Rumbling crept into my mind, sliding in surreptitiously.  My eyes drifted open, before  my mind really caught up.  The diffuse sunlight scattered across the snowy ground, throwig sparkles onto the ceiling.  Morning sun lit the room gently from this side of the house.

The cat sat on the bed, regarding me steadily.  Purring.  When she saw my eyes flicker open, her purring intensified, and her little paws started kneading the bed.  I smiled, and saw her lean forward.

“Oh no you don’t Fat Kitty.”  I scolded the cat as she made a move for my pillow.  This cat was obviously used to a little more cuddling than I was dishing out.  I hate to bruise her tender feelings, but my idea of a good time does not include cat hair all over my face.  Nor being smothered.  Fat Kitty looked somewhat crestfallen, but stayed where she was.  The first night I stayed here, at this house I am caring for, she seemed shocked at the abrupt manner in which I dumped her off my pillow, with a scolding.  Clearly she was used to much better treatment than that.  Since that incident, she has responded to my scolding fairly well, avoiding sleeping on my face.  Considering she is roughly the size of a beachball, I appreciate her restraint.

I roll over, and grab my mobile.  Bringing up the weather app shows the temperature to be about -26 celsius in Calgary.  Not really encouraging, but it could be worse.  At least it isn’t 30 below.

I stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over the rottweiler on the bedroom floor.  He merely groans at me, as if he can’t possibly move, so I better not step on him.  Old dogs can be such doorstops.  Shuffling my way to my clothes, I ponder my outfit.  Seems like a good day for merino wool long johns, and flannel lined pants.  As I bundle into my clothes, I meander into the kitchen.  Looks like a nice sunny day out there.  Peering out the frost-rimmed window, I take a look at the thermometer.  I blink, and look again.  Nope, the mercury stays stubbornly at the -36 mark.  I groan, and move back.  I guess it is a thirty below day out in the country after all.

The horses will need feeding soon, and will be expecting to be taken from their paddocks to the field.  They have nice thick coats, so I am sure they survived the night just fine.  My soft human skin is gonna need some help, however.  I stand in the entryway, contemplating my outer layer choices.

The people whose farm this is have left me with a fine selection, along with instructions to help myself.  I choose a onesie, quilted insulation on the inside, canvas material on the outside.  It zips down the legs, like a snowmobiling suit, over my boots.  I zip the hood up, over my toque and facewarmer.  pull on thick leather gloves lined with sheepskin, and I am ready to go.  Dog blinks up at me, tail wagging.  She has been waiting patiently, as I pulled on more layers, until only my eyes and the bridge of my nose were visible.  I have a childhood memory of my father dressing up like this, layer on layer, and topping it off with ski goggles, so not one inch of his skin was exposed.  He had to go plow the driveway with a bobcat, so we weren’t snowbound.  The temperature was nearer to 50 below then, if I recall correctly.  It was the coldest I have ever seen it outside.

I pull open the door, and Dog bounds out into the snow.  It squeaks below my feet as we walk down to the barn.  I marvel at how she can go from the warm house to extremity-freezing cold with no discomfort.  What would it be like to have evolved with luxuriant pelts, instead of our fragile human skin?  I bet there would be a much larger hair tinting industry.  Or would that be fur tinting?  I could just imagine the fashionable ones with gently frosted tips, while rebellious teenagers would color their fur like the rainbow, and shave patches of it off.  Not so different from now, I guess.

I dismiss the mental wanderings from my mind as I arrive at the barn.  All my charges seemed to have weathered the chill night.  Even the barn cat is here, sitting on a bale of hay in the sun.  I marvel at how this tiny life can cling to existence in the freezing cold.  The barn is not heated.  Nothing down here is heated except for the auto waterers.  There is a shed of hay and straw for him to curl up in, and he can get into the cold barn for food, but still.  Life is tenacious.  I reach over to lightly scratch his cheek.  I don’t want to pet his back, cuz that would flatten his fur and puff out the slightly warmer air he has trapped in it.  My mittens are no warmer than the snow right now.  He turns his face towards me, eyes closed.  Frost clings to his whiskers.  His ears have long ago been frostbitten off, but the stubs point in my direction.  I pet him gently, and he soaks it up.  For all that he loves occasional human attention, he would perish in the house.  He doesn’t like it there, and the one time they had to keep him inside to recover from a wound being patched up, he escaped after day three.  lord, he just can’t change.

The horses nicker in greeting, as I putter around the food containing barn.  Their coats are tipped with frost too.  On the black horse, it looks particularly contrasting.  I wish I had a camera.  I spend a moment looking at them, these creatures with small brains and long legs.  Both the horses in the paddock are staring out into the nearby field.  Trusting their superior senses, I turn to look.

There, not 200 meters away, a moose stands, dark on the perfect white of the snowy field.  The bushes behind her give me a bearing, and the trees standing near in clumps do not impede my view.  I have ridden horses under those trees.  The moose is huge, as most moose are.  As I stare in open mouthed astonishment, I see the moose youngster by her side.  He must be nearly a yearling by now, almost as large as his mother, but not yet independent.

As far as wildlife goes, I am surrounded at this moment by some of the most statistically deadly.  Moose account for more human fatalities than bears or cougars, with sow moose accompanied by a calf the most dangerous.  You don’t wanna mess with this momma.  She will run you down, and then trample you to death.  Mostly, people die from hitting moose with their car.  When the car hits the moose’s legs, the moose just falls over on them, killing everyone involved.  No one wins.  As for dangerous animals, I have no idea how many horse related deaths there are every year, but I am willing to bet a few.  The injuries alone make it sensible to have a medic on hand for every horse show.

I feel at peace, however.  The moose is quite a ways away, and I can clearly see her calf, close by her side, and unthreatened.  There is a chainlink fence between us, albeit with a big gate that I just opened, but she is not likely to take the trouble to come closer.  I climb up on the paddock fence to get a better view, steadying myself on the neck of the horse who has come near.  I enjoy the sight of the majestic animal from here, framed by the frosted trees, and accented by our pluming breath in the still cold air.  The morning sun slices into the field, into the barn area alike.  The light illuminates the moose, and sparkles on the snow, small frozen particles thrown up by the breeze.  Dog stands nearby, nose pointed towards the moose, ready to spring into action.  The horse is steady beneath my hand, his warmth soaking thru my mitten.  It is almost painfully beautiful, this moment.

I can see that the moose has her head turned towards me.  She has been watching me since I got to the barn, no doubt.  I can see her breath on the chill air.  Her calf stands still, soaking in the sunshine.  We are all here, breathing plumes of moisture out, taking in the cold air, and soaking up the sunshine.  I think fondly of Barn Cat, warming up after a long cold winter night.  In this depth of winter, I feel the promise of spring.  I know grass will burst forth, green and nourishing from the field where the moose stands.  I know her droppings from this night past will feed little green shoots.  I know the trees will awake, sap running again, to push forth green leave to shade all life, make the very air we all breath.

In this coldest day yet, I feel new life just around the corner.

The moose turns her head, looking off into the nearby bushes that line the course of a now frozen stream.  She looks once more at me, and lopes off, unhurriedly.  She displays that bouncing awkward gait that characterizes a moose, and her yearling follows right behind, a smaller awkward version.  I look after her for a long moment, and then even the horses decide she is gone.  Jumping off the fence, I plant my feet on the frozen dormant ground, renewed.

Dog brings me a stick, looking up hopefully.  What can I do?  I laugh at the sheer beauty of life, and pick up her stick

I kick back, and soak in the faint rays of sunshine. The mountain lay before me, flanks robed in snow, tiny people visible making their way down. the chairlifts crawled upwards, and the skiers came down again. A cloud hovers around the cap of the mountain, shrouding the top in mystery. Today, I will once again attempt the snowboard. I envy the ease I see others glide down with, secure in their skills. I find the single board strapped to both feet rather confusing, maybe owing to my skiing background. But I am determined. I want to be at least mildly proficient at this.

Yesterday, we stopped in at the Donner Pioneer Memorial. A simple wooden building, and a metal statue on a high stone base. Inside, you can learn a bit about what happened to the ill fated Donner Party. A group of emigrants, starting out from Kansas City, were heading for California, a new life and cheap land. There were apparently lots of these emigrants, and they just loaded up canvas covered wagons, and headed out. They took all their belongings and left, never to see their friends and family left behind again. This one group of about 80 people branched off from the main trail, taking a “short cut”. Well, it was no short cut, and the delay put them crossing the Sierras in the beginning of winter. An early snowfall trapped them in Donner Pass, and a record setting snowfall kept them there. The reason this story has stuck around, seeing as how this happened in 1846, is when the food ran out, the surviving members of the party turned to eating the flesh of those who had already perished. Some did survive, being rescued in Feb and April. The stone monument stands outside, it’s base as high as the snow was that winter. It’s base is 22 feet tall. In all the years since, it has never snowed that much again.

We also went down the shore of Lake Tahoe, to a sheltered cove with an island. You can park up on the shoulder of the surrounding mountain, and look down to the island, where a small stone house stands. This was built in about 1912, if memory serves me. A woman came to this bay, and since it reminded her of the Norwegian fjords, she built her home there. Quarried stone from just up the hill, and trees from nearby, all went into shaping her grand home in the scandinavian cast. She insisted on the trees being left intact around the house, and this presented unique building difficulties. These trees now shade her home from casual view from the hill. In the spring, one can hike down the trail and tour the main home on the shore. Apparently, the park rangers take it poorly if you attempt to visit the old teahouse on the island. A waterfall completed this breathtaking scene, splashing down behind the main house.

We took it easy last night, coming back to the lodge near the ski hill. A little mead went down quite well, and the cards came out. I can’t say who won or lost, as I retired to bed fairly early, victim of the early flight. Today, I feel well rested and there is bacon cooking for breakfast. The ski hill beckons, the snowy slopes drawing us onwards.

Branches slapped against the window, as red dust billowed up around the old buick’s tires. Dan and I sat in the front seat, next to the caretaker. We rubbed shoulders while the old car bumped down the road. Giant ruts in the road threatened to swallow the bald tires whole. The spare on the passenger front side gamely rolled on, defying the path. Dust streaked the cracked windshield, the sun glare rendering the path before us, charitably dubbed road, before us a mystery. The caretaker chattered happily, dodging the ruts with practiced ease. We had been up the hill quite a ways, along a gravel road, dashing thru the trees. After a lovely bit of time spent away from the cabin, we were ready to return. Rolling back up the path to the main road, with our nose pointed towards the cabin, we all grinned at each other, fortified with decent beer. We were deep in national forest country, with hardly anyone else around. I had yet to see another car, on the hour or more I had driven or ridden on these roads.

We were just recounting the glorious demise of Dan’s old jimmy, and how old cars ought to go out with a bang. The caretaker had just finished his beer, when the car suddenly gave up it’s stuttering purr, and we coasted along in near silence. We traded glances, and Caretaker sighed, and threw the old buick into neutral.

“If we can just make it up the next hill, we can pretty much coast all the way down to the cabin.” he smiled, and let all tension off the brake. Once released from its iffy and squealing brakes, the considerable mass of the tank-like car picked up speed. We slalomed around the corners, and leaped over potholes with the ease of a fish. Dashing around a corner, the hill loomed before us, the trees casting shadows across its pitted surface like the bars of an old fashioned prison. Gamely, the car tacked the slope, gravel sputtering from under its tires, especially the spare. The car made a good showing, but eventually gravity reasserted its cruel hold, and we rolled to a stop.

Caretaker sighed “Well, we gave it a good shot. I’m gonna try to get Buddy on the phone, see if he can fetch us some gas. More than likely, we run out of fuel. The gauge doesn’t work so good any more.” He fished out his cell, and powered it on, muttering pleas at it to retain enough juice to make the call. All his sweet talk was in vain, however, as it bleeped the lack of service in the area. Caretaker gave another sigh, and cracked a beer. Not much else to do, as we sat in the middle of the one lane road in the vast tracts of forest. Dan popped the door open, allowing it to creak open like a barn door. Dust motes swirled in the air, settling over us in a thin blanket. Caretaker did the same, and the dust flowed thru with little impedence.

After a few moments, and another good story of vehicle death, Caretaker gave the key a halfhearted crank. Much to our surprise, the car sputtered to life, with the last gasp of gas. We shared a incredulous look, and Caretaker threw the car into gear, juggling his beer while he pulled the door in. Dan snatched his leg back into the car, and his door squealed shut. We raced up the hill, daring the gas to fail us, breathless to reach the crest, to coast down the other side. We grinned at each other as the land slopes again, and gravity eased her hands back around the heavy car. Caretaker let gravity assist the failing gas, and we picked up speed until we were once again flying down the hills, around the corners.

We came to a particularly fierce pothole, a series of them, and took them like an over excited steeplechaser. The car dashed into the breach, and slammed into the ground. This was nothing new, we had been scraping belly the whole time, but a new noise did reach our ears this time. A faint psst psst, rhythmically issued forth, and we three looked once again at each other in horror. Dan rolled down the window, and stuck his head out, daring the whipping branches. He dropped back into his seat, and confirmed
“Yeah, the doughnut is blown.”

“Screw it, I don’t even care.” Caretaker shook his head “I am gonna ride that rim down this hill.” He glanced over at us, and we cheered him on. We all grinned, and he turned his head forward. We all whooped and hollered, and we rolled on.

The car flew down the hill, dashing into a loose gravel patch. Stones flew into the forest as the small rim plunged into the gravel. The car slewed to the side, but carried on gamely, momentum carrying the day. We slid, sunblind, down the tiny forest road, until we reached the turnoff down to the cabin that Caretaker bushhogged into the forest earlier in the year. The ruts on this road were even more prohibitive here, but the buick slid down the red dirt path on it’s belly. The spare rim spun gamely, and we slewed down the final few bends, tree branches whipping the car. Down a final slope and corner, we came to a halt in the yard of the cabin, dust swirling around us.

Caretaker, Dan and I grinned, and we all climbed out of the car into the afternoon sun

My eyes skim over the words, bold black strokes on white paper. The simplicity of a book seems to match this place, this cabin in the middle of the forest. The constant hum of the generator reminds us our light is only here on sufferance. The cords snaking thru the cabin attest to the narrow point of entry, the one cord lighting the whole place, running up to the generator. As I read, the lights above me suddenly die. A collective sigh arises from the kitchen, where some of the group is making dinner. Undeterred, they grab an oil lantern, and the cooking continues on propane fueled elements. I put down my book; dinner is nearly ready anyways. It is my turn to do the dishes, so dinner prep is not expected of me. This suits me fine, as my idea of dinner is a hot can of beans, maybe even with stale bread.

We sit down at the table, eyes flickering in the oil light. Dinner is plain fare, beets and onion sauteed in dill, served on quinoa. I tap my bare foot against the floor as I eat. We walked a long way down to the lake today, some two miles there, and then two miles back in the dusk, going on dark. My feet need a break, a chance to rest without the confines of shoes. Dinner is good. My muscles cry out for meat, but the vegetarians in the group are well pleased.

Suddenly, an exclaimation from the kitchen. a light is called for, a flashlight shines on the ground. One girl triumphantly holds up a wine glass, paper clapped to it’s opening. She brings the cup near the table, and a light is shone on it.

“…just saw it by his foot in the kitchen, and we caught it! What kind of spider is this?”

I look up, and see the flashlight shining thru the glass, throwing the shadow large and crawly on her arm. I figure the light for exaggerating the size, as it must. the shadow is the size of a small bird.

“Huh, it looks like one of those brown recluse.” one guy informs us. Our american counterparts lean back a little. I look around at them.

“It that bad?” I ask.

“Well, they aren’t bad, what with the catching of flies and all. But they are deadly poison.” another girl casually mentions.

This is just after I learned that there were rattlesnakes here, but they have all bedded down for the winter already. Did I mention it has been unseasonably warm here lately?

I crane my neck to catch glimpse of this spider, so I can identify it. I see a body with it’s legs drawn up, legs tapping against the side of the glass. the thing is fully as large as a toonie, and it doesn’t even have it’s legs out. I draw my bare feet up onto the bench seat. The girl holding the glass heads out the front door, and flings the spider out into the garden.

I pick up the lantern, and make my way to the living room, lantern held low. There, my closed toe slippers rest. Too bad for my hot aching feet, it is time for toe protection. I have to go out to the generator, and try to reset the breaker. This seems lie a bad time for bare feet, all of a sudden.

I walk up the steps thru the garden, lantern held high. My eyes scan the trees for the bright flicker of animal eyes. No bears seem to be around. They are like the ghosts of the forest. The bear dog sees them, and barks at them on and off thru the night. I see their scat all around the property in a big circle. We never do seem to catch sight of them directly, however.

A quick press of the reset button, and the lights below flicker back to life.

Life goes on.

“Travelling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.”
– Cesare Pavese

Swiftly we flowed down the West Coast, hitting towns only long enough to gas up. We paused for sleep, setting alarms to wake one person up to start the bus rolling in the crisp dark mornings while the others slept. As the day wore on, the others would wake up, and life on the bus would continue.

We picked up two riders, one in Calgary and one in Seattle. With four on the short bus, things were… cozy. Negotiations took place for most movement. “I would like to get under that bed to get my socks, could you shift over to the other one?” or “My food bag is by your feet, could you pass it over?” Cozy indeed. It did turn into a small community, and I was sad to see our riders get off at their respective stops in northern California.

We stopped in Ashland just before we left Oregon, to visit some of the great people I had met there when on tour with Mythmaker. Even tho I had given such minimal notice of when we would roll into town, friends made some time in their schedules, and welcomed us with open arms and smile. Considering we had been on the road for a handful of days by this point, you can imagine what friendly people these guys truly are! Though I did receive several invitations to use the shower…

We had planned to hit the Wellsprings, natural sourced hot pools near Ashland. I was delighted to make a plan to meet up with a Mythmaker Tour ’10 Alumni (ha, sounds so fancy) at the pools, and had told my fellow bus riders all about the pools. We were all pretty excited to go. Well, we met up with one of the Ashland friends, and she reminded me that every Monday was ladies night. Sigh, as with many plans on the road, you have to be flexible. The two girls on the bus went with the Ashland friend, and I was still able to meet up with my tour mate from the summer. I was thrilled to be able to mull over recent happenings in our respective lives, and share a bottle of mead. The night grew late too quickly, and the early morning push to make it there at a decent time took it’s toll on me. We reluctantly called it a night, and made our way back out to the bus.

The morning dawned brisk, and we rose with the sun to make the drop off time our riders had wanted. A bittersweet farewell, an alleycat goodbye, another path diverges in the wood. It is not for us to know the future, nor when we shall meet again.

We wound our way through the red hills of northern California, our tires rolling down pavement, down gravel roads. A musky scent pervades the air here, and the vegatation is strange to my eye. The plants guard their water, fending off the encroacher with spines and bitter taste. We bid another farewell, and are down to three.

As the tires roll over the pavement, the kilometers fall away, or add up, depending on your point of view. We drove into the dusk, and made our rendevous for our last rider. Another farewell, and Dan and I are left looking at each other over the now roomy expanse of the bus. We move about, still mindful of the other’s space and task, but not constantly in each other’s way. It is a nice change, and I get back to the knowing of my home. I put a few things away, and puttered about before bed.

Today brought the redwoods into light. After a leisurely departure, we made our way down the road to a grove of redwoods. The tall trees reached up into the sunlight, and defied my puny human perception of time. I stared up at the leafy canopy far above me, and dreamed of giants. We walked among their roots, crawling things. THe scars of fire marked their bark, a fire so long ago the rest of the ground vegatation had grown back in seamlessly. A fire, such a temporary thing, possessing no solid form. No doubt it passed in a blink of the forest’s gentle eye. And yet, here, it has written it’s story, and the trees have worn it on their skin, testament to a battle long over, a worthy foe outlasted, withstood. We find a fallen tree, it’s roots gutted by fire. Even in it’s grave, life goes on. A younger tree grows up out of the charred stump.

I am humbled by the grove, as it should be, to my way of thinking. It is good to confront your own very temporary nature every so often. My own life is less than the touch of a feather to the great face of time, a brief caress from a one night lover. Forgotten wholly in the next turn of the head. This is strangely peaceful to me. As much as I might fret on the challenges that arise in my life, they are truly trite in the greater view. My life is only most important to me. I matter to others only through my interactions with them. Therefor, should I not cast off the strife of self-aggrandizing concerns and go out to dance with those I meet? For in the end, the concerns will wash away, and I shall have a nest of memories to keep my spirit warm, conversations had around the fire, drink shared, and oh yes, music we joyously surrendered to.