Ode To the Snow

Snow and I have a tepid relationship at best.

It’s kind of pretty watching it fall when I'm warm and snug in my living room. And it’s kind of fun to be out tromping around in it, too. But those nice feelings are usually eclipsed by an outright loathing for the stuff when I have to go out drive in it. 

 

Not that it happens very often, because it’s only in the coldest storms that snow falls at 1800 feet in the Sierra Nevada foothills. And not because I don't know how to get around in it when it does, because I do. No, snow makes me cranky because whoever designed the roads in our Alta Sierra neighborhood never understood the concept of a straight line being the most direct path between two points.

 

Although looking at it from above, the roadway layouts cutting though the rolling hills are, aesthetically, probably quite pleasing. At the surface, though, every artery seems to be designed as steep, winding and uneven as possible. Perhaps the road builder was drunk. Perhaps he just liked curvy lines. But with varying degrees of slope and elevation, throw a couple of inches of snow and ice on these crooked avenues and, quite often, sit back and watch the chaos that ensues.

Yet this is where I choose to live. So where did this anti-snow attitude come from? I mean, though the roads were usually straight, I lived in locations where it snowed often all winter. I got used to getting around in it, driving in it, shoveling it, and living with it. It was a fact of life. No, I think my snow phobia is probably a little more deep-seated than dealing with the schizophrenic Alta Sierra byways. I think what really turned me off to the white stuff was triggered way back in childhood, the day I got stuck waist deep in it after falling into a hole on a sixth grade class outing.

It was a day at Soda Springs to play in the snow and learn to ski. I’d never skied and hadn’t spent much time around snow, but it was a whole Saturday to be with my friends and away from home so when it was announced, I was totally up for the adventure. I was even more stoked that Mom didn’t prevent me from going. I thought she would. But the event was on a Saturday and she probably liked the idea of having me out the house for most of a weekend day. At least I wouldn’t be in the way or doing something to make her mad. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I was just glad she said ‘yes’. 

We were supposed to meet at the school at 7:30 and two busses were scheduled to leave by 8. It was a cloudy cold February morning and raining when the busses pulled away from Kingswood Elementary, and by the time we hit Soda Springs, at around 5000 feet, it was already snowing steadily. It was exciting. I hadn’t seen snow actually falling before.  

At Soda Springs, we were directed to the rental area to be fitted for our skis and then on to the bunny hill, which was all the school would let any beginning skiers try. It was lame but at least we got a good looking lady instructor. She taught us all how to stay upright, how to turn and use the poles. I fell down a couple times (first time on accident), but the lady instructor came over both times to brush the snow off and gently pick me up. Some of my friends laughed, but when they figured out she’d come and help them as well, they started falling down, too.

Our group had the bunny slope all day. I wanted to ride the chair lift, but only the kids who’d skied before, and with their parent’s permission, got to go up to the intermediate slopes. And the bunny slope became boring after awhile, plus it was still snowing. I was dressed for cold weather, but not for really wet weather. The snow flurries hadn’t let up since getting off the bus. If anything, it may have been snowing harder. I had gloves, boots and a ski cap, which offered some protection. But I was getting pretty damp. And cold. So with my buddy Gary McKenzie, we slogged back to the ski lodge, sat by the fire and drank hot cocoa.

 

It felt really nice being inside and I could’ve stayed there all day. But even that grew boring after a while, and once we got warmed up again, Gary and I went back outside and hiked around. We didn’t rejoin the other kids, just sort of trounced around and explored on our own. By then the snow had let up, but it was still a wet, raw afternoon. Gary and I found a trail not far from where the skis rental building and followed it to see where it went. He had a watch and we agreed to go 15 minutes out and then come back. And then go get more hot cocoa.

But we hadn't gone more than 50 feet before I managed to step in a small hole. At first, it was kind of weird and even kind of funny. However, as my foot kept dropping deeper and deeper, like I was in quicksand, it wasn’t funny anymore. As the small hole quickly became a bigger hole, my right leg sunk deeper into the gap. When half my body finally stopped sinking, it felt like I was doing the splits. With one foot buried in the hole and the other leg balanced on the surface, I was planted like a cockeyed scarecrow.  A foot straight out here, an arm stretched out and flailing back there; it was awkward and not very relaxing.

Gary laughed, but when he saw me struggling to get out, he tried to help. However, not much bigger than me he had little leverage. With my weight unequally distributed, he couldn’t pull me out, though he nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, trying. But he'd eventually lose grip and fall back onto the snow himself. So I was stuck, with my head and shoulders and one leg in daylight, and the rest of my torso descending into the bowels of the earth. Gary told me to “wait right there”- as if I could go anywhere- and went for help. Ten minutes later he was back with a couple of big guys from the ski rental shop.

As they assessed the situation, I was getting colder and trying not to pee my pants. I thought they might use a rope, or commandeer something like a back hoe for the extraction, which would’ve been kind of cool. So as I waited for what would happen next, I played brave. But deep down, I felt like a weenie. I was scared and wanted to cry. I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck and thought I was in grave danger. I didn’t think I’d ever be free. I wanted my mom. Well, sort of. Almost, anyway. 

However, getting me extracted turned out to be no big deal; it required no ropes or heavy machinery, just alittle manpower. One of the men hooked both his arms underneath mine, and started lifting. As he did that, the other guy reached in the hole, grabbed some pant leg and tugged northward. He tugged so hard, soggy denim rode up my leg, exposing bare skin to cold chunks of snow. It was like being pulled out of a frozen Slurpee. However, in about ten seconds they had me out. 
 

They knocked the snow off and asked if I was all right. I was shivering, damp, very uncomfortable and also quite embarrassed. The mountain had held firm for everyone else, but, apparently it couldn’t hold me- even though I wasn’t very big. And all the surrounding fuss and confusion had me a little too conspicuous and way too stupid. However, the men told me not to feel bad because people fell in snow holes all the time.  Not sure I believed them though. I just wanted to go somewhere and hide.

Mr. Sears, who was in charge of our group, got to the near-disaster about the time I was hoisted out of the snow hole. He was trailed by a bunch of excited classmates who’d all been tipped off that someone had been in an accident. But when the rumors of my imminent death or dismemberment turned out to be nothing more than a clumsy doofus getting pulled out of a snow bank, most of the other kids straggled off with shrugs and some disappointed gripes of “no big deal”.  

Their concern was touching. 

Mr. Sears told me to go back to the lodge and dry out. I heard him thank the guys that “rescued” me and then laugh about something. I was sure he was laughing at me or my clumsiness. Gary asked again if I was okay. Calm once more and, out of the spotlight, I relaxed and thanked him for getting me out. I told him I owed him.  

But he put his arm around me and playfully teased, “Years from now, you’ll tell your grand kids how I saved you from the clutches of death.”  It’d be at least that long before I'd even want to tell anyone about the day I sank in the snow.  

”I must’ve looked like some sort of spaz, a snowbound spaz!”  I spit out the words, rolled my eyes and shook my head, which caused a little more snow fall off.

 “Well, no more than usual”, Gary assured me.

We both laughed like school kids (oh wait, we were) and punched each other in the arm. Then we balled up clumps of lumpy snow to toss at each other and hurl at girls as we walked back to the lodge. Even though the incident turned out to be no big deal, it felt good to have a friend with me who cared.  But that’s what friends are for- when you’re down, they lift you up.  

We were crass and teased each other all the time, but when I was in a bad spot, when I really needed a friend, he was there. To an insecure little guy in sixth grade, just knowing that made the big cold world seem less big and a lot warmer. At 12 years old, there’s nothing better in life than having a best friend. For me, that was Gary McKenzie.  

However, I can’t say for sure if my wariness of snow goes back to that snowy day in sixth grade when I was encased in the frozen tundra of Soda Springs-for all of about 15 minutes- or not. But when a little snow falls into my life these days and coats our hairpin curving roads, given the choice between looking at the rare phenomenon as just one of those things in nature to either appreciate or ignore, I have chosen to do neither.
 

I swear to the heavens and hope like hell it melts quickly.