JANUARY 29, 2023 – This morning, while reading the news and facing a window, I peered occasionally over the top of my laptop screen to monitor outside activity—sunlight inching along the snowbanks; trees shuddering in the cold; and periodically, a person in heavy wraps and with steaming breath, out walking the dog. The canine was always a step or two ahead—snout into the wind, scouting, it seemed, for warmer air.
At noon I checked the actual outside temperature: one degree above zero Fahrenheit. According to the hourly forecast, I’d have to wait two hours for the day’s anticipated high: three degrees, which, despite positive thinking to the Nth degree, would be only two degrees—not three times—more than one degree.
I felt a twinge of cabin fever, even though I’m not at the cabin. An inner rebel voice whispered that I could take the day off from skiing. I could stay inside, lounge around, read, write, eat, binge-watch Netflix, cook up a batch of split-pea soup. I could even take a nap—first time since . . . I couldn’t remember back that far.
But then an idea occurred to me. Instead of living inside a house on a street in a place so full of snow there’s no longer anywhere to put it and so cold that exposed flesh burns before it freezes, I could be . . .
. . . aboard a spaceship bound for Mars. Except, the vehicle would be so advanced, it would have all the creature comforts of home. For example, instead of drinking Tang and eating a Salisbury steak dinner out of a squeeze tube (I’m dating myself, I realize), I could make the split-pea soup just as I would at home.
For added adventure, I thought, I could suit up for an EVA, astronaut lingo for “extravehicular activity.” In olden times it was called a “spacewalk,” but then astronauts started doing actual work when floating around the outside of a space vehicle after the era of mere capsules. Since it was Sunday, the official day of rest, I decided that my EVA would be strictly recreational. Moreover, because the year was now 2049, I imagined, inter-planetary spacecraft were equipped with short-range jetpacks for short excursions along the way to Mars.
“Little Switzerland” was now a wintry comet—named, “X-C Ski”—passing between the orbits of earth and mars. By punching the right vectors into the jetpack computer, I could easily intercept X-C Ski and explore it for an hour before I’d have to return to the mother ship. What was unusual about X-C Ski was that it hosted complete skiing facilities—established during trail-blazing missions to Mars and beyond.
Today’s surface temperature on X-C Ski was five degrees Fahrenheit—in the sun, which, of course is fainter than it is back on earth. A few space tourists were on hand, all from earth, as far as I could tell, but none had found the backside of the main mountain range. The best skiing on the comet was there.
By the time I returned to the mother ship and stepped into the decompression chamber (our back entryway), I was wholly refreshed . . . and ready for some hearty ham and split-pea soup—just like home.
Me: 1; Cabin Fever: -0-.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
2 Comments
I’d like to point out that I was one of those dog walkers you saw, but the dog was two steps behind me, dragging the whole way. Her only eagerness was a desire to do her business and return home immediately.
Ha! Dave, your dog probably wouldn’t qualify for the Iditarod. The particular dogs I saw “pointing into the wind” were definitely candidates. (P.S. Today’s windchill was a serious issue!)
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