FEBRUARY 3, 2023 – Last night here in northwest Wisconsin the temperature “went rogue,” plunging to minus 22F without regard to windchill. In such conditions, you get a little slap happy.
Early yesterday evening I discovered that a banana had slipped out of a grocery bag and spent the previous 24 hours in the trunk of my car. The tropical fruit was now cold granite in the shape of a banana. Being a frugal Swede, I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting a (formerly) perfect banana. Yet, I nearly gagged at the thought of how mushy it be once it thawed out. Compromising, I took it inside and put in the freezer until I could Google, “How to peel and eat frozen banana.” The amusing irony was that at minus 10F, the freezer was five degrees warmer than inside the trunk of my car.
Late this morning I geared up for a new adventure: snowshoeing. Over time we’ve collected multiple sets of snowshoes. Decades have passed, however, since I’d last donned a pair. I remembered, though, that snowshoes are all about the bindings—and compatible boots.
I located four choices.
First was the traditional set with hardwood frames and heavily lacquered webbing. They were a(n expensive) xmas present for Beth the first year we were married. She used them once; I used them twice, thanks to old-fashioned, ill-fitting, leather-strap bindings, which is why they’ve been wall decorations ever since.
Second was a kid’s pair, but I’m no longer a kid.
Third were Beth’s deluxe snowshoes that she, the inveterate discount shopper, acquired for a bargain price at of winter a few years back. They’re equipped with excellent bindings, but I couldn’t find a set of boots that fit me and the bindings.
The fourth and final choice: a lesser set but ostensibly serviceable. A heel strap, however, was missing a buckle and had been jerry-rigged. The other heel strap, still with buckle, turned out to be just as deficient as the modified one.
After assembling myself for the cold (9F above . . . based on my reading of the digital thermometer), I headed outside. First I had to finagle my boots into the bindings without removing my chopper mittens. After five minutes, the score was bindings 2; mittens 0. I called a time out and sent my bare hands into the fray. Two minutes, later, the score was even: bindings 2; hands 2—but at a cost. My hands were frost-singed before I’d taken my first step into the woods. With the game tied up, I forged ahead, curling my fingers and thumb together inside each mitten.
I soon felt like a combination . . . (a) Sno-Cat with caterpillar treads, (b) astronaut in a spacesuit and two-foot-wide boots with separated soles walking on a planet with three times the gravity of earth, and (c) a nursing home memory unit fugitive wearing every stitch of clothing he owned, including over-sized, dog-eaten slippers with unraveled stitching behind the heels.
Somehow I survived the hour-long expedition. When I returned to the Red Cabin, I re-checked the thermometer. I’d missed the dash for “minus” It was 9F below—18 degrees colder than I’d thought. But as the Bard said about all being well . . .
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
