An anniversary to remember

Yesterday was SWWBO and I's 12th anniversary.  I've now gone double my previous record of six years.  And, oddly enough, I've been married to SWWBO for as many years as I was married to both other place-holders (apparently intended to keep me off the board until SWWBO was ready).  That also means there's some mileage on this chassis.  And there have been mods to it, that like any army vehicle, means this chassis has gained weight over it's service life. Snerk.  At least that's *my* story.  So, the point being that I'm not... young any more.

I may be old, but, by golly, I'm still young enough to do Stupid  Man Things.

We're living in a winter wonderland.  In fact, we're having snow they neglected to mention in the weather forecast right now. We've still got the snow that fell Christmas Eve.  It's been a very dry snow, the kind of powder skiers lust for and road crews hate, because it blows and drifts so easily.  But, in that there is opportunity.  I unleashed my inner man-child  yesterday morning, slapped the F150 into four-wheel and, at 25-30mph bored my way through the 2-3 foot drifts to get down the one mile of gravel road to get to the paved road. I was  the first guy into work yesterday morning, and many didn't show up. Round 1, the Armorer.

It being our anniversary, I pick up SWWBO's present at lunch, and after work, hit the commissary and grab a standing rib roast, some steaks, 'rita makings, and ice cream drumsticks and head home.

These are important things.

I motor on home, covering the first eleven miles of the twelve mile commute with no issues. Then  I get to Meagher, the beginning of the gravel road at the dead end of which sits the Demesne of Argghhh!  Meagher begins with a 30 foot high hillock that crests about 1/16th of mile in.  The entrance (and the first eighth of a mile or so) is drifted over at about the three-foot level. I slapped the truck into four-low and gave it a shot.  The F150 makes it 50 feet before it starts to just dig in. I back it out and consider my options. Round Two - the Snow.

What are the options?  Well, try again and get truly stuck, which will complicate things for everybody who lives along the road when I plug it so the county road grader can't get in.  Not that he's been there yet, clearly.  Or I could run on into Leavenworth, get a hotel room, call SWWBO and tell her we'll spend our anniversary in separate beds within 20 miles of each other.   Hmmmm.  Or, go to the nearest neighbor (about a half mile) ask 'em if I can park the truck there, grab the meat and 'rita makings and drumsticks and do a little forced march.

You know what I chose to do.

This is where I mention I've broken the cardinal rule of foul-weather driving: Dress as if you would have to walk home.  Seems there's a reason for that.  I've got on a sufficient jacket, except it's windbreaker-style with not much of a collar and no hood.  I'm in office clothes and walking shoes.  I do have gloves, but no head covering.  If I were in command, I'd relieve myself for failure to take care of the troops.

But I'm retired, so I just grab the standing rib roast, ribeyes, 'rita makings and drumsticks, and my neighbor motors me back to where Meagher starts.  Grabbing the bags, I start off, beginning Round 3.

I start walking into the drifting snow, slogging my way up through the thigh-high drifts, clear the first hilltop, and the way clears a bit - only a foot deep now.  My lungs are burning like the first day of football practice after conditioning drills and I'm blowing steam like an old locomotive at full throttle.  You can probably mark my passage from afar (the road is sunken, which is why all the drifts) by the plume I'm putting up. Except the 15 knot wind is snatching it away. On the plus side, I'm generating so much heat my feet don't care about the snow in the shoes and my ears don't care - hell, they welcome - the minus-5 windchill.  There's no turning back now.  Pride is at stake.  Lots of men have died for pride, it's a mark of manliness.  I was trudging along keeping an eye on the banked snow noting the places where I could build the snow-cave when the heart attack hit - assuming it left me able to move...

C'mon, it's our anniversary - 'rita makings are mandatory! I've missed enough anniversaries over my three marriages - I don't intend to miss this one. Freezing to death is a small price to pay for Pride and SWWBO!  Hey, that would be a good Castle motto!  "For Pride and SWWBO!"   Catchy. 

Slogging into a deepening darkness, thoughts of Chosin-minus-the-Chinese dancing in my head, I slog into the drifting snow. The drumsticks must be delivered.  'Ritas must be made.  Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night... waitaminnit.  The only tracks on the road in the places that aren't drifted over are mine - the mailman didn't even try today. 

I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, trying to stick to the packed ruts where I can, shifting the bags from hand to hand so that I don't cut off circulation to the fingers.  I find myself mumbling, "This is just good Army training.  This is just good Army training. This is just good Army training..."  Trudging up the last hill of the first half-mile, where Meagher turns south and becomes 211th and enters the demesne, I find a flippin' four foot high drift.  I batter on through.  Being hefty has some advantages - and it is powder snow, so it's not as hard to bull through as it seems, though the high-stepping slog is beginning to really tell in my thighs.  Break through that wall of snow and there is the neighbor's house, and beyond, the demesne.

Dilemma.  I'm cold, but not chilled to danger.  I've got a half-mile to go.  Do I drop in on Cheryl and Allan and ask if Allan could drive me home?  I take a look at the road in the evening nautical twilight.  Allan's big diesel isn't going to make it down the hill. Carp.  So, do I go and warm up and call SWWBO and report in? 

Nope.  She'd just worry, and the Ranger isn't going to make it through those drifts.  If I go in to Allan and Cheryl's, I will take abuse for being the 'tupid boy that, well, let's face it, that I am, so, I just keep on trudging.  Good army training.  Good army training.  This would be great gunnery weather - if your shite works in this, you've got your stuff nailed, I think to myself, because losing myself in reverie makes the time pass.  I can hear Buffy and Gunner out chasing something in the woods.  Figures.  I crap out and they won't even come over to huddle up against me to keep my company as I succumb to hypothermia...

Down 211th to where it turns back west and becomes Dakota.  Last eighth of mile, all uphill, but no drifts, as it's shielded by trees.  The beard is fully iced now.  I look like what I am - idiot middle-aged man staggering through the darkness of a howling winter's night, lugging a standing rib roast, two ribeyes, 'rita makings, and a box of ice cream drumsticks.  If I die doing this the Auld Soldier is going to give me a severe ration of grief...  Just another reason not to die then, eh?  Besides, I do *so* not want to make the Darwin Awards nominating process.  I don't mind being #1 in Google for bayoneting myself.  Being listed in the 2010 Darwin Award nominations however....

 I stagger into the kitchen and start horking up my lungs. Testosterone has triumphed once again over normal brain chemistry. 

I AM MAN! TESTOSTERONE RULEZ!
 
Round 3, and match - Armorer.

Epilogue:  Apparently my neighbor where I parked the truck works for the county.  The county road crew showed up this morning and asked if I had made it home alright, and apologized for not getting to the road yesterday.   Only way he could have known that I hoofed it in is if my neighbor told him.  We got a bonus - since we are where he turns his grader around, he went all the way up the drive and plowed it for us.  He said the drifts at the end of the road were five feet deep and there was no sign I had walked down the road... I think he was worried I might be face down in the ditch covered with snow...