore.) International Airport. It ran out of fuel. The pilot, sensing tragedy was about to occur, aimed the jet on a glide path toward the darkest patch of ground he could see from the flight deck. He crashed the bird in a stand of tall timber in suburban Portland.

Here’s one miracle: The plane didn’t catch fire. The second “miracle,” if you want to call it that, was that only 10 people died out of the more than 100 passengers and crew on board.

I was a young reporter working for the Oregon City Enterprise-Courier, a small daily newspaper about 15 miles south of Portland. I got word of the crash and then jumped in my car and sped toward where I heard it had landed. I had my notebook, pen and a camera on hand.

Police and fire personnel had cordoned off the area, so I had to park some distance away. I didn’t have a “press credential,” per se, on me. So I improvised. I pulled out my driver’s license and a business card.

I approached one security checkpoint and flashed both pieces of ID just to prove to whoever saw that I was the person whose name was on the business card. The fireman let me through. I went to the next one and did the same thing; the police officer waved me by. Same for the third checkpoint.

Eventually, I got to the crash site and was stunned by the appearance of the DC-8 jet tail standing among the trees; it was bathed in spotlights.

I talked to some witnesses who watched the plane crash through the forest. It destroyed no homes that I could see. I was able the next day to write a story for our newspaper; I followed up for a couple of days after that.

But before I departed the crash site, I noticed something that tore my guts out. I noticed 10 bodies laid out in a row. One of them was an infant. The medical personnel were laying blankets and tarps over them. I watched someone place a tarp over the tiny body.

Reporters aren’t supposed to cry when they’re on the job.

I cried anyway.