overnight; before morning, the new path would be slippery but rock solid.
Stu and I worked alongside Liz and Jesse for a while. Soon after, we heard voices. Two snowmobilers who had seen the signs we had posted had walked down the trench to investigate. They promised to talk to other sledders and come help shovel the next morning. I was skeptical. Monika had had little success mustering volunteers back in the parking lot. Owing to the bitter cold, few people were going sledding. Like me, many no doubt had had trouble starting their snowmobiles and trucks. And the beer-drinking sledders I had tried to coax into helping earlier that day never did show up. Not everyone is moved by the plight of stranded horses.
The ride out was worse than Thursday’s. My toes went numb. I tried moving them around but still couldn’t restore feeling. The trip seemed to take longer too, and literally it did. Stu stopped every once in a while to make sure Jesse and Liz were still behind us—a matter of courtesy and safety that, while necessary, also prolonged the journey down the mountain.
When we got to about kilometre five on the logging road, Stu stopped suddenly. In the near darkness, I couldn’t see much, but I thought we were stuck. The creek, we discovered, had flooded the trail, and huge ice chunks were scattered everywhere. The water must have encountered an ice jam, and when it broke, the creek overflowed its edges. I got off the sled so Stu could manoeuvre it across the ice. By the time we arrived at the parking lot, darkness had descended, and I could hardly feel my extremities anymore. Stu’s beard and moustache were white with hoar frost.
Fortunately, Stu’s old Chevy—about the same vintage as my venerable Ford—started right away. While he loaded up his sled from the loading ramp, I pulled out my cellphone and was surprised to find I still had battery power left. It was a challenge to dial Monika’s number with my numb, uncooperative fingers, but I got through. She was going to meet me at Stu’s house and give me a ride home.
A welcome sight greeted us when we got into Stu’s truck: a plastic container stuffed with sandwiches. The sandwiches were from Joette Starchuck, who had come out to the Renshaw parking lot with food and hot coffee and to keep Monika company while she tried to recruit sledders as diggers. This was one more example of someone in the community finding a way to help the rescue effort—by helping the helpers.
Stu and I didn’t talk much on the way home. I was already looking ahead, laying out all the chores I had to get done.
Once at Stu’s place, I positioned myself in front of the wood stove and didn’t move until I heard Monika’s truck pull into the yard. I was still frozen, still unable to feel my toes, and I barely warmed up during the twenty-minute ride home, even though the heater in her truck was blasting. Instead of just dropping me off at home, Monika kindly stayed and helped me do chores.
Reg and his wife, Krys, had invited me to their place for a Christmas party that night, but by the time I got inside after taking care of the animals, I was too tired and chilled to consider leaving again. What I needed most was a hot shower. As well, I had no vehicle: my truck probably wouldn’t have started (I had once more unplugged it so the horses could have water). On top of that, countless phone messages and emails awaited replies, which would consume most of my evening. The audience for this story was growing steadily, and people wanted the latest information on the rescue and on how they might help.
After my shower, I seated myself at my computer and read through my emails. Joette, I saw, had been beating the drum. She had contacted all the local hotels, and staff had advised her that several sledders were going to help. Her email had come in that morning. I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t seen it before heading
to Dave’s, for the message hinted that more diggers were
Stu and I worked alongside Liz and Jesse for a while. Soon after, we heard voices. Two snowmobilers who had seen the signs we had posted had walked down the trench to investigate. They promised to talk to other sledders and come help shovel the next morning. I was skeptical. Monika had had little success mustering volunteers back in the parking lot. Owing to the bitter cold, few people were going sledding. Like me, many no doubt had had trouble starting their snowmobiles and trucks. And the beer-drinking sledders I had tried to coax into helping earlier that day never did show up. Not everyone is moved by the plight of stranded horses.
The ride out was worse than Thursday’s. My toes went numb. I tried moving them around but still couldn’t restore feeling. The trip seemed to take longer too, and literally it did. Stu stopped every once in a while to make sure Jesse and Liz were still behind us—a matter of courtesy and safety that, while necessary, also prolonged the journey down the mountain.
When we got to about kilometre five on the logging road, Stu stopped suddenly. In the near darkness, I couldn’t see much, but I thought we were stuck. The creek, we discovered, had flooded the trail, and huge ice chunks were scattered everywhere. The water must have encountered an ice jam, and when it broke, the creek overflowed its edges. I got off the sled so Stu could manoeuvre it across the ice. By the time we arrived at the parking lot, darkness had descended, and I could hardly feel my extremities anymore. Stu’s beard and moustache were white with hoar frost.
Fortunately, Stu’s old Chevy—about the same vintage as my venerable Ford—started right away. While he loaded up his sled from the loading ramp, I pulled out my cellphone and was surprised to find I still had battery power left. It was a challenge to dial Monika’s number with my numb, uncooperative fingers, but I got through. She was going to meet me at Stu’s house and give me a ride home.
A welcome sight greeted us when we got into Stu’s truck: a plastic container stuffed with sandwiches. The sandwiches were from Joette Starchuck, who had come out to the Renshaw parking lot with food and hot coffee and to keep Monika company while she tried to recruit sledders as diggers. This was one more example of someone in the community finding a way to help the rescue effort—by helping the helpers.
Stu and I didn’t talk much on the way home. I was already looking ahead, laying out all the chores I had to get done.
Once at Stu’s place, I positioned myself in front of the wood stove and didn’t move until I heard Monika’s truck pull into the yard. I was still frozen, still unable to feel my toes, and I barely warmed up during the twenty-minute ride home, even though the heater in her truck was blasting. Instead of just dropping me off at home, Monika kindly stayed and helped me do chores.
Reg and his wife, Krys, had invited me to their place for a Christmas party that night, but by the time I got inside after taking care of the animals, I was too tired and chilled to consider leaving again. What I needed most was a hot shower. As well, I had no vehicle: my truck probably wouldn’t have started (I had once more unplugged it so the horses could have water). On top of that, countless phone messages and emails awaited replies, which would consume most of my evening. The audience for this story was growing steadily, and people wanted the latest information on the rescue and on how they might help.
After my shower, I seated myself at my computer and read through my emails. Joette, I saw, had been beating the drum. She had contacted all the local hotels, and staff had advised her that several sledders were going to help. Her email had come in that morning. I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t seen it before heading
to Dave’s, for the message hinted that more diggers were
Similar Books
