We all monitor the weather up here, not for any other reason than necessity. The week’s snow estimates had been tracked and studied, and was to amount to a mere “inch or two” overnight. I awoke to 18 inches of fresh powder, not including drifts. Pretty much missed the mark on that one. The sun was back by nine, and the batteries fully charged before one, so power is plentiful and the snow blower fared far better in the powdery fluff.
Moon Bug loves the snow, eats through it and seems to be impervious, at least in yard tests. I am sure it will not be so in the field. Tomorrow is my first adventure down the mountain with her, seeking a couple more hardware items before locking in for the winter.
Much to maintain out here, but I started adding things up. All the maintenance, tools, oils, fluids, chargers, etc.
Thirty six tires to keep inflated and ready (including spares).
Ten internal combustion motors that require fuel, oil, filters and regular maintenance. Let’s not discuss housings; one machine requires three separate oil changes. One machine only two, but also requires unbolting seats and floor panels simply to access the oil filter. (Engineer Slapping is a sport I would readily endorse.)
Six of those motors are battery operated, five solely so.
I have a three air compressors (two portable), four chargers (two trickle), and shelves full of oils, filters, gaskets, and seals.
Add two sets of tracks and it’s been quite the shift from a year ago, where it was five tires, two motors, and one battery.
Taking advantage of the weather to clean up yard debris. Six of said tires in use.
When I first decided to spend the winter out here, I thought the biggest challenge would be the isolation; the inability to get to pavement, a store, a service, an item, etc. could limit the way one moves in today’s world. Turns out, that part is a piece of cake. I grew up in the middle of nowhere with eighty acres to wander with nary a neighbor in sight. I grew up very much alone, isolated, taught to only reflect inward. Skills all handy on my little mountain top.
Had a dental ‘situation’ this week that was readily handled, but what about during the snowed in phase(s)? What about the fourteen year old dog and his needs? I cannot expect him to hike to or fro, with or without snowshoes. Much of this weighs upon a man at times. Much of this is worry. As Louis L’Amour aptly stated, ‘Worrying is like planning how to cross a river you might never come to.” And thus I move along.
Been attempting to heal an old wound though, this one follows me everywhere. After a life of living with no regrets, oh, I have one now. It haunts me. Keeps me from sleep. Makes me beg for time travel to re-do the experience. It goes to bed, usually with me, and oft lies dormant for days, weeks, and recently months, but then she returns, and she is fresh and present and something I yet have managed to properly scope the impact upon. The man I am, would be, and will be, would be on a very different trajectory.
Perhaps this is why I am here. Everyone gives me ‘looks’, big eyes, exclamations, when I tell them I plan to winter here. So be it. The physical part is easy. A man still carries his wounds, as well as his rewards, wherever he may wander, settle, or feel at home.
Any great insights on how to settle a past regret? This experience is new to me. And oh, she does eat at me still; how to remove these tendrils eludes me.
Mountain top living is different than Continental Divide view living. Oh, there were winds up north, staring at forty plus peaks as did the old homestead. But here, nestled between the Sangre de Cristo range, the Trinchera Range and Blanca Peak’s own weather system, the winds here can rattle a man to the bone, shake his soul, and land him three feet to the left.
This cabin was never winterized – drafts at the windows, drafts at the doors, drafts under the sinks, around the vents, in the chinking. Many are plugged, patched and planned, but there are many more left to work upon. Most of the window trim needs to be removed from the exterior, windows sealed, spaces insulated, and trim restored. The work has begun and the weather should be mild this week. The wall of windows is simply a sieve at this point.
The firewood pile is dropping to compensate, but a neighbor generously offered me some wetter, but not wet, wood that’s holding steady for the overnights. Life is good. Managed to get out again this weekend for fresh fruit and vegetables, and more canning jars.
