Live, Love, Write

September Snow

This is a non-fiction essay I wrote after a trip into Burgdorf, a primitive resort outside of McCall, Idaho:

Just as we catch sight of Burgdorf Hot Springs, a few drops of snow hit the windshield. Ryan perks and glances at me to make sure I’ve noticed. I smile, and that’s enough. As we round the corner and head through the gate, I read the sign again, “Open 10 a.m. to dusk.” Just below these words, written in Magic Marker, “10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Sundays.” We suspect they close early to take naked baths in the pool, but don’t begrudge them the two hours of relaxation each week.

This time, we are camped up the hill, away from the pool and the store. That means a hike, as motorized vehicles are not allowed on the trails to the upper cabins. It’s worth it. When the town is full, this distance from the parking lot provides more respite. Our cabin is called “Broken Wing.” It is small: just one bed, a table, and a stove. The front window is butted by a counter. The construction is functional and fun. We can stand at the window, cooking meals on our single burner stove, and see the whole town.

We get busy, loading our gear into the cart. This one is dilapidated, the sides flopping out dangerously, as if the whole load might explode at any minute. But it doesn’t. We head up the hill, pulling together. “Quit pulling so hard,” Ryan says, “I’m not doing anything.” I ease up. I guess I’m just excited to hurry up and relax.

We’ve done this before…once, twice, a dozen times. Probably closer to two dozen times by now. The routine of arriving, of preparing for our stay, is comfortable. We don’t talk much. We both know what needs to be done, and we each start on a task. We don’t have expected roles as many couples might. Ryan starts working on the fire. It’s chilly here. I kick away the boulder that is holding the door open and move to create the bed out of sleeping bags and pillows. When I’m finished, the fire is burning and Ryan has moved on to another chore. These four walls are becoming ours again.

The cabin warms slowly. The stove is small, and it takes time to heat the log walls. Even so, we know that tomorrow we will probably need to use the boulder to block open the door—the logs retain heat well. Ryan has his indoor/outdoor thermostat: 38 degrees outside, 52 inside. It’s warming up.

Outside, the snow continues to fall without commitment. Nature cant’ seem to decide if she wants to make our world white or not. We brought our dirt bikes this weekend, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if the snow turned the ground white. I know snow can’t last in September.

Finally, we relax. We want to take a dip in the pool, but we can hear the screams of small children and a general ruckus in that direction. So we decide to wait. We brought our children two weeks ago; this time, we came for us. It’s nice to go someplace you love, and even better if there isn’t much to do once you get there. I have a difficult time sitting still when I know there is work to be done, but at Burgdorf, I don’t have laundry or dishes or my job. Once the gear is settled and the fire is roaring, it’s all about us.

We do take a dip in the pool after dark. Only guests who are spending the night are allowed in the pool after the sun goes down, and children are expressly forbidden. On this night, the snow is still falling softly, but the clouds seem to open as we move around the pool, and for a brief time, the stars come out to join us. As we bundle up and head for the cabin, the night closes in again and the snow starts in earnest. “The ground will be white in the morning,” Ryan says. And that will be okay.

Unfortunately, I am awoken the next morning by the alarm clock in my head, the one that won’t ever let me sleep past seven. The sky is bright, and I rise to one arm to look out the window above our heads. At least an inch of snow covers the ground and flakes fall from the sky as though a million tiny fairies are racing to earth. I smile from the inside out and look over at Ryan. His eyes are open, but he looks at me doubtfully. “You’re gonna love this,” I say. He looks to where I’m pointing, and sure enough, a grin covers his face. Witnessing that early snowfall, when snow doesn’t really belong in this place, is almost like a gift, a special privilege. We don’t say this to each other, but we feel it. We don’t complain about the cold or the day’s ride that may not happen. In this moment, it is enough to be here, in this place, with the snow thickening the sky outside.

We read books and magazines and eat four meals instead of three…because we can. The warmth of the cabin makes me feel a little fuzzy, and I move from chair to bed and back again only for a change of scenery, as the view from each of these places is out a different window. Finally, after lunch, Ryan decides to brave the weather and take a turn on his motorcycle. He will head up to Jeanette Creek. It’s a short ride, and while steep, he should be able to get there and back before the weather gets the best of him. I don’t volunteer to go along, of course; my riding skills won’t get me through the muck and snow that covers the single-track trails. I tell him to have fun (which is code for “be careful”), then turn to a package of peanut butter chip cookies. Ahhh.

I’ve only eaten two cookies when the solitude gets the best of me. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t get at least some exercise today. The snow is falling at a steady pace, but the sweatshirt I brought has a hood, so I decide to venture out in a light layer and my tennis shoes. As I begin to walk toward the store, I resolve to buy myself a new pair of hiking books when I get home.

But the walk to the store is painless—and downhill—so I decide to continue on. The Jeanette Creek campground is just outside the gates of Burgdorf; I take a right into the campground and head up the loop. At first I think the campground might be completely empty, but halfway up I see I was definitely mistaken. In the middle of this remote mountain campground stands a makeshift house, complete with a stack of wood for a stove. It’s a hunting camp, and it will stand in this campground for the rest of the month, and probably into the next. The hunters will spend mornings out scouting for deer and elk, and afternoons cozy in their home away from home. Chances are, on a day like this, they might venture over to Burgdorf for a dip in the pool. I don’t see anyone and move on up the road.

At the end of my climb—it’s a gradual climb, but it is uphill—I see the Jeanette Creek trailhead sign. I have ridden up this trail with Ryan in better weather, and I remember that it wasn’t an easy trail, but I might be able to walk up it a ways. I know that water covers the trail early in the ride and I probably won’t be able to get across. Still, I would like to walk a little farther, and it will be nice to get into the woods. My hood is tied tight around my chin, and I’m sure the teenaged me would be aghast at how ridiculous I look right now. Still, I’m alone with no one to impress but the squirrels. I forge ahead.

The trail is narrow: single track trails are only about eight inches wide in places, and some of them, many of them, the ones I remember best, slice through the side of a mountain, straight up on one side, straight down on the other. I like this trail because it is surrounded by trees and underbrush, and even though it does cut through hillsides in places, it doesn’t seem so dangerous. Of course, that just might be because both of my feet are on the ground today.

I have mixed feelings about autumn, about winter. The cooler air is refreshing after the dense fog of heat that has surrounded us this summer. Still, to me it feels like I am always relinquishing something, letting go of loves, like my garden, my yard...and of moments: splashing with the kids in the pool or sitting in the dusk relaxing on the swing. These times I will miss, I will wait for again.

But right now, I’m not missing warmer weather. I’m taken in by the forest, by the snow as it falls through the trees. The ground is white, though the air is warming, and I can see that the snow is melting under my feet. Squelch. My sneakers sink into the snow and mud that lies underneath; the ground holds onto my foot for a split second, then I pull free and take another step. I feel transfixed by the weather, by the surreal quality to this day, and wish for it to last. When I move into the canopy of trees, the snow begins to crunch under my feet, and I realize that here, where the sun cannot reach, the snow has a chance to stay.

I hear a thump up ahead, and I stop where I am, muscles tensed and waiting. This is hunting season, and I don’t want to be the casualty of an over-zealous hunter. Still, the signs of foot traffic on the trail are obvious. I see one set of boot tracks heading up the hill, one set coming down, and Ryan’s single tire track. The hunter has come back, Ryan has not.

I wait. I consider the possibility that an animal waits ahead, a big one. But then, I’m confronted by my mother’s words, and my eight-year-old self realizes that any wild animal in these woods would be more afraid of me than I would be of it. Again, the noise. I look ahead and see a large puddle in the middle of the trail. The puddle runs up to the root of a large pine, and falling from its branches, fifteen feet up: large clumps of snow. My scary monster, my monolithic stranger, my man with a gun, becomes something as simple as a snowball falling from a tree. I try not to see this as a philosophical message on my state of mind. But now, as I walk, I can’t help wondering about the larger issues of life, of nature, of being here in the forest, in this world, right now.

Suddenly, I begin to worry about Ryan. This snow is dangerous, treacherous even. He is an experienced rider; I know this. But he is alone. I worry that I may come upon him on the trail, pinned beneath his bike. The worry turns into a slight panic, and before long, I’m seeing him around each turn as I move up the trail. I quicken my step, and my heart speeds up accordingly. The worst part is that I know he probably won’t return this way and ease my mind. This part of the trail is the most difficult, and if he’s tired, he might ride the last little jaunt down the road, missing me entirely.

But just as suddenly as my panic began, I hear the low growl of a four-stroke dirt bike, and I have no doubt of who or what is headed toward me. I move off of the narrow trail and squat on my haunches to wait.

It doesn’t take long. Even through the helmet and the goggles, I can see the surprised expression on Ryan’s face. “What are you doing up here in those shoes?” practical to the end. We laugh and he offers to take me back down the hill. “Finish your hike up to the road. I’ll pick you up.” He continues down the trail, looking for a place to turn around.

I’m only about 100 yards from the point where the dirt road intersects with the trail, so I begin to jog, double time now, filled with the energy that comes with relief. How silly I am. He picks me up, and the bike hiccups down the dirt road, through the snow and slush.

Alas, the snow is gone the next day. But I realize that beautiful things—good things like that September snow—can last, can persevere, can survive even when we are sure they won’t. And as we ride toward Loon Lake the next day, I find myself weaving in and out of the canopy of trees. Under those canopies that dot our trek is the snow and the memory of the day before.