Now that we live in Minden, NV, just down the hill from Lake Tahoe, we think of these days with relief and gratitude. Except for the winter of 2023, we've never needed to clear whatever snow happens to fall upon our Rancho Pequeño.
Big Storm Comin’
In the days when Truckee, CA measured snowfall in feet rather than inches, one pre-holiday storm dumped of a foot of sugary powder. High school kids and a fair number of adults can't resist such bounty. Soon, the grocery stores emptied of baggers and clerks were pulling double duty. The weekend would be crammed with tourists yearning for their first ski tracks in the new snow. When they arrived, stores would be jammed and shelves pillaged of their goods.
For two days, we beheld cobalt skies as a backdrop to ponderosas flocked with globs of snow. As I cleared the berms left by the snowplow that morning, the frigid temperatures quickly formed icicles on the tree branches. No commercial tinsel could ever match the beauty of this wintry display.
Jeff and I call this a Varykino day. Remember Dr. Zhivago's family huddling in that tiny cabin on his country estate? The dacha itself lay covered with ice. That's how the world appeared this morning.
Days as cold as this, as awe-inspiring as they are, usually send me dashing inside before I freeze. Today, though, I allowed myself to watch a pair of ravens waken from the top limbs of a tree.
There they perched, two somber, black shapes, indistinguishable from hawks until one of them gurgled to the other. I could see the larger one move its head slightly; but otherwise, he remained absolutely still, not wanting to lose any of the heat his body had retained during the night. When I think of what birds must bear to survive Sierra Nevada winters, it amazes me that the ground isn't littered with tiny bodies after the spring melt.
Like the grosbeak, I savored this calm day before the visitors arrived. The weather guessers promised a gargantuan storm of epic proportions tomorrow. Seven days of rain in the valley and snow in the mountains. Epic! Biblical! I had already stocked up provisions. We're ready with food, firewood, and plenty of reading material in case the power goes down. The results of an earlier storm amounted to eight feet of snow after only three days. A seven-day event would bury us.
At least Jeff and Valerie would be with me to keep up with the growing snowdrifts. These storms had trained us to take turns or work in tandem to clear the snow when it gets a foot or so deep. If we left it to collect through the entire storm, we would indeed be snowed in. The previous owner who built the house would often work out of town, coming back to a mound of snow where his house was supposed to be. He told us one year, he and his son had to dig down through 23 feet of snow to find the door. So, even when Jeff is in the Bay Area, I was always home to hack away at the driveway.
We need the water, though. This is what we tell ourselves as we face these blizzards over Donner Pass. Memories are still sharp remembering the 1997 Flood that inundated the central valley of California. That was epic! Hundreds of farms and homes were flooded when the levies broke. Thousands of animals drowned. One little dog made national headlines when he allowed a news reporter to scoop him off the roof and into a hovering helicopter. That act alone was Homeric! The stuff of legend! A few years later, I found a children's book about the two brave men who accomplished this daring and crazy rescue.
As that ark-worthy flood soaked the valleys on both sides of the Sierra Nevada, we in the mountains could only sit for days, unable to go anywhere until the plows dug us out. Our only view of the world was through the television; that is, when the power was on. In those days, Jeff was working in San Jose. Thirteen-year-old Valerie helped me shovel for three days just to reach the end of the driveway. God bless our snow blower! But we thought we'd never see our neighbors again!
This time around, Jeff is home, working in his home office. Val's job is just down the hill at the X-country ski center. Worse comes to worst, she can ski to work. And we now have a plowing service, which spares our aging yet still capable snow blower from plowing the entire 165-foot driveway. It still comes in handy to trim away the berms in front of the garage doors and the house entrance.
Meanwhile, we will get through this next storm. We've done it before, although we were much younger and stronger then. And when it's all over and we've dug ourselves out of the snow, we will be treated to a cobalt sky behind a forest of beautifully flocked trees.
This poem illustrates just how arduous these big storms could get for us.
Break Through
Three days of storm insulates us.
Door opens to a wall of white
piled to meet a cornice
draping from the eave.
Snowblower is buried.
In matador ritual, we pull on
powder pants, Sorels, parkas.
Where to begin?
First unbury the blower.
Break the block of ice from the shaft.
My daughter slices snow from drifts.
Blower chews it up then hurls
it overhead to its final
resting place beside the driveway.
When drifts become too high for her
we trade jobs. Even I can barely see over the top.
Deeper, closer to the road we work,
The pathway grows a car-length an hour.
Halfway down the driveway, blower quits.
We join its rest, hanging clothes to dry.
Hands, shoulders, back muscles throb.
Hot soup and coffee restore our resolve.
At least we got started, the worst is past.
Later, we attack the sugary snow again.
New gales sting our faces, soak our coats.
Blower again strands us
with several yards yet to clear.
Haven’t seen the street plow all day
Can’t tell where driveway ends and street begins.
A third time, blower craps out
with only feet to go.
I collapse on the handlebars.
Voices nag inside my head
Why do you live here?
How stupid do you have to be
to put up with this.
A driveway plow passes me
to clear a neighbor’s path.
Next year, I pledge to myself.
A shrink is far more expensive
Than a year's plowing service.
Foot by foot, we slice and blow.
Our plume dances on the wind.
Others in driveways down the street
join ours for a winter ballet.
Snow covers ice as I turn
and slip to my knees.
The blower stands like a patient horse
waiting for its thrown rider.
I rise and continue. We’re so close.
At last, we break through
the berm left by snowplows,
greet neighbors not seen in days
packs of dogs frolic in the street
freed to sniff and mark the snow
a yellow address on the left side
of each driveway states their claim.
Cobalt blue breaks up the clouds
blinds us with sunlight
quickens our spirits
reminds us why we live here
what we have after we struggle
to emerge into light.
All photos taken by Sue Cauhape
If you enjoyed this post, feel free to explore the poems, essays, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archives.
I admire your fortitude with enduring such winters. I had a small flashback to winters in Buffalo last week when our pipes froze and that was more than enough for me.
Wonderful writing. Thanks for so eloquently sharing the snow life in the Sierra!
I admire your fortitude with enduring such winters. I had a small flashback to winters in Buffalo last week when our pipes froze and that was more than enough for me.