Lambchop in the snow at the dog park
It’s stopped falling now, alas, but since the snow started falling Thursday night, we got 8 inches. That’s not really that much, but for usually snowless Lawrence it’s a miracle! It’s been since 2000 that we had any significant snowfall at one time — we got 7 inches then.
Had some bitter cold temps, high winds and below-zero wind chills the past few days, which forced me to enjoy the snow from behind the protection of walls and windows, but it was wonderful anyway. Didn’t even mind shoveling out the driveway Xmas evening, or the back deck this afternoon.
Loved the snow so much, I didn't even mind shoveling off the back deck.
Yesterday, the temps moderated a bit, getting up to a balmy 27, so Lambchop and I went to the dog park, then to check out the Clinton Lake North Shore trails. Fairly deep snow everywhere, with some drifts up to 2 feet! Woods were gorgeous!
Went back to the dog park today with all three dogs, Sophie Jones, Cubby Bear and Lambchop, this time equipped with snow shoes. First time I’ve gotten to use them since I bought them three years ago.
My MSR Denali Ascent snowshoes worked great at the dog park.
Tromping through the snow was much more fun without the postholing. Got a bunch of snow in my boots yesterday. None today. Tried running in the snowshoes — very do-able. I know they have snowshoe marathons in places like Colorado and Vermont. Hmmm….
Right after we got to the park, Sophie plunged deeply into the snow and came up with a wriggling field mouse. A couple quick shakes and she’d killed it. I felt so bad, but nothing to be done. She is a killer huntress, but didn’t know what to do with the mouse after she’d killed. She just paraded around with it proudly for a few minutes, then dropped it and went chasing after something else.
Sophie Jones, mouse-killer, hurtles through the snow in search of prey.
Big snow fun yesterday and today, so I’m now a little less bitter about the snowless climate here. Hopefully it won’t be another nine years to the next one!
My frostbite story
In an e-mail Christmas night, rationalizing why I wanted to bail on an early Saturday morning run, I promised to tell the story of why I’m so scared of bitter cold. Former victim of frostbite, I’ve claimed on occasion, but here’s what happened.
I was a mere lad of five, walking home from kindergarten, back in the days when our family lived in Edina, a suburb of Minneapolis, Minn. This happened before global warming, and before parents were over-protective of their children.
Only about a half-mile lay between the school and my house, by way of a field and hill. No road. About two feet of crusty snow lay on the ground. I postholed my way through the glittering snow in the January sunshine. No wind thank goodness, though I think the temp hovered at about nine degrees. I held tight to my pride and joy — a Mattel lever-action toy rifle which I’d brought in for show-and-tell.
All went well, till I got to the hill. There was ice beneath the snow. I’d get halfway up, then slide back. In trying to claw my way up, and getting halfway there, I dropped my rifle. It slid down the crusty slope to the bottom, and I went after it. I tried to pick it up, but — dern it– my left hand (I was originally a lefty – that was in the days when they “trained” left-handedness out of you) inside a glove, inside a heavy mitten, was unable to grasp the gun.
So I took the heavy mitten off, grabbed the gun and attacked the hill again.
Meanwhile, my Mom got worried when my accustomed arrival time came and went. She called the school and they informed her I left at the usual time. Our house sat at the top of the hill, just across a street from the slope I was trying unsuccessfully to ascend.
I’m not sure how long I was out there with only the glove protecting my hand, but it seemed like a long time. Eventually Ma showed up — was I glad to see her!– and hauled me up the hill and into the house.
My hand had turned red and purple. My gun hand, too, dammit! Ma called the hospital to find out what to do. They said to soak it in lukewarm water. It didn’t feel lukewarm to me however. It felt like Ma was plunging my hand into boiling water. There was yelling, then there was running.
Then Dad came home, and shortly after that they trundled me to the hospital, where I stayed for two days, hooked up to an IV. I think they were trying to get blood back into the hand. They kept the hand wrapped in bandages. It had swollen up to the size of my father’s hand and developed some rather distressing colors. The dead skin somehow adhered to the wrapping, and when the doctor and nurse came to change the dressing, they peeled the skin off with it.
To this day, I cannot recall anything which hurt more than that white-hot blaze of agony. The second time the doc came in to do it, I refused to let him, and he eventually went away. Whew!
Then they figured out a way to change the dressing without so much pain for yours truly. But alas, they then found that enormous red blisters had blossomed between the fingers of the frostbitten hand. I still recall my conversation with the doc. He actually said he had good news and bad news. No joke!
The good news — my Mom was due for a visit. The bad news — the blisters had to be popped. How? With tweezers. Would it hurt? It would, but had to be done. It takes my breath away, even now to remember THAT episode.
All worth it, however, for they saved the hand. The fingers are stunted, a bit misshapen and a little more sensitive to cold than the other hand, but they’re all there, and they all work… so good-o.
Anyway, that’s why I’m so allergic to cold, and what the story is behind “I’m a former victim of frostbite.”
More later. Stay warm!
gary
Cubby Bear and Lambchop gallop through the snow at the dog park.
