Cycling in the South Bay

Growing up in Houston, it snowed twice. Tiny flurries, half-an-inch on the ground, just enough to make a mud snowman. It was amazing. Some of the very best memories of my childhood happened in a few hours. Our dog Fletcher discovering snow. Snowmudball fights for the better part of an entire day, later degenerating simply into fights.

After that first snow in the winter of ’72-’73 I lay awake every cold winter night, hoping against hope for snow. Sometimes I’d wake up and see the white ground bathed in moonlight. “It snowed! It snowed!” I’d tell myself, hoping against hope. But as they say, hope is not a plan.

Snow meant more than missing school, which was incredibly meaningful for someone who never did his homework. It also meant that everything changed. Houston’s semi-sub-sorta tropical climate became a winter wonderland, or at least a winter mildly credible land.

I’ve often wondered why those two snows were such a big deal. Today I think I cracked the code.

Up here in the low Sierras it snows every year, though global warming has greatly diminished frequency and quantity. We’re at 3,000 feet, but the backyard goes up to about 6,500, and across the way, over the river and up into the Domeland Wilderness the peaks strike out at 8,000-9,000 feet. That’s still lowdown compared to many places, but you’re most certainly not in Kansas anymore.

The snow pattern here at the cabin is heavy snow up top and a couple of inches down below, where it melts the same day. As I write this, yesterday’s snow, mostly melted, got covered with last night’s snow, mostly melted, which is now getting repaved with this afternoon’s snow. For this low down it’s a lot of snow. Suddenly outdoors seems a lot less inviting than in.

People who live where it really snows might consider this a late spring dusting, if that, although the seven feet or so about to be dumped up higher would get your attention pretty much anywhere. But the snow snobs still wouldn’t consider this anything. How can it be snow if you don’t need a plow, salt, chains, and a survival kit in case you don’t make it from the front door to the car?

I get it, but fuck off anyway. We used to be heat-humidity snobs in Houston. People would touch down in March and choke on the heat as their hair flopped straight down as if magically treated with motor oil. “This? This ain’t nothin’,” we’d say. And we were right. March is to July in Houston as September is to February in North Dakota.

In other words, our little fake snowstorm here wouldn’t cause a Mainer to even consider gloves, but for us it’s show-stopping. The shelves are bare. People are afraid to drive. Fireplaces that haven’t seen action since Ma was a teenager are roaring with well-seasoned walnut and oak. Me? I’m curled up next to Snykes enjoying a hot cup of tea as winter swirls outside. It’s cozy in here, beautiful out there.

I took Snykes outside for his first taste of snow. He was ambivalent. When he came inside after less than a minute he looked at me like, “Call me when you get some warm snow.”

On the other hand, we’ve taken a couple of walks, and once out in it, he’s fine. It’s easier on his torn footpad than asphalt or dirt. Plus, he got to see a big fat coyote that had come down due to the snow. Snykes pointed, then strained at the leash. “Snykes,” I said. “If you had trouble with a raccoon, that coyote might tear off more than part of your paw.” He growled to make his point, peed on a bush, and we headed back.

I threw out extra rations for the birds. The snow has brought them in droves, along with fellows who never come to the feeders: chipping sparrows, fox sparrows, and California towhees are hungry enough to stand beak-to-wing with the quail, doves, white-crowned sparrows, jays, spotted towhees, and the innumerable juncoes. Even the acorn woodpeckers aren’t too proud to get on the ground and peck for seeds.

The four Anna’s hummingbirds were miffed at the snow covering their feeder, but it thawed and they were able to get back to the usual business of fighting over food supplies that were enough for ten families.

It’s by looking at all the usual friends covered in snow, the trees, dirt, rocks, roofs, streets, and steps, that I cracked the code. Snow for us hotlanders transforms. Boring old water, which is scarce even in good years, becomes powdery, white, and cold at first, virgin pure, and quickly turns muddy, mucky. Everything changes in an instant and then changes again.

When I was a kid I thirsted after that change. I hungered for that moment when the world shifts shape overnight, when the thing I saw yesterday was no longer the thing I see today.

I still do.

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END

I was sitting on the floor reading, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.

“Fuck!” I thought, remembering that I’d left the back door open. It was 9:00 pm, prime raccoon time.

The hallway was dark, so I grabbed the flashlight. “C’mon, Snykes!”

He bounded up and led the way into the back room. I switched on the light. The raccoon was on the threshold but when he saw Snykes he came back in and attacked. It appeared to be the same raccoon that Snykes had tangled with a couple of days before.

The fight was horrible and lasted for over two minutes. A couple of times, Snykes had him by the throat, but he doesn’t have the killer instinct, and at the last minute he’d let him go. “Can’t you see I’m gonna win? Why don’t you just leave?”

Each reprieve led the raccoon to redouble his attacks, at one point climbing up on Snykes’s back. Eventually the raccoon had had enough, and retreated outside. Snykes went into the yard to make sure the raccoon’s exit was permanent. It had climbed over the fence but even so it charged the fence a couple of times, though it didn’t dare come back into the yard. Snykes didn’t budge until the coast was clear, no matter how much I called him.

Anyone who thinks wild raccoons are cute little critters is crazy. They are not afraid of anything.

Snykes came back into the house, and he was limping. That’s when I noticed blood all over the floor. The raccoon had gotten his teeth into Snykes’s foot, and torn away half of one of his foot pads. Now that the battle was over, the pain from his wound hit him. He could barely walk.

In a couple of minutes the bleeding stopped, but he has been unable to walk for three days now. The wound is getting better but it’s still incredibly painful. Since he can only hobble, he’s been spending most of his time in a sunbeam.

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END

The sun did not shine. It was too cold to play. So we sat by the fire on that cold, frigid day. I sat there with Snykes, we sat there, we two, and I said “How I wish we had something to do! Too cold to go out, too much wind to play ball,” so we sat in the house, we did nothing at all. And all we could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit. And we did not like it. Not one little bit.

I checked my laptop and it said “Enjoy your empty inbox.” I think what it means is “Email is a horrible affliction that ruins your life, and every moment you don’t have to devote to it is a check in the win column.” This little message used to say “Enjoy your day!” until they realized that email means your day sucks, and the overlords at Microsoft didn’t want to re-emphasize what you already know. But it begs the question how you’re supposed to enjoy something that’s empty? Stare at it with relish? Give it the finger? Stick out your tongue?

The best way is to turn off the computer, which is the last thing the overlords want. So I turned it off.

Snykes and I headed up the road. The sky had cleared and it was even colder, but so beautiful.

Snykes stood in the middle of the road to check on my progress. He always does this. “Hurry up! You’ll miss things!” Snykes was wearing his pink sweater.A couple more lovely vistas unfolded. On the hillside a small herd of deer looked down on us, then nimbly disappeared. Snykes smelled their trail and dashed away. I walked up the switchbacks and he was waiting for me. He bounded over. He has the biggest and happiest hops. He is a very hoppy little doggie. Look at the little dust cloud he kicks up!

We walked farther. Further? Shortly past the 2.5-mile mark, with 1,134 feet of elevation gain, we decided to turn back. It was so cold. The wind cut through my wool jacket, wool shirt, undershirt, and through my wool gloves. My toes were even cold. Snykes wasn’t cold at all. He much prefers cold to hot. He bounded along and didn’t seem especially eager to get home. We saw some more pretty views. Finally, he stood at the edge of the road and surveyed his dominions. It is nice to have dominions so vast. Especially when you are a little doggie in a pink sweater.

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END