Dateline -- Wednesday. I made lunch around 12:30: a tuna sandwich, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and wee dollops of potato salad and BBQ beans. I sat at the six-foot-long Amish trundle table I’d bought in Ellicott City, Maryland, in 1973. I gazed out the picture window at the snow-laden pines with the distant hills as a backdrop and wondered if this storm would ever end.
Last Sunday morning I awoke, made coffee, and retreated to the loft to continue my morning’s routine: email, news, weather, this forum, etc. Looking east out the window by my desk I pondered my wood pile (no longer a stack, but literally a pile). Last night’s gale-force wind had blown my neatly stacked cord wood down the hill north of its original location. Great, I’d spend my day rescuing the wood from the two-foot snow drift it had collapsed into, and I’d have to do it soon for the weatherman warned the next storm – beginning tonight – would net up to 40” of the fluffy white stuff. That matter figured, I went on about my morning ablutions.
By dusk I had used my ten-foot-long sled to move all the toppled-over cords to a dry, covered location. No sooner had I gotten cleaned up and retreated to the loft than the snow began to fly, driven by our usual big wind. Fingers and toes still a bit numb from the cold, I smiled at my success at rescuing my future warmth from the threatening storm.
Wednesday morning: still snowing and blowing. I’ve never – in 64 years – experienced such a long storm. Each morning since Sunday I had cleared a path from the front door to the ash bin so I could – without trudging through deep snow – dump the remnants of yesterday’s fire. My path was becoming more and more descriptive as each day’s snow piled up around the path I’d carved.
Miraculously, as I ate my lunch the wind stalled and the snow stopped falling. “To the blower,” I thought. I donned the appropriate gear, grabbed the key to the blower, and out I went. My new 420cc blower’s motor fired on the first pull, and out from beneath the cabin I followed the tank’s tracks. “I should have raised the ‘drift blades’,” I thought, but press on anyway, I did. It’s half a football field to the County Road, and I made it there in a series of waltz moves – two steps forward, one back, zigzagging my path for maneuverability. The top of the blower’s deck is 28”. I undercarved (is that a word?) snow much of the way. The big blower didn’t appreciate the 44” drift at my “approach” from the County Road, but it eventually gobbled up all that snow, too.
Hours passed…. A 12-foot-wide swath led from my stairs to the County Road. I’d done all the damage I could for this day. I backed the blower under the cabin’s overhang and headed in. Bill called (he’s the lgs owner in town, down the hill from my cabin), “You ok up there,” he asked. “Yeah, been blowing snow out here in the suburbs,” said I. A chuckle and, “Yeah, me too,” I heard back. Then he told me he’d cleared the County Road up to “THE corner,” a treacherous piece of Real Estate half way between his place and mine. What a relief. I knew immediately I’d be able to blow out the snow from my approach to “THE corner,” tomorrow.
My cabin is the only place from here to Bill’s, but Bill’s call prompted me to call John, five years my senior, and a half mile further into the suburbs (there’s nobody between John and me). He was fine. Been clearing snow himself – a five-foot drift off his cabin’s roof – he said. “You’re on the wrong side of the hill,” I told him. “Yeah, I know, but I like it here.” He’s been there since 1972. No running water and no electricity, except the wind generator to keep his cell phone and computer charged. “Just poured myself a glass of Edradour,” he said. I had introduced John to Edradour single malt Scotch whisky some years back. It’s become his go-to tipple. “Sounds good,” I said. We hung up and I headed for the “medicine cabinet,” as John Wayne called it.
Last Sunday morning I awoke, made coffee, and retreated to the loft to continue my morning’s routine: email, news, weather, this forum, etc. Looking east out the window by my desk I pondered my wood pile (no longer a stack, but literally a pile). Last night’s gale-force wind had blown my neatly stacked cord wood down the hill north of its original location. Great, I’d spend my day rescuing the wood from the two-foot snow drift it had collapsed into, and I’d have to do it soon for the weatherman warned the next storm – beginning tonight – would net up to 40” of the fluffy white stuff. That matter figured, I went on about my morning ablutions.
By dusk I had used my ten-foot-long sled to move all the toppled-over cords to a dry, covered location. No sooner had I gotten cleaned up and retreated to the loft than the snow began to fly, driven by our usual big wind. Fingers and toes still a bit numb from the cold, I smiled at my success at rescuing my future warmth from the threatening storm.
Wednesday morning: still snowing and blowing. I’ve never – in 64 years – experienced such a long storm. Each morning since Sunday I had cleared a path from the front door to the ash bin so I could – without trudging through deep snow – dump the remnants of yesterday’s fire. My path was becoming more and more descriptive as each day’s snow piled up around the path I’d carved.
Miraculously, as I ate my lunch the wind stalled and the snow stopped falling. “To the blower,” I thought. I donned the appropriate gear, grabbed the key to the blower, and out I went. My new 420cc blower’s motor fired on the first pull, and out from beneath the cabin I followed the tank’s tracks. “I should have raised the ‘drift blades’,” I thought, but press on anyway, I did. It’s half a football field to the County Road, and I made it there in a series of waltz moves – two steps forward, one back, zigzagging my path for maneuverability. The top of the blower’s deck is 28”. I undercarved (is that a word?) snow much of the way. The big blower didn’t appreciate the 44” drift at my “approach” from the County Road, but it eventually gobbled up all that snow, too.
Hours passed…. A 12-foot-wide swath led from my stairs to the County Road. I’d done all the damage I could for this day. I backed the blower under the cabin’s overhang and headed in. Bill called (he’s the lgs owner in town, down the hill from my cabin), “You ok up there,” he asked. “Yeah, been blowing snow out here in the suburbs,” said I. A chuckle and, “Yeah, me too,” I heard back. Then he told me he’d cleared the County Road up to “THE corner,” a treacherous piece of Real Estate half way between his place and mine. What a relief. I knew immediately I’d be able to blow out the snow from my approach to “THE corner,” tomorrow.
My cabin is the only place from here to Bill’s, but Bill’s call prompted me to call John, five years my senior, and a half mile further into the suburbs (there’s nobody between John and me). He was fine. Been clearing snow himself – a five-foot drift off his cabin’s roof – he said. “You’re on the wrong side of the hill,” I told him. “Yeah, I know, but I like it here.” He’s been there since 1972. No running water and no electricity, except the wind generator to keep his cell phone and computer charged. “Just poured myself a glass of Edradour,” he said. I had introduced John to Edradour single malt Scotch whisky some years back. It’s become his go-to tipple. “Sounds good,” I said. We hung up and I headed for the “medicine cabinet,” as John Wayne called it.
