Boots

I've been "transplanted" to the North now for almost five years.  All those cliches about time flying are true.  It seems like just a couple of months ago DH and I had piled everything into our cars (and my father-in-law's trailer) and headed off on the grand adventure of medical school.  I was reminiscing this weekend about our first months here in the tundra and how living in the North has been rather an adjustment.

Fabulous shoes are a distinct weakness of mine, a harmless but expensive flaw that I share with many of the female population.  I can't say the entire female population because I have been treated to viewings of truly terrible shoes in my lifetime.  Usually at Wal-Mart after 10 p.m.  What is it about Wal-Mart and nighttime that brings out the fashion victim in so many people?

I had oodles of beautiful shoes when I moved North. Stilettos, sandals, espadrilles, cowboy boots, biker boots, flip flops.  I did not have winter boots.  These are winter boots:

Ugly, aren't they?  They are Sorel boots, tested to -40 F.  I didn't know those kind of temperatures existed in the populated world.    I also didn't know these boots (or anything like them) existed. So when my Northern-born-and-bred friends told me to get boots after I slipped and fell (multiple) times in my first Northern snowstorm, I took their advice.

I bought beautiful boots.  Buttery chocolate colored suede boots.  Four inch heel boots.  Fabulous boots.  They looked a little more like this: 

They are NOT winter boots.  This explains why I fell twice more on my way to class the next day while proudly wearing my new purchase.  I skinned my elbow,  I bruised my bum, but they were fabulous.  My friends assured me of this after they recovered from their giggling fit.  I protested heartily that I had taken their advice.  I bought boots!  Why was I still falling?  They then each grabbed an arm, man-handled me back to my Jeep, and took me shopping to learn what Northern winter boots were.  

I now am the not-so-proud owner of a fully insulated, very warm, waterproof, disgustingly practical pair of winter boots.  (And I kept the beautiful ones.  I accept my weakness.)

*Boots are Sorel and Louboutin, respectively.  Images are from brands' respective websites.

Telephone fly

I've been practicing my fly tying skills lately. This pleases DH inordinately. He claims that for every fly I tie, I save him $1.50. Having compared my flies to some of the ones in the stores, I seriously doubt this. It does keep me occupied over the winter though, so I appreciate his cheerleading.

I really want to tie the "telephone fly." It's a beauty of a wet fly - all blues and reds and flash.  If I were a trout (or even a bass or salmon) I'd be all over that fly.

I fished with it on a couple of the loughs in Northern Ireland and had great success. It brought in my very first Irish trout, a sweet little rainbow that put up a heck of a fight. My guide gave me the fly to commemorate the catch. The next day he gave me a list of the materials to tie it.

The story behind the fly is that some guy called his friend from the pub where he had been celebrating an excellent day of fishing.  He gave his friend explicit directions for how to tie the amazing fly he had been using all day.  The friend, being an accommodating sort of fellow, tied a half dozen or so of the flies for him.  The pub guy said 'thank you very much lad, but this is nothing like my old fly".  A few weeks later the guy was on Lough Carra and decided to try the fly.  Ten fish later, he was back in the pub calling his friend. "Tie up more of them flies," he said. "What flies?" the friend asked.  "You know lad.  The telephone flies."

 I think it may be beyond my modest fly-tying capabilities, but I am willing to attempt it. I'll let you know how it turns out. For now, it will be bead head pheasant tails for me.

Anybody have a match?

DH is reading a handbook for guides right now. Some of the advice is excellent, like how to splint a broken bone or start a fire if you only have wet kindling. Some is less than excellent.

"Honey, how would you get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger?"

"Shoot it," I promptly responded. (P.E.T.A, I know we will never be friends. Let's just face that fact now.) "Why would you have a snapping turtle on the end of your finger anyway? What kind of idiot sticks their hand in a snapping turtle's face?"

"Well, that's not what the guide book says," DH replied.

My interest was piqued. Perhaps there was an excellent way to get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger of which I was unaware. Perhaps P.E.T.A and I could end our long standing feud and share a beer.

"You're supposed to light a match and stick it under its chin. Or you can poke a stick in its nose, but they say that takes too long."

I sat there for a moment and pondered this. First off, a snapping turtle can break a broom handle in half when it bites. I've never been bitten by something that can snap a broom handle in half, but I would wager it hurts. I pictured myself with ten pounds of angry turtle attached to my hand. In that situation, I seriously doubted my ability to calmly pull a match out of my pocket, strike it successfully, and then stick my non-turtle-attached hand next to the angry turtle's chin.

As I was about to comment on this excellent advice, DH spoke up again.

"It also says that if you are attacked by a cougar or bear or lion, you should spit in its mouth. That makes it stop long enough for you to run away. No one can argue with that. If it works, you just saved your life. If it doesn't, you aren't going to be around to write in and contradict them."

I looked at DH.

"P.E.T.A. isn't going to like that."

For sale: one rattlesnake

My little cousins called DH and I a couple of days ago. They are near and dear to my heart (as is all of my family), but they call in spurts. The littlest guy, D.J., calls about five times a day for a couple of days, then won't call for a week or so.

This time they were so excited they could hardly speak. The only punctuation in their speech was exclamation points.

"Guess what guess what we caught a rattlesnake it's a little one we're going to give it to the nature conservatory or the zoo or something we had a gun but we caught it isn't that cool!"

"You caught a what?"

"A rattlesnake he's little and we have him in the 4-runner!"

"Wait. You have a rattlesnake....in your car. Is it alive?"

"Yeah yeah he's alive and in the 4-runner in a sack in a container and we caught him!"

"Why didn't you kill him?" (My apologies to you P.E.T.A. people out there, but my cousins are young. I would prefer the snake they apparently have in their car be dead. It would have little qualms about making them dead. Plus, there is not a Rattlesnakes for the Ethical Treatment of Humans to protect my cousins.)

"We had a gun and we were gonna shoot it 'cause it was gonna bite us but it was cold and slow so we caught it and now we have it and it has two rattles on its tail and big teeth isn't that cool!"

"So let me make sure I understand this. You two were out somewhere with a gun. You found a rattlesnake. It tried to bite you. So instead of killing it, you caught it, and now it's in a sack in your car. And it's still alive."

"Yeah but dad was with us he had the gun it's okay and we're taking it to the conservatory or we could send it to you do you want it we can mail it hey dad can we mail it to Q!"

"Oh dear Lord."

I called my aunt to make sure they weren't pulling my leg. They weren't. They actually have a real live rattlesnake in their SUV. I told them to kill it or give it to the conservatory. I also may have told them it was illegal to mail a rattlesnake to me. Rattlesnakes and explosives cannot cross state lines.

*Snake image is not mine.  It is from http://sdssnake.com/Rat.htm  Thank you!

Snow devils

We had finally gotten the majority of the cabin to a reasonable temperature. The ice had started to melt off the inside windows, only the bedrooms still had ice crystals on the floor, and it was comfortable if you were wearing long sleeves, a sweater, and some sort of shoe. We were a happy foursome, our friend B., who reminds me of Bear Grylls, having snowshoed over later that night.

DH braved the cold that morning to drill a hole through the ice so we could have water to wash the dishes. We were boiling snow to get drinking and cooking water. I had no idea that so much snow produced so little water. Talk about little reward for lots of effort.

B. and DH ventured out to start the sauna. Sauna is something my island friend had introduced me to back at the beginning of medical school. I fell completely in love with the whole concept, and fully intend to install one in my home at some point. The island sauna is an exterior feed, which means someone has to go outside of the building to put more wood in the fire. Another fabulous summer plan that is more challenging in the winter.

While they were working on that C. and I started cooking. Brie, fig preserves, and french bread made an excellent snack. Paella, homemade herbed bread, apple crisp with fresh whipped cream. We tucked the ragout de chevreuil (venison stew) in the oven. It called for a full bottle of wine, but we decided we would only share a cup of our wine with the stew. We had pulled that wine two miles across the lake. It was going accompany dinner, not be in the dinner. (All of the food was amazing, for those who wonder about such things.)

It is a tradition to wear bathrobes to the sauna, no matter how cold it is. However, it was also - 39F outside. In a concession to the weather, we put full winter gear over our swimsuits, and bathrobes over the winter coats. We looked ridiculous.

The sauna was a heavenly 180F. After about 10 minutes inside, I worked up my courage. I was going to continue the tradition and make a snow angel. I took a bracing drink of the cava we had stuck in a bucket of snow, shoved my feet in my boots, and ran outside. Steam poured off my skin.

Deep breath.

Jump.

That was a stupid idea.

I went first, but I was not alone. B. had decided to join me. He, however, was going to dive in head first. Apparently when he heard me screaming unrepeatable words, he thought a second too long about it. You can't think when you are doing something that ridiculous. You just do it. He did a nice normal jump in and promptly jumped back out. Didn't even wave his arms around. Wimp.

I sprinted back to the sauna leaving a perfect snow angel and a stream of vulgar language behind.

I really thought the snow would be warmer than the air. They claim that it's an insulator. I think they are lying. My skin didn't stop burning for almost thirty minutes. I suppose that's what I deserve for attempting a 220 degree skin temperature change in under a minute.

*******************

(Just kidding, B. ~ He is much tougher than I am in the cold department. He's one of those Polar Bear Club guys. You know, the crazy ones who jump in the iced over lakes on New Year's Day. That is a whole different level of crazy. However, there are also trained medical personnel there to rescue you from self induced hypothermia. That makes it slightly less crazy. Only slightly.)

New Year's Freeze

New Year's Eve is probably the most over-hyped holiday we celebrate. Rushing from one party to the next, drinking bad sparkling wine while avoiding sloshing glasses threatening your outfit, crushing rooms full of sweaty strangers shouting resolutions for the next year which they will promptly break the next day. It's an exhausting night that usually has only a thin veneer of glamour left after the clock strikes twelve.

However, we are developing a new New Year's tradition. A dear friend of mine currently living in the Northwest has a darling island cabin in a lake near Canada. It is remote, secluded, and incredibly peaceful. It is also a two mile kayak or ski to get there from shore, depending on the season. In the summer, it's a delightful trip across cool glassy waters. In the winter, it can be a peaceful ski across expanses of white ice and snow. It can also be a bitter ski with howling winds, cracking ice, and dangerous conditions. My favorite New Year's was spent skiing across the lake, building a roaring fire in the cabin, making and eating a delicious meal, taking a sauna, and drinking champagne.

So when C. called and said, "Hey, I think I can fly in for three days. Do you want to do New Year's at the cabin?" it was the easiest yes I have said in awhile. Bear in mind that the weather forecast for the weekend was a balmy -17 F.

Groceries were bought, skis were borrowed, and we were set. I picked up C. from the airport and DH from his work. We got a slightly later start to the day than planned, so it was decidedly dark by the time we got to the lake. Not a problem. I've skied across this lake in the dark before. It was also -27 F without windchill. Slightly more of a problem seeing how I am a total wimp when it comes to the cold.

Three pairs of pants. Four shirts. Two pairs of gloves and a pair of mittens. Long underwear. Two hats. One scarf. Three pairs of socks. I was ready.

Fifteen minutes and about 1/2 of mile later, I was so not ready. Did I mention that it was FREEZING? Or that there was no wind block since we were skiing across a lake? Or that we had brilliantly decided to bring the dog with us, but the boots we picked up at Cabelas for her were too large, fell off, and filled with snow? Or that she was now refusing to walk because her paws were freezing and she was shaking? Or that we had to pull a sled across the lake with all of our supplies on it? Or that the lake was apparently only partially frozen so that every few steps you broke through the top layer of ice to water underneath which promptly froze when you pulled your ski out of the water? Or that this quickly built up to two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis? Or that it is difficult to ski with two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis?

I was pretty sure I was going to die.

However, I was not going to let anyone else know this. I refused to be the weeny who quit halfway across the lake. When my friend turned and asked if I was okay, I said, "Sure, keep going." At this point DH and I were taking turns carrying the dog inside our coats to help keep her warm. Thank goodness she's small for her breed.

We had made it about a mile and a half across when my fingers and toes stopped hurting. This was a big problem. For all you Southerners, pain is a good thing when you are cold. When the pain goes away, you have to start worrying more about frostbite. It's significantly harder to be a surgeon when you have no finger tips. I stopped to put in another set of hand warmers and check the color of my fingers. Still red, not black.

C. turned and started yelling at me. "We cannot stop again. You will die. Do you understand me? People die when it is this cold. YOU WILL DIE."

It is not good when someone else tells you what you have secretly been thinking for the past mile, particularly when it concerns your imminent demise. We pushed on. In my mind, I cursed her father for picking the island that was farthest away from shore. Remote is fine and dandy in the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story. We finally made it to the cabin, almost 2 hours after we started. Fire was built, cocoa was drunk, and heaters were lit. We found out the next day that the temperature got down to -40 F that night.

It was a heck of a start to the weekend.