Posted Sunday 01 April 2007

Dead Man Boots

January 3, 2004, Mount Shasta: We've had storms of snow, swirling thickly, white-out visibility, and heaps on the ground up to my waist.

I've never seen such snow before. Growing up in Texas, some winters we'd see snow. A really heavy snow might be four or five inches. It would linger a few days, growing muddy and fading away.

A new year's resolution is to exercise more. I've really been in luck on that one.

I've never shoveled snow before. Driving a trail from the back door to the office, to the gate, to the car, and then clearing the five-foot berm thrown up by the town's snow plow.

Let's just say I'm off to a good start on my exercise.

Because of the speed with which we moved, and the jumble of things to be done, some things weren't. We didn't get boots. We didn't get snow tires.

Adrienne's daughters Celina and Layla came a-visiting for Christmas, just in time to help visit Adrienne in hospital. Layla got out of town eight hours before the storm, but Celina and family were trapped at Econo-Lodge. The innkeeper graciously permitted them to stay over, at triple the rate.

They bought chains so as to escape down the mountain.

I couldn't get chains and got something called "cables", like chains but smaller and easier to put on. But on our new Ford Focus, with it's front-wheel drive, they've been altogether marvy. Just drive along like anything.

That is, after an hour or two of uncovering the car from several feet of snow. Several days in a row. Actually, I kind of like shoveling the snow. Makes me pant, and the air is fresh and cold. My shoes were a problem; they wouldn't do for this deep snow.

My friend Harvey, now gone, left a pair of boots. Somehow they came to me. Cowboy boots, with snake skin. I'm wearing them now, in the snow.

Me and Harvey, shoveling snow, my toes growing numb inside his boots. Ghosts and a fog of breathing, in the cold air.