February 20, 2013 – Wednesday

4 degrees/cloudy/wind gusts to 28 mph

Pentoga Road

These are the times that try men’s souls. Thomas Paine must have spent a February living in the UP. With cold temperatures and howling winds, all one can do is throw another log on the fire and hunker down.

I well remember these types of days while living in the arctic. Sometimes the winds would howl at gale force intensity for days, occasionally even weeks. My objective during those times was to stay warm by any means necessary.

There were mornings I climbed from the bunk to find the thermometer inside reading -35 degrees. God, what an effort to start a fire. Eventually, anything over freezing seemed luxurious and I remember once taking a bath and thinking how pleasant it was, only to look at the thermometer and see the inside temperature registering 29 degrees.

They were times of boiling water and pouring it into Nalgene bottles, wrapping those in a towel and placing them in my sleeping bag so I might slumber the night through.

The winds and cold we’re currently experiencing are nothing compared to the  blizzards of the Arctic, but all serve as mostly-fond memories of those days when I was younger and approached each as one might a sporting event: nature vs. me. I managed to win, although there was more than once I wound up in the hospital suffering from frostbite, but then, those are stories for other days.   

I rode with Sargie several miles towards her work on Tuesday morning. The wind almost blew my feet out from under me several times, but having the reflexes of a cat and the cunning of a mongoose; I caught myself each time and continued on.

Okay, I lied. In reality, I have the reflexes of rock and the cunning of a slug and managed to fall on my backside once or twice.

I immediately noticed that the ground is harder these days. As a boy, I don’t think I ever really fell, but rather, skipped off the surface like a flat pebble across water.

Even the ice seemed softer during my college-pond hockey days. I’d hit the frozen water, usually groan, often laugh, then get up and skate on.

This hard ground thing has me perplexed. For a grandpa, I’m in pretty good shape. I diligently walk my miles, up to forty a week, and am flexible enough that I can still come within inches of putting both feet in back of my head. Until a couple of years ago, I bragged I could outwork any eighteen-year-old, but have since moved the age up to thirty.

Somewhere in the past several years, the terra firma has become more “firma’d”  and less forgiving. I’ll blame global warming; everyone else does.

 I spent most of Tuesday snuggled up to the wood stove. At one point, I thought about dressing in my heavy clothes and clearing the drive, but knowing it would soon drift over, I sacrificed the opportunity in favor of pouring another cup of coffee and watching a past episode of Lost on Netflix.

The woodbin was running low. Oh the sacrifices one must make in the name of comfort. I hurriedly cleaned a drift from the back deck, grabbed the wheelbarrow, pushed it across the drive, and filled it full. Minutes later, I was back by the stove covered by my blankie.

And that was the extent of my day. Sargie had to close last night and it was approaching 9 PM by the time she walked through the door. The girl was frozen and I wasted no time in settling her by the woodstove.

The way the wind sounds, today’s going to be a repeat of yesterday although, it doesn't seem nearly as windy. I may wait to walk until later so the day is broken up, but other than read and grade a few assignments, it appears I might participate in a marathon of watching old Lost episodes.  Sargie opens and is off early today.

It’s time to throw another log on the fire and pour a second cup of coffee, proof that a man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…