What's Wrong with Me

Sitting here in my office looking out the window at yet another beautiful, gentle snowfall, having just come in from filling the bird feeders and cleaning off my snowshoes, I feel privileged. I love living in winter. Real winter. Not that sissy stuff of the last couple of years. Not the fake stuff of December and most of January. But real winter, with days of sub-zero temperatures, and three to five foot snow banks, and blowing and drifting. The snowiest February on record. School closing after school closing. Ditches filled with cars at the end of their spin, with drivers grateful to have walked away. Blowing snow from the folks driveway (while my own is plowed by a crew with a Bob-Cat) with Dad's diesel John Deere, shooting the heavy snow stream up and over the higher than the average snow blower or plow blade can overcome. The necessity of (finally) using my 4 wheel drive Jeep to pull lesser cars and a four wheel drive pick up out of one of those driveway ditches so Mom and I could brave the elements to reach her medical appointment. How manly can you get? That's certainly much more manly than walking a golf course or strolling a beach along the ocean. No wimpy, girly-man stuff here in Minnesota.

Many of my retiree friends have long gone south, or out on a cruise, to escape all this splendor. I revel in it. What's wrong with me? Working friends and children grumble, understandably so, for all the delays, cancellations, and other inconveniences that result from impaired and risky driving conditions. I feel sorry for them, but certainly not for myself. Not that we don't wrestle with inconveniences, too. For example, just this past week I was unable to extract a plane from the hangar because of the snow and ice ridge that blocked in the door, preventing me from taking advantage of one of the few flying days available this winter. A terrible inconvenience (?), but surmountable.

Oh, the stories of walking both ways to school in blizzards come to mind, along with the fact that I don't remember my father, or me for that matter, missing a day of work for weather. But that's not what motivates me now in the snow and cold.

What motivates me is the same feeling I used to have with the wind in my teeth and the cold rain pelting my body standing at the wheel or tiller of a sailboat in the open waters of Lake Superior. It's a bit of Don Quixote railing against nature, defying the obstacles of discomfort and misfortune. Not for long, mind you. A warm cabin or cozy home has always been at the other end of my faux battles. Take this past week, for example. Snow and ice as far as I could see out on The Lake. The drifts and ice pilings along the beach gave the impression of the antarctic. Curious about how deep the snow might be after the high, northeasterly winds dragged it from across the lake to deposit in our front yard, I venture out one bitterly cold morning. Snow shoe and cross country tracks lined the beach, but no footprints. The reason why quickly came clear. My new super-grippy,  protective, and super technical boots immediately sank in snow that ended up reaching my waist. They weren't much help in hoisting me out of immobility. I had to roll on top of the snow, and try again a little further down, where ice was higher. The normally easy and brief walk to the breakwater was a real slog. By the time I reached the bridge, it was easy to recognize that my age was catching up with me. No longer was I able to trudge hours in this kind of stuff. It was a (large) number of years since that trudge was along the shore of Meyers beach to reach what they now call the sea caves. I don't remember any constraints from those days, but they sure are there now. Yet, still, I filled my lungs gratefully with clean, dry, cool air and stared out over the lake, feeling like I was part of it. Part of the rugged outdoors, even though only minutes from the comfort of hot chocolate and the 69 degrees of our kitchen.

Nope, wouldn't trade it for warm temperatures and unobstructed sidewalks and roadways. Give me that slap in the face, that thigh burn of lifting feet to your waist, the weight of a heavy coat and thermal underwear, any day. Well maybe only for two or three months of the year, anyway. I can feel the tug of spring starting to come over me.