Blizzard Beach

“It’s not the heat; it’s the humanity.”

Gus mixed wit with his margaritas.

“Back home, this time of year, people turn colder than a witch’s tit. It’s bad enough that the Artic wind will make your teeth hurt. Your breath forms icicles on your mustache and you get brain freeze without even sucking down a Slurpee. Even with insulated boots and gloves, your toes and fingers go numb. Lots of folks there forget to have fun when it gets cold.”

The waiter came by, gesturing at his empty glass.

“Uno mas,” Gus said, shifting on his stool at the beachside tiki bar to talk to me directly. Like every other day, it was sunny and in the low 80s in the shade, but his elbow left a trail of sweat on the bar as he pivoted. Gray eyes beneath sagging eyelids suggested intelligence and a sense of humor, as well as a friendly openness I’d come to expect from Canadians. Gray mustache and wrinkles marked him as a man in early retirement.

“We come down here every winter, and we’re somebody, eh? Nobody’s bitching about the weather. Everybody knows you, even if they haven’t seen you before. It’s either Howdy or Hola. That’s heartwarming. Or is it heartburn?”

He chuckled, waving at his frosty new glass of chartreuse cheer.

Gus wore the western Canadian tourist uniform of oversize cargo shorts, loose sleeveless t-shirt and small straw cowboy hat with the rims curled. The shirt covered a significant beer gut but showed off sunburned biceps as big as hams. As he spoke of winter’s chill, sweat rings underlined those muscles.

“I have a farm just outside of town. I used to raise beef, but I let someone else do that now. I rent out my land for wheat and corn. I’m getting too old to be tossing hay bales and fixing farm machinery. Farming is hard enough in summer, but I got to hate the winters.

“Winter can be brutal, eh? Snow gets so deep I can’t even get a tractor through some days. We get snowed in for days at a time. When that happens, we eat the green beans that Mary puts up in the fall. I wish she would put up margaritas instead. Ha!

“Every snow is different. Sometimes it’s soft and light, blowing into pretty dunes like those down the beach, with blue shadows on the shady side. It’s beautiful to look at, but a pain in the ass to walk through. You take a step and sink, then struggle to pull a leg out for the next step. You can sweat like a field hand and freeze at the same time.

“Sometimes it comes straight sideways in an icy blizzard that feels like needles on your face. It hurts to be out in that weather. Usually, you can’t see more than twenty feet ahead of you. Going after lost cattle in weather like that is one reason I gave up raising cows.

“After the temperature drops at night, snow will harden into a crust you can walk on - until you hit a thin spot and sink to your waist. Then you really struggle to take another step, eh? And the crunching. It sounds so loud until you stop moving, then everything is so quiet. It’s peaceful and scary at the same time. I’m glad I have a cell phone now because I used to worry that I’d break a leg or have a heart attack out there and nobody would ever hear me.

“I’ve had new calves freeze to death in that cold. Neighbor’s kid fell through the ice playing hockey on our lake and died of hypothermia. Stock tanks freeze up so bad the warmers don’t keep up and you have to beat holes in the ice with an axe.  If you don’t dress like an eskimo you’re a goner.

“I used to ice fish. Moved up from a tiny fishing shack with wood stove to an old travel trailer with TV and propane heat I could park on the lake all winter. I finally figured I could enjoy TV and a sofa at home, minus the fish.

“The grilled fish here is great, by the way.” He paused for a sip of his drink.

“Yeah, margaritas on the beach are a whole lot better than old movies on the sofa, eh? I get a chill just thinking of walking down to the mailbox at home.”

He took another drink from his frosty margarita, turning his glass slightly to sip from a part of the rim that still bore salt.

“I read a Jack London story once where the guy says your spit crackles before it hits the ground if it’s colder than fifty below. There were days I kept spitting because I was sure we were there. I never heard a crackle, but I ended up with a Popsicle mustache.”

Gus quit speaking to watch a flock of bikini teens stroll along the water line as he took another drink. He resumed his talk when a dune blocked his view.

“When I quit farming, I drove a big rig part time. Up there, you have to keep the motor running or the diesel fuel turns to gel. I’d burn half a tank just keeping my rig parked. Nice thing is you don’t have to worry about someone hijacking a load of pulpwood while you go to dinner.

“My kids are grown now. They think I’m a pansy for heading south every winter.  The grandkids all play hockey. My sons hunt elk. They and their buddies race around on their snowmobiles and get together at taverns between hunts. The women have more time to visit or watch the kids play hockey. Guys my age don’t find much fun in that frozen hell.”

I had been leaning against a post alongside the bar. Gus waved me onto the stool beside him as the waiter hovered near his now-empty glass. I hadn’t spoken beyond Hello, so Gus must have appreciated a good listener.

“What are you drinking? This one’s on me,” he said.

“I dunno. After hearing about your winters, I feel like having a hot chocolate.”

“Hah! Not me. I need something cold.

“Uno mas.”