The lying sun

Yesterday was so miserable (preceded by an equally horrid Sunday night) that Jessi rescheduled her interview in Denver for today so she wouldn't be clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, fearing for her life along every inch of highway.

So today dawned, snow-free and sunny ... deceptively sunny. The skies are clear and are the brightest blue you can imagine; nary a cloud to be seen, with bright, bright sunshine reflecting off the inches of snow that blanketed us over the weekend.

The sun is a liar.

Because it's frickin' freezing cold. And the wind will kick in tonight here in town (if it's not here already; I've been indoors a few hours). Interstate 80 is closed to Cheyenne, and portions of I-25 are shut down, too, because visibility is naught. We're in a high wind warning with gusts forecast to reach 60-plus mph, and we'll be in a blizzard warning tonight 'til 5 tomorrow morning, not because of fresh snow, but because of the infamous Western ground blizzards.

"It never actually snows in Wyoming," my mom used to say. "It just beats itself to death blowing back and forth from Montana and South Dakota." (We lived in northeast Wyoming) I could argue the same thing here, substituting Colorado and Nebraska for the offending snow providers.

cheated ... or something

It got warm this week. Deceptively, deliciously, wonderfully warm.

Something about wearing a spring-green skirt or a short-sleeved dress and heels felt so happily out of place, so fantastically bizarre that I lived in a three-day state of denial that it's January, and January in Wyoming is rarely - if ever - kind to cold-fearing bodies.

And then Winter came back today, with its sullen gray skies, its snow/rain/sleet/ice, its wind ... and its c-c-cold.

And it's not a typical, dry Wyoming cold. It's not the kind of arctic wind that slaps your face red and chapped and leaves it at that. Oh, no. There's some moisture in the air tonight, so the cold has that piercing quality to it - it has developed icy claws that tear through your pathetic layers of clothing and grip your skin in a chilly vice; it doesn't stop at making your nose red and runny - it flows into your lungs, leaving you certain that your chest now houses two lung-shaped blocks of ice.

And yet ... your nose still runs. Of course.

I want my springy January back.

You can see the world from here

Something that I love about Wyoming (and the West in general) and that I missed severely when I lived in Virginia is that, for hours before a storm hits, you can watch its approach. For that purpose, I also love the Garfield Street footbridge.

It's just another reason that Wyoming is wonderful.

No Fear

'... Yea, though I walk o'er the puddle of the ice of frozen winter, I shall fear no slip or tumble, for YakTrax are with me. Their coil and their traction, they save me. They annointest my feet with confidence; my shoes can walk all over ..."

yaktrax!
Originally uploaded by wyosarah203

I can now walk on ice and packed snow without fear of spontaneously doing the splits, testing the cushioning of my tailbone or unintentionally becoming an Olympic figure skater ... I think these are my new winter crush ... Not easy to cuddle up with, though.

I got mine at Cross Country Connection here in Laramie for $20, easy conversation with friendly sales guy and a side explanation of different types of snowshoes included, sans charge. They (the YakTrax, not the snowshoes) fit right over the bottoms of whatever shoes you're wearing by means of rubber bands/straps/thingies. Pretty easy. Pretty wonderful. Pretty dignity-saving. Pretty happy (me).

Snow Angel

As much as I complained about the cold and snow over the weekend in Gillette, it was exactly a year ago when we were having Mom and Dad's anniversary party there, and it snowed that weekend, too, much to Molly's dismay.

Molly hates Wyoming and blames her spite on Wyoming always being covered in a layer of what she's convinced is permafrost and rarely getting above zero before the wind is factored in. I think this is unfair, but I do dislike the wind in Wyoming.

This weekend was special, in that Mother Nature got back at me for not getting my car stuck once last winter.

Oh, it got stuck. And good. At night. Outside of town. I was wearing a dress and high heels and had left my snowboots conveniently in my coat closet in Laramie. My only option besides my very cute black heels was a very cute pair of black dress boots. Better than the heels, but by the time the ordeal was over, I was pretty sure I wouldn't have any feet left to worry about needing shoes or boots ...

I had gone out to visit Brooke and Colin and the kids and wound up staying for dinner and a recorded episode of "My Name is Earl." And then at 8, when Colin said he was worried that I might not be able to get back out of the driveway, I decided to try my not-so-superior drift-negotiating skills.

They're still not very superior.

The ironic thing was that, should stuck come to tow, I was stuck behind the very vehicle we needed to do the towing. Hah. Hahaha.

So Brooke had a go.

It was a slight improvement -- after pulling forward too far and nudging her SUV with my front bumper, she pulled back, the car floated in the drift ... and wound up stuck behind a tractor, with mere inches between the tractor tire and the front of my car. I couldn't hear what she shouted at the dashboard, but I can imagine, and I was glad the kids were in bed, whatever it was.

So now I'm in the "boots," black tights and a short dress, and I'm shoveling snow from around my car as fast as I can. It was frickin' cold.

And then Colin, who just thought he was going to get to go to bed, wound up pulling on his full-body coveralls and work boots and had his own go at getting it unstuck. He managed to get it stuck in a convenient enough position that Brooke was able to get the SUV out of the garage, and then it was a good ol' game of wintertime tug-of-war, SUV vs. tiny little sedan.

In the meantime, Brooke and I maintained a steady stream of apologies.

"I'm so sorry you guys are having to help me get out."

"I'm so sorry I asked you to come out here ... I should have known."

And so on ...

And every time my car found a new and deeper drift or a deeper, muddier rut to get stuck in, I apologized all over again.

While it was getting re-stuck, it was also kicking out quite a bit of mud, quite a bit of which wound up on me -- my clothes, my coat, my hair, my glasses. It didn't matter where I stood -- my car was determined to give me a spa-quality mud bath. Joy.

"At least it wasn't manure," my dad said when I told him the story the next morning.
At least.

To make a long (and cold) story a bit shorter, after much tugging, swearing, steering, revving, more apologizing, shivering, swerving, charging and more tugging ... the car was free, and my numb feet managed to press the pedals and my numb hands steered the wheel and my numb mouth asked for warm, woolly socks when I got home ... and then I lay on the floor in front of the pellet stove, my feet suspended in front of the blower while Mom and I discussed life and the crazy renters in her house.

Once I got the feeling back in my feet, things were pretty good.

But I think I've more than paid my dues for not getting stuck last winter. I hope it doesn't happen again this winter.