Amses: March madness

Editor’s note: Walt Amses is an educator and writer who lives in North Calais.

Note: There is an adage about optimists being those who – when life hands them lemons – have the resourcefulness to make lemonade. Since lemons are yellow, they reminded me of Frank Zappa. It is in that spirit that I offer the following, which is as it happened … mostly.

March has a way of falling somewhere between winter and spring with an alternating freeze-thaw cycle that makes planning outdoor recreation an adventure even on the best of days. There was a crust on the snow that day so solid that snowshoeing would have been like clattering across the deck of an aircraft carrier so I went for a walk.

Two miles down the road, under a brilliant sky and climbing temperatures, my third cup of coffee came calling so I looked for a quiet spot, not awfully difficult where we live, miles from pavement with few houses and even fewer year-round residents. I gingerly ascended the roadside barrier of snow and ice from a winter’s worth of plowing and made my way to the edge of the woods.

Even several years later, the precision with which the surface collapsed mid-stream, seems startling, although not nearly as startling as it did at that moment, particularly coupled with how weirdly symmetrical was my sudden loss of altitude. Woosh! And there I was, buried up to my waist in a freezing mixture of crystallized winter, marinated in pine needles and road salt. Somehow in the process my toes wound up pointing straight down, like a portly ballerina on pointe.

I remember briefly laughing out loud, before the realization hit me that I was actually stuck as though in concrete. Freezing to death supposedly is the most comfortable way to go. My experience thus far was telling me that the experts probably meant all at once, rather than piece by piece. Not beginning with that particular piece anyway.

So I was in a bit of a dilemma. Although it was a glorious late-winter day, my modesty had moved me into a shaded area, which in Vermont can mean a difference of more than just a few degrees. I also planted my hiking poles several feet away, just out of reach. My initial efforts to escape my sheath by simply pushing my hands against the snow and lifting myself out only succeeded in making holes in the snow and numbing my hands to the point where they felt as though they were made of wood.

My best bet appeared to be to reaching the poles and using them to pry myself loose. I thought that thrusting my hips back and forth while simultaneously digging quickly at the snow in front of me with my hands would enlarge my crevice sufficiently to afford that opportunity. Imagine trying to keep a hula hoop in motion while doing a modified breast stroke and you might get the idea.

Things progressed more slowly than seemed healthful, but what choice did I have? I accelerated my movements and focused all my attention on extricating myself, staving off the panic of my life being in jeopardy as well as the prospect of a humiliating, public demise. I imagined headlines: “The Last Pit Stop.” Or “Going Where the Huskies Go.”

Moments after I’d began making discernable progress I was relieved to hear a car approaching. Although I didn’t look up immediately or stop the motion of my hips, I did initiate waving my arms wildly and screaming so they wouldn’t pass me by and leave me to almost certain cryogenic neutering.

As it turned out, road conditions dictated that the compact station wagon was traveling at a reasonable enough rate of speed to allow the driver, a young woman, and several small children – I forget how many – a golden opportunity to examine me fully, and – considering their expressions – completely misinterpret both my situation and my intentions.

As they accelerated to what I would consider a far faster speed than was safe in those conditions, I realized that the snow level had dropped to my upper thighs, leaving me far less mysterious than I would have liked. As the implications of my misery took on an added level of complexity, and a kind of hysteria took hold, I wrenched free and lurched awkwardly across the snow like a frightened weasel, grabbed my hiking poles, adjusted my equipment and headed home.

The sheriff was polite but on the grim side, skeptical at what I felt was a credible explanation and unmoved by my humorous brass monkey references. He was disappointingly unsupportive of my intention to drop in on the family – who he described as“shaken” — with fresh baked cookies. I thought he was unnecessarily negative about the chances of eradicating their first impression.

It was reassuring though that he seemed concerned about my physical fitness. He recommended I consider buying a treadmill.