Snow Facing

 

Being raised in the deserts of Southern California—I might need to let you know that we moved around a bit, my father and I (also he met my eventual step-mother, Marilyn, when I was quite young, and she has a daughter, my sister Kasey)—I have a pretty strong memory of the first time I saw snow. It wasn’t as enjoyable of an experience as one might assume; winter can be trying for those unprepared, and we often were. 

 

I was miserably cold. We drove out to Mammoth Mountain, and arrived long after the sun had set. Something about snow refines silence, concurrently peaceful and unnerving, but the way in which the body reacts to severe cold is far less tranquil than the surrounding stillness. I can vividly remember jaw chattering, limbs shaking, and blood retreating from the surface of my skin as the snow fell softly against my face. It is mostly commonplace now, but then it was nearly sublime, despite its relative triviality. Time itself seemed to tread slowly through snow: regardless of direction it'd seem as though time and I were wading against the same current.