When I got home the other night, The Light of my Life™ was sitting bundled up in scarf and fleece sweater. “I think there’s something wrong with the boiler,” she said “I can’t get the house warm”.
“Well, do you realize how cold it is outside?” I asked “That could have something to do with it.”
Our house is comparatively small, which means it heats up very quickly, but it’s also made of papier-mâché and spit, which means it cools down very quickly too. Our gas fire only has two settings, “On” and “Not On”. When it’s running, it has the living room toasty in no time, when it’s off, things cool down fast. So, we spend a lot of time hopping up and down to meddle with the switch.
However, the fire only heats one room. The rest of the house relies on an ancient and rather frightening boiler which sits in a cupboard and emits loud rattles and clunks at regular intervals. The thermostat seems to operate under its own volition with very little regard for the actual temperature and we’ve spent many a happy night, lying awake listening to it fire up and switch off, fire up and switch off, sometimes several times a minute. We’ve been warned by people who know about these things that it will need replacing soon, but at the moment we’re frittering away our income on food and car repairs so it will have to wait. And to be fair, it does a passable job of keeping the house warm.
Except when temperatures plummet the way they have this week.
Our friends in Phoenix were horrified when we announced our relocation to the frozen wastes of Colorado.
“Don’t you know it’s cold up there?” they asked. Well yeah, of course we did but as I pointed out repeatedly, it’s supposed to be cold in winter. And one of the many delightful things about Colorado is that even in winter, the sun shines most days so while there may be snow on the ground, and ice in the shady spots, it’s usually still comfortably warm outside.
But not this week.
I was spoiled on Monday because I drove the Subaru to work. With its powerful heater, road hugging tires and best of all, heated seats, I cruised down that hill and back up again at night, all the while wondering what everyone else was complaining about – the roads were fine, the snow wasn’t so bad, it wasn’t that cold. Sure, there were hurricane force winds out there (109mph recorded in Golden) but they didn’t affect me. What’s the big deal? I found out on Tuesday when I was back to driving my usual transport, Angus the 4Runner. Now I love Angus to bits, and he’s taken me places I would be scared to attempt in the shiny Subaru, but it has to be said, when it comes to luxury, the car manufacturers have moved on somewhat in the eighteen years since he rolled off the production line.
The heater works, sort of, in that it dries out your eyeballs while making no discernible difference to the temperature. The tires don’t hug the road so much as caress it, in a gentle stroking motion. And worst of all, the seats have to be heated manually, namely by placing your bum on them for 45 minutes or so. Even the tape player refused to be roused from its slumbers, forcing me to rely on the radio, which never helps my mood.
Although the drive through the mountains wasn’t too bad. It was only when I hit the town that things got really gnarly as a winter storm was in full force and traffic at a virtual standstill. Still, I made it into the office eventually, much to the surprise of the city dwellers who hadn’t expected to see me at all. Having arrived late, I had to remain shackled to my desk until well after 7pm, but at least, I thought smugly, the roads will be better now. Wrong again Einstein.
Although the snow had for the most part been cleared, the ground itself was slick and shiny as sub-zero temperatures caused everything to be coated in a film of ice. There’s nothing quite like that exhilarating little thrill when you feel your car begin to slide beneath you, especially if you’re surrounded by much bigger vehicles, often traveling faster than you are. 2-wheel drive, 4-wheel drive, it’s all the same when you’re on ice and I think that’s the best workout my heart’s had since the last time I attempted to go jogging.
Creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. About 1/4 a mile ahead I saw her taillights suddenly begin to zig-zag as she fishtailed across three lanes of traffic. Luckily the drivers around her were driving cautiously and each had time to avoid her so she ended up on the hard shoulder, completely unharmed. As I passed her she was staring fixedly ahead with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. About 5 miles further on, creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. Sigh.
Still, Angus and I made it home unscathed and in no time I was indoors and ready for dinner. There’s nothing like a big bowl of steaming hot, home-made soup on a night like this so it was a shame we didn’t have any. Instead, I microwaved a pizza and munched disconsolately while huddling over the space heater. By bedtime we were, according to our cheapo thermometer on the front deck, down to -13F. I talked to the dogs to see if I could persuade them not to pee until say, May, but it was no dice. So, wrapping myself up like Nanook of the North, I dragged them outdoors for their evening constitutional. It was ear nipping, toe stinging, snot freezing cold out there – the kind of cold that sucks your breath from your lungs. Still, there’s something inherently comically in watching a dog try to pee without putting any feet on the ground.
When I dragged my bum out of bed at 5:30 the following morning, the windows were coated in Jack Frost’s artwork – even on the inside. Cheapo thermometer told me it was -28F, which is bloody cold. I took one look at Angus, buried in a cocoon of ice, another look back at the kettle, and thought.
“Today, I’m going to work from home.”
Tag: winter
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
First Published: 12 April, 2005
They said there was a storm coming. Over and over they said it. On the television, the radio, online, everywhere. Big storm’s a-coming; you better get ready.
Except they’ve said that before, hundreds of times. And they’ve always been wrong. Well, not always – there was the blizzard of ’03 which buried parts of the foothills under 12-15 feet of snow; they did predict that correctly. But all the other chicken-little warnings either haven’t come to pass at all or have been a fraction of what we were told to expect. As a veteran of 3 ½ Colorado winters I’ve come to learn that when the weather service says “Expect a foot of snow”, we can anticipate an inch or so.
To be fair, our house is located in an area which seems to be remarkably well protected from the brunt of Colorado’s winter storms. Known locally as “The Banana Belt” we’re sheltered by the mass of Mt Evans which means the nasty stuff tends to blow right around us. Quite often the worst driving conditions of my commute don’t happen until I’ve dropped a good thousand feet or so towards the plains. Many of Colorado’s world-famous ski resorts are approximately the same height as our house yet they receive five or ten times the amount of snow. But even so, the weather predictions have a tendency to be almost comically unrealistic.
The “big storm” was supposed to hit us on Saturday night, so it was with a weary cynicism I headed for bed after noting an almost immeasurable amount of snow on the deck. Up at 5am to accommodate The World’s Most Irritating Dog who’d refused the opportunity to pee at bedtime and still there was virtually no snow.
“Useless b******s,” I grumbled. (I grumble a lot in the mornings) “I wish I had a job where I could be wrong about absolutely everything and not get fired.”
Pre-coffee crankiness aside, I was really quite pleased. You see I was leaving for a conference later that morning and as the airport is a good 70 miles away, I didn’t fancy having to battle the elements all the way there. Back to bed with a clear conscience and another couple of hours between the warm sheets. 7 a.m., the alarm went off and I hopped semi-cheerfully out of bed only to discover the long-awaited storm had finally got started. Oh boy; had it started.
There was still only 3 or 4 inches on the ground but it was coming down thick and fast so I decided that although my flight would almost certainly be delayed, it still made sense to set out for the airport sooner rather than later. Of course, it never entered my head the flight would be cancelled altogether so I learned about that from the radio when I was only a couple of miles from the house. I’d to drive another mile before finding a place safe enough to turn around and giving thanks once again for 4-wheel drive, pointed Angus homewards.
Like a kazillion other people due to fly from Denver, I had to call the airline to find out what they had in mind for the rest of my day. I expected to be on hold for an hour or more so when a pleasant voice came on the line after about five minutes, it caught me completely off guard and with a mouthful of toast. Yes, the flight was cancelled but not to worry, there was room on a later flight scheduled for the evening, presumably by which time, somebody would have shovelled the runways clear and jump-started the planes.
Which left me with almost a full day to kill. Me, who never has enough time to do the things I have to do, much less the things I want to do. Me, who has a dozen projects to start “whenever I get some free time, even just a few hours would do”. A whole Sunday with nothing planned, nowhere to go, no chores to be done.
And I couldn’t get motivated to do anything.
I’m not sure what the psychology of all this was but it seemed my head was already in travel mode and my brain wasn’t ready to do anything else. My exercise gear stayed in the bag. The pile of photographs didn’t make it into the new album. My drumsticks stayed in the daypack along with my practice pad. And the bills stayed unpaid. Oh, I did allow nutso-dog to drag me around the neighbourhood for an hour or so, but most of the day was spent mooning around the house or standing at the window, listlessly watching the snow come down.
When the airline left a message to say my new flight had been cancelled too, it came as no big surprise. Nor was it any great shock that it took a whole lot longer to get through to the reservation centre this time. I took this in my stride and calmly accepted my fate. I didn’t get bad tempered until I accidentally pressed the phone too close to my face while holding it wedged in my shoulder and disconnected the call after being on hold for 26 minutes.
Then I got really bad tempered some 35 minutes later when I finally got through and found myself conversing with an infuriatingly chirpy automated robot. I’m not sure if the deficiency was on my side or Deep Blue’s but the conversation broke down when it asked me for my confirmation number and was then unable to understand my response. So, it asked again. And again. And again.
I learned a couple of things during this exchange. One is that regardless of how many obscenities you scream at United Airline’s telephone robot, and no matter the volume, it will still respond with “I’m sorry, I’m unable to find that confirmation number. Could you please give it to me again?” The second is that The Light of my Life™ is probably right when she says I should have my blood pressure re-checked.
The conference was at a ski resort high above Lake Tahoe with a breath-taking setting in one of the world’s most beautiful valleys. But I’m afraid I barely saw the view as it was the middle of the night when I finally arrived. I spent the following day blearily taking part in what was left of the conference, and before I knew it, it was time to go home. I’m told it was very nice though. And they had more snow that we got.
Would it have been too much to ask for my flight to have been cancelled in this direction?
Drumming up the Sun
First Published: 21 December, 2004
As you may know, today marks the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest night of the year, the solstice has been celebrated by ancient peoples the world over to mark their gratitude for the fact that the sun has once more risen and the wheel of the year is complete. The Winter Solstice marked victory of light over darkness or the end of the cycle of death and decay and the beginning of a new cycle of light, growth and life. It has traditionally been a time for people to celebrate the gradual lengthening of the days and the regeneration of the earth.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as the Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpt the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theatre. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheatre and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheatre steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, I saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheatre and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an aeroplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition has been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
A Walk in Winter
First Published: 28 December, 2004
Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. Breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I must face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.
Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave coffee for The Light of my Life™ by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Old dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighbourhood later today.
The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life-giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.
The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and camo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.
a quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because The Light of my Life™ isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jewelled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.
I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the towbar until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail, and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquillity too.
I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, tummy rumble tones like the inner workings of a whale after a curry. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art.
In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.
“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”
Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.
The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.
Every season in Colorado is my favourite, but winter is perhaps my most favourite.
The Gunsmoke Diaries 