Feb. 22, 1968
And then it happened. My typewriter had scarcely regained its normal , temperature after clacking out a bevy of cutting remarks about how old man winter was playing dirty tricks on skiers in general and the poor resort owners in particular when the furious old frost-whiskered demon came snorting in on us, revenge bent.
The skies filled with swirling dark clouds, and the icy wind moaned as if in sympathy with any cross-country skiers that might be out on the high ski trails pursuing their favorite winter sport.
And three there were who were out in that cold (20-degree) fiercely blowing wind, 3 at least that I know of – Dean, Charles, and myself. We skied in to 4-mile Lake, a roundtrip distance of 12 miles, and we didn’t lose much time on the tour. Our few stops were brief, the biting cold making it necessary, or at least advisable, to keep on the move. We crawled into a little lean-to near thelakeshore for a quick go at the lunches we carried in our belt packs, then we hurried back down the trail, where the warm car and Dean’s family were waiting for us at the end of our run. Marcia and Laurie had confined their skiing to a sensible distance from the car.
Before heading for home we drove the short distance to Lake of the Woods for a cup of hot coffee at the snack bar there, where the cross-country races were in progress.
On the way back to Grants Pass the gusty wind seemed to increase in intensity, the entire sky was darkening ominously and the racing black clouds told plainly enough what was in store for us. Before we were half way to Grants Pass the snow started falling, lightly at first as though savoring the blow that was to be dealt the countryside a short while later.
By the time we reached town the snowstorm was really getting wound up. I hurriedly transferred my ski gear from Dean’s car to the jeep and, with 40 miles yet to go to reach Packers Gulch and sanctuary, I lost no time in getting started on the last lap of my journey home.
I had worrisome visions of being locked out by the increasingly heavy snowfall, and those little qualms grew up rapidly before I was hardly out of town. Between Grants Pass and the Applegate I shifted to 4-wheel drive to buck the deepening snow on the highway. By the time I reached Hayes Hill the snow was 10 inches deep, and I passed at least a dozen stalled cars on the way to the summit.
Before I got to Selma the dense snow load was too much for my windshield swipe and it gave up the ghost. Thereafter I had to drive hunched close over the steering wheel so I could reach through the open window and around the corner far enough to keep a small area of the windshield free from the driving snow.
In Kerby I spent a few agonizing moments in the ditch; in Cave Junction a young good Samaritan fixed my immobilized swipe, and on Rockydale Road I was forced to stop for further adjustment.
That terrific snowstorm, the worst I’ve ever driven in, continued unabated the whole trip home. Next morning I had 18 inches of snow at my cabin. Today, 3 days later, I still have 16 inches, and I have been shoveling most of the day to clear an area big enough to turn the jeep around when I back out of the garage to get headed down the lane. A couple of more hours of shoveling tomorrow and I may be able to make it out – unless more snow comes tonight.
If I had known what that vindictive old snow man waspreparing for me while I was so far from home, and if I had been given a chance to lessen the blow by apologizing for my insulting remarks, I’d have hastily and eagerly obliged.
But it was too late. I wanted snow, and like the starving Israelites of old who were given the quail treatment for complaining, I was given snow till it ran out of my ears.
Oh well, if we were given everything we wanted on demand, when and just the way we wanted it delivered, life would be an intolerable bore. An exciting surprise now and then, even a more or less painful one, keeps us on our toes and makes what might have been a dull existence an interesting and happy one.
