The wind, the wind, the wind

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I live in a windy place. The wind spills over the mountains and slams into us with force. We call it windsomnia, those nights spent with feeling the house creak and shake, the rattle of a heavy ski chair moving across the porch, the morning view of shingles dotting the lawn.

People post on the facebook page about items they have lost: garbage cans, lawn art. A trampoline ends up in electrical wires. The neighbor's roof once partially escapes.

There's really nothing that sets my teeth on edge as much as wind. There's been many backpacking nights where I have admitted defeat and collapsed my tent, most notably one night in the Joshua trees on the Pacific Crest Trail in perhaps on of the windiest places on earth, near Tehachapi. The Arizona Trail, too, has its fair share of wind. I have had to dart across ridges swathed in rain gear and with a buff over my face just to endure it.

A rare morning of calm on the AZT.

Here, the wind comes from the south, so much so that they dump extra mercury, most likely from the cement plant, into the alpine lakes, causing an unhealthy buildup in the fish. Years ago, I participated in a study where we hiked in, caught the fish, and learned that the levels of mercury were dangerously high. I wondered what this was doing to the creatures that ate fish, but for some reason the findings were suppressed and a followup was never done. Political? Probably.

We can't base our lives around weather or we would never go anywhere, so we gamely decided to head a couple hours to the ski area in a dicey forecast. Gusts of 55! All night our tiny truck camper shell's canvas sides buckled with the force of it, while the other resort campers bailed.

It was my first time camping at a ski resort, and I learned that this is a thing. What you have: no amenities besides a row of dubious portapotties and the roar of 3 am groomers. What you get: the joy of following a groomer first down the Nordic trails as they put down fresh corduroy.

It was, truly, ridiculous. I skied along in full combat gear, long underwear, soft shell pants, two shirts, a fleece vest, and enormous parka. With the wind and the wet, sideways snow, I was soaked in seconds. There were only a few other warriors out there, and the lift lines for downhill were short.

Still, at 7,000 feet, we had found winter at last and were reluctant to give it up. My friend wrote from the East, where they are getting pummeled: “we've had mild winters lately and we've gotten soft. This is a warning.”

No chance of softness. At the foot of the mountains that have not burned in decades, we know we live in a trap. We are already packing our go bags.

But back to the wind. We convene back at the truck and discuss our life choices. Neither of us really wants to go back out, but we convince each other we need to do more runs. We will never get soft.

So we do. The wind howls with renewed force. The wet snow covers everything. There is no such thing as a waterproof glove. Finally, we have had enough of the relentless wind. Still, there is that feeling of regret as we pull away. That one little piece of ourselves that says, no. This is not enough, not yet.

Frost sat down and refused to leave.

But that's how people get in trouble, by not knowing when to quit. We can be soft sometimes. Let the wind blow itself out. Find all the things it has taken. Leave the mountains and go eat pizza and forget about mercury and wind and all the things we have lost that we can't get back. Just for a little bit, calm our wind-blown faces and dry our allegedly waterproof gloves and come in from the cold.