Where Winter and Heaven Meet

Where Winter and Heaven Meet

I awoke from a dream, or so it seemed. It had been so cold and the fire had died, and then the cold became an icy quilt swaddling me as if a newborn. Now, the chill and cold wind had dissipated. I was no longer feeling stiff and frozen. It made no sense. The fire was out, the wind still howled, the snow had piled higher, and still I felt warmed and comfortable.

I threw off the tattered cloth I had wrapped myself in and moved closer to the window. As I placed my hands of the worn sill, I could feel the movement of air through the gaps where the window and frame had warped. I felt a significant breeze coming from the frigid winds blowing outside, yet there was no hint of cold. Even the window sill on which I was leaning was a comfortable temperature, perhaps even warm. The wind which leaked through those unprotected openings felt like a spring day, not a winter's blow.

I should have been scared. I should have been fearful. I should have tried to understand why I felt nothing like the cold which I'd felt before. It still made no sense and my mind failed to comprehend the why of it all. I forced myself to concentrate, to recreate the events of the day, maybe in that way I could figure this all out. 

I'd gone for a solo hike in the High Sierras. It was a gorgeous spring day filled with sunshine, melting snows and the first Crocuses of the season. It was warm enough to wear just wool shirt sleeves and a thermal vest. I had on a visored hat, my military issue sunglasses, light gloves, a Camelback with water, my best hiking boots and SPF50 sun block. There were protein bars in my pack, and with my walking poles in my hands, I had all that I needed. When I set off it was a balmy, forty-five degrees at the lower levels.

I'd left in the early morning, planning to return long before darkness began to descend. As I pushed on, going fast and hard, I was feeling that ecstasy which comes from testing one’s limits. It was akin to achieving a runner’s high. I felt strong and healthy. Nothing seemed to be able to slow me down. That is, until I reached the higher altitudes. Suddenly, almost from nowhere, an unpredicted snow squall moved in over the mountains. The rapidity with which it was upon me was shocking. Because this was a simple day trip, I had no tent, no sleeping bag; no form of portable shelter at all. I knew I should turn back but the squall had become a full on blizzard and I could barely see my hand in front of me. If not for my sunglasses protecting my eyes, I would have been blinded by the miniature shards of frozen ice flying, with gale force, into my face.

I stepped into a niche in the rock wall. It provided scant shelter, but I need to get my bearings against my trail map. It was hard to read in the gloom of the storm and I wished I’d packed a flashlight. The map showed that there was a hiker's way ahead, so out of choices, I trudged forward to find it. Fortunately, it didn’t take long before I was safely behind a closed wooden. Despite its ill fit, it was still protection door from the ravages of the wind.

Inside, there was a small pile of wood next to ancient fireplace. With fingers that were stiffened by cold, I managed to light a fire. Picking up an old blanket from the floor, I pulled it around my shoulders. In the dim light from the fire, I was able to see that the room was almost bare. I would have to say it was beyond just bare, it was in fact exceptionally uninviting. This was a place which was truly meant to be no more than a  momentary rest stop for weary travelers. For those like me, unfortunate, or stupid enough to be caught in a storm, it was a welcome place of refuge.

As my body began to thaw out, the view from the window confirmed my worst fears. The snowstorm had become a complete whiteout. Travel had become impossible. I was going to have to hunker down in this shotgun shack until the storm had passed, which could mean minutes, hours or even days. Then, depending on the amount of snow that fell, it could conceivably be days longer before I, without any winter gear, would be able to attempt the trip back down the mountain. That thought of endless, unpredictable hours stuck alone, was enough to set my stomach rumbling. It reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since early morning and that I needed to eat to provide fuel for keeping my body warm.

There was an old table, and there were two rickety chairs. I pulled the table and one of the chairs as close to fireplace as was safe. A dented and scarred pot served as the only cooking tool. I emptied water from my Camelback into the pot and put it near the fire to heat. It wouldn't be cider or strong tea, but at least it would be hot. When the pot began to steam, I poured some of the hot liquid into a battered metal cup found lying in a corner, swished it around to remove some of the caked on grime, and dumped the brown mixture into the fireplace. It sizzled and popped as a freshly filled cup of hot water, along with one of the protein bars, served as my meal. By the time I was finished, I was tired but feeling a bit less chilled. The food and the warmth in my belly, together with my earlier exertions, left me sleepy. I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have, because at some point I awoke with a start.

The fire had died out and I was shivering uncontrollably. I tried to light a new fire, but my fingers could no longer hold a match, my legs could barely move. I pulled that ratty blanket tighter around me and huddled into the least windblown corner I could find. I hoped that by making myself as small as possible, I could somehow gain a modicum of warmth. It had been my hope, but hope proved to be a false prophet. At some point the cold was lessened, everything was lessened. I felt less, heard less, saw less. Then came nothingness, then the dream, and then I was once again standing at the window sill.

As I looked out the window, the wind dissipated and the storm stopped its raging. Before long I was pleased to see the snow slow and then stop. The sun began to peak out from behind clouds which seemed piled a mile high, and hope returned to my soul. It was time to find my way home. I made my way to the door and pulled it open, only to have a drift collapse inward on me. Climbing out from under it, and brushing myself off, I failed to comprehend that though a small chilly mountain had just fallen on me, I felt no cold at all. I grabbed my gear and moved out into the newly fallen snow. It was clean, fresh and pristine: completely untouched and stunningly beautiful.

Orienting myself to the way back, I turned and headed off down the now almost invisible trail. A few birds began to sing, droplets began to fall from leaves and branches as the sun melted their coverings of snow. Squirrels rustled through the treetops and a rabbit bounded over the snowy blanket. It was all wondrous and amazing and I tried to take in each and every sound. I was just beginning to give myself over to the melodiousness of the woodlands when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Not everything I was hearing was so pleasant. Not even everything I was seeing. As I wound my way through the dense forest, I saw tracks. There was the rabbit and here a squirrel, I saw fox, a bird, and even a bear’s prints. I heard a yowl in the distance and turned to see a cougar on a high peak. It was much too far away to be an immediate danger, but I’d still need to keep an eye out. Cougars are silent and patient stalkers. If I could see him, he could see, smell, and hear me. It was never a good thing to have a cougar on your six, not even when you’re part of a large group.

As I was observing the movements of the cougar, I heard another sound which was far from music to my ears. It was a sound which no one alone in the woods ever wants to hear. From my vantage point, it sounded very much like a dog baying. Soon, it was answered by one, then another, and still another. Now the forest was alive with their howls. My blood turned as cold as the day was becoming. There were hungry wolves on the prowl and I was just the meal they were looking for.

As I listened, the sound of the wolves grew louder and closer. I could just make out the sound of them moving through the trees. There was no doubt any longer, they had found my scent and they were definitely coming for me. I looked frantically for anything I could use as a club, but the snow had hidden everything from sight. With a quickness I didn’t know I had, I headed for a tree with low hanging branches. I jumped up, grabbed the nearest one, and pulled myself onto it just as hot breath and sharp teeth ripped at my heels.

I climbed higher as a pack of lean and ravenous looking wolves appeared and began to circle the tree. A few tried to jump up into the branches with me, ignoring the fact that they could not climb. They were hungry and I was food. They weren’t about to give up without a fight. So there I was, literally up a tree. And there they were, prowling at the base, scratching at the trunk or lying in wait and watching me.

I was scared I would fall asleep and fall from my perch. Scared they would leave but reappear when I came down. Scared that my lifeless, frozen body would be found still clinging to some branches come the spring thaw. These and dozens of other morbid thoughts filled my head. I was losing hope that I would ever make it back to my home.

As I sat on my branch, I couldn’t help but notice the tracks below. The wolves had created incredible geometric patterns which were intermixed with all the chaos of their prowling. It was amazing to see, and despite my precarious predicament, I had to pause a moment to appreciate the divine nature of what I was viewing. Suddenly it hit me like a cold slap from a wet towel; it wasn’t what I was seeing which was important, instead, it was what I was not seeing. As I looked in all directions as far as I was able to see, nowhere among all those myriad animal tracks could I see any kind of a trail which had been made by me. None at all not even one track. Somehow, someway, I’d gotten to this tree, but I hadn’t left any footprints in the snow!

How could that be? It was just one more thing which made no sense at all. I’d been down there; I’d walked and then run through the virgin snow. They should be there, there had to be tracks I’d left, but I couldn’t find a single footprint. Could there be some kind of a rational explanation? Maybe I was dreaming and would wake up any moment. Maybe the wind had blown them away. But then, why only did only my footprints disappear but not any of the animal prints? Why?

With these thoughts running through my mind, I realized that even though I was living proof that one can actually be “up a tree,” and even though I was wearing clothing much too light for this weather, I didn’t feel cold or chilled. I wasn’t even sweaty from my exertion. Something was off and the problem wasn’t with the world below me, the problem had to be me…

As I began to put two and two together, there seemed to be only a single explanation; I must be dead. There was no other way to explain it. Sometime while the storm raged and was huddled and shivering in that corner, when I fell asleep I must have froze to death. There was no other plausible answer; I was dead on a tree branch. It was like some insane scene from an Ingmar Bergman film in which I was the one being pursued by death.

So, if I was dead, then what was this place? Heaven? Not likely. I doubted that heaven was a place where wolves where waiting to eat you. Hell, maybe? I doubted that as well. Who ever heard of hell being covered in snow? And even if it were hell, I’m sure the wolves would be eating me alive (so to speak.) So that left only one other option, I must be stuck in purgatory. I was going to be stuck, for who knew how long, on a stupid branch, in a stupid tree, while my fate was being decided. Or maybe this was my fate, to be left in limbo forever. Always wondering how I’d gotten here, wherever here was, never finding out, and never leaving this damn tree!

At that point, I thought about giving myself up to the wolves. Just end the nightmare before it really started. Or maybe, if I jumped off, I’d break my neck and find quick oblivion. Maybe that was the solution, but when I tried to move again my butt was frozen in place. I couldn’t move up, down, out or in. I was stuck where I was until whatever put me in this tree decide otherwise.

I guess that the moral here is this: when you look out, after taking a long hike through virgin snow and you don’t see your footprints, it means that you are finally going home. Nope, not to that small one bedroom apartment with a cat and an almost healthy house plant which you used to go. This time is would be home, as in the big home, THE home, the one that Big Guy in the Sky resides in. It may be that you’ll live in the penthouse. Possibly it will be the deep, dark, sub basement. For me, it doesn’t really matter which, because I know I’ll find out eventually. At least I think I will. I mean, I hope I do. Heck, even a sub basement has got to be better than being stuck up a tree. It does, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Aw, crap, who am I trying to kid? As the saying goes; “It is what it is, and it will be what it will be.”