Harry In the Cold

[Above photo: Jordan Pond and The Bubbles in Acadia National Park in November.]

5 December 2021

It is cool but not cold yet. Nights hover around 30F.  Cold enough to freeze to death if you were lost in the woods and either inadequately clothed and/or unable to start a fire.

My neighbors on the Sacramento River were a Canadian pair. He was handy and built their home in his retirement. It was an octagonal, modern affair, of his own design, and elevated by 10 foot concrete pilings. The river would flood regularly and until the authorities opened the spillway ¼ mile downstream basements would have water 4’ deep, as well as our riverside-facing yards. Harry would calmly put all his tools in a skiff, cover them with a tarp, and tie the boat to the railing of the deck. As the water would rise, so would the boat. They were dryish years when Poki and I lived there and we never were flooded. Two months after we sold, the new owners had to deal with a wet, muddy basement.

When Harry was young and single, he worked in a logging camp on the Peace River in the interior of British Columbia. It was notoriously cold in the winter, which froze the sedge and swamp so they could make an ice road over which to haul the logs. It was 13 wild and deserted miles from where they were cutting to the mill. Once Harry was driving a D-8 Caterpillar, towing a train of log-filled sledges. His partner for the ride, Jim, was sitting on the last one. That time of year it was either dark or twilight whenever it wasn’t snowing.

Halfway along Harry noticed that Jim was lying down, not sitting. Alarmed, he paused the Cat and walked back to check. Sure enough, when he got to the end of the train, Jim was nearly comatose, in that comfortable state of relaxation and indifference that comes before you entirely succumb to the cold.

Harry cut a branch from a nearby tree and began to beat Jim, arousing him enough so that he ran, howling, from Harry. Harry pursued Jim around the sledges until the latter had sufficiently restored circulation to his cerebral cortex and he realized that Harry was saving his life. Once revived, he promised Harry he’d sit up for the remainder of the ride.

As Harry returned to the Cat to resume their slow journey, he heard no sound of the engine. He panicked, since he knew that diesel fuel turns to jelly with serious cold (It was -15F.) There was a small section of fuel line that was exposed to the air, although under ordinary running conditions the flow of diesel was enough that it wouldn’t freeze. But at idle speed….  Then Harry noticed that puffs were emitting from the exhaust pipe. He later learned that sound doesn’t carry well when the air is very cold.  

I loved thinking of his grit and hardiness, working under those conditions. Living in the country outside of Seattle, my brothers and I greatly admired lives of masculine strength and courage, like those of the commercial fishermen or the loggers.  My now-deceased brother, Roger, worked one summer on the Olympic Peninsula as a choker at a Simpson logging operation. Another summer Dad got him a job on a tuna boat and he cruised, well offshore, from Seattle to Baja, pulling in albacore when they’d cross a school.  He later was a fighter pilot in the Marines, by then fulfilling enough masculine fantasies for many lives.  He loved his ability to succeed under challenging circumstances, the sense of accomplishment. He was never macho, driven by insecurity. Like my brother, I am certain that Harry is dead by now; he was old when I was only 45.

A part of me is ready to hang up my spurs, stop teaching, and focus on writing. But then I will read something really, really good and realize that since I am starting now, I’ll always be a rank amateur as an author whereas I can be quite accomplished teaching and supervising in my field. Plus, when I hear of my students suffering and that of the Burmese people, I cannot turn aside.  Burma has been my late-in-life adventure and it still feels a bit exciting, even at a distance, to support the Opposition in a civil war.

I walked along the base of the Eastern Prom two days ago; it was cold and windy but the sky was clear. Nevertheless, I saw a sprinkling of white flakes falling and realized it was snow, even with no clouds.  I’m eager to start shoveling, to cross country ski, and to try out my new car on snow.  The annual transformation of the landscape by snowfall is a chilly baptism.

I had a dinner party for friends and then three of us went to the local repertory theater for a production of “Carousel”. I loved it as a kid—I saw the movie in 1956 and, of course, fell in love with Shirley Jones. Since it was written in 1943 by Rogers and Hammerstein, it was far from politically correct, the characters all settling into very traditional gender roles. Our production here was pretty good, although Julie Jordan didn’t have a voice large enough for her role. At the end, as the cast sang, “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark……” we stood and clapped, as audiences in Maine regularly do, and tears streamed down my face. They surprised me, my tears.  

I suppose they are for all that has transpired and those who have been lost, none of which that 15yo boy could have anticipated: tears of sadness and gratitude.