The Dead Indian and the First Snow
I have always loved the first snow of the year, the magical moment sometime in November when the brilliant leaves are now a golden brown with a sogginess that reminds of an old kitchen sponge. When I hear the hum of the fireplace in the morning, encouraging me to get out of bed and walk downstairs to find the entire yard repainted in an impressive white, a color interior decorators use only for the sharpest of all contrasts. ("Why no, that is not "egg shell white" that is "first snow white" the decorator says as she hands me the paint swatch. "We use it sparingly; it's blinding for most designs but gives the darkest of all hallways that feeling of purity and energy.")I am thankful for the first snow because it occurs usually days before
I am on the brink of suicide from the horrible weather and the shortened days. As if Mother Nature designed it to revitalize me. The snow gives me great hope of the perfect ski season: using cross country skis to glide across a crusty surface on a sunny spring day.
But this year … this year th
e first snow did not quite bring such an enthusiastic reaction.
e first snow did not quite bring such an enthusiastic reaction.
For an express vacation weekend to celebrate my birthday, we decided exchange houses with a couple who lives in Ashland Oregon. It's a college town in Oregon that clings to the California border and is famous for the yearly Shakespeare festival.
I have vaguely been there once; I remember a long, steep bike ride that ended on Dead Indian Drive. The name itself was as intimidating as the 6% grade that lasted for the first 10 miles, then in a cruel manner, jumped to as high as 11%. The route climbed 4,000 feet in 30 miles, then buzzed back to town in about 10 miles on a twisty road that requires only strong finger muscles to hang on to the brakes.
So this year, the viewing of the first snow, the magical moment that I love every year, was not from the comfort of my living room … not sipping coffee with big warm slippers and a flannel robe, but rather on a bike with skinny road tires just before the 10 mile decent on Dead Indian Drive, 4,000 feet above the town of Ashland.
When it started to snow, Kevin and I quickly realize that this was not a good thing. Kevin took off to beat the accumulation of snow on the road, leaving me with the dead Indians. I hiked down the steep downhill, pushing my bike and hobbling in bike shoes.
I tried to look desperate and
hoping a hunter would stop to invite me into a warm, dry pickup truck. But instead they glared at me as if I was an idiot, which I couldn't really argue with.
hoping a hunter would stop to invite me into a warm, dry pickup truck. But instead they glared at me as if I was an idiot, which I couldn't really argue with.
When the wind began to gust, I climbed back on bike, trying to feel my breaks through my ski gloves (which I was damn happy that I brought!) Over and over, I screamed out to the dead Indians, "We are going to be fine, just fine." I coasted slowly downhill watching snow pelt the ground and hoping we could drop low enough to at least get into the rain. Luckily the hunters had carved a clear path down the mountain with their wide truck tires.
I soon hit the point where the snow stopped sticking … to me and to the pavement … and there was a nice moment of relief
where I thought I was fine. But the problem soon became not the snow, but rather the wetness. I was soaked from the combination of rain, melted snow, and sweat.
Oddly, I had always thought hypothermia starts in your fingers or toes, but instead I felt as if my teeth were chattering somewhere in the middle of my stomach. I tried desperately to bike just a little faster than a crawl, which only made me colder and wetter. I winded down the roads, switch back after switch back, repeating, "I am fine, I am ok. Kevin will be here almost any minute." The coldness seemed to travel from my stomach to the rest of my body, making me just ache all over. The wind from the downhill was biting and yet for some odd reason I just kept going.
There were two illogical thoughts with my stupidity; the first was that I would eventually get to a flat spot where I could cycle and warm up. The second was I was worried something had happened to Kevin and he couldn't come back up the road. I pointed the bike downhill, felt the pelting rain, and focused on keeping a straight steady line.
Eventually, I saw the familiar site of our blue Moreno, which left me sobbing. I tossed the bike on the pavement and crawled into a warm car. Kevin helped me peel off layers of soggy wet clothes while I tried to speak, but instead I cried hysterically. It was quite awhile before I could formulate words that were understandable. The soft new dry clothes, the blowing heat, the heated seats … all took sometime before I could enjoy any of them.
We drove to the exchange house and I crawled into a hot bath … I soaked until the hot water was cold and then I poured another one. I would feel warm and then I would shiver. I would try not to think about the snow, the rain, and the 4,000 foot drop with the dead Indians.
I am trying hard to forget the whole experience. I hope the next time I see snow, I will be peering out from my living room window and making fun of interior decorators. The snow will signal the arrival of a perfect ski season: using cross country skis to glide across a crusty surface on a sunny day.
