SNOW EXPERIENCES

The Joy of snow was my father building an igloo when I was 5. He used a cardboard box to make the blocks. The window was an ice sheet from a puddle in the street.

There is often more misery than joy in snow as in so many aspects of life: alcohol; love; skiing; and more.

The two worst experiences were as follows...

 

When I was training to become a Catholic Monk aged 12, the American head of the juniorate, Brother Guy, took 8 of us on a hike up a peak in the English Lake District.

It was February. There was joy in standing at the foot of an awesome frozen waterfall. If you hit part of it with a rock it tumbled in great chunks of translucent ice. You had to dodge the debris.

Trudging further up in six inches of snow was mildly miserable. Ice cold water trickled into our boots. Our chilled faces tingled. Each breath expelled mist.

As the weather changed, Jack and I lagged far behind. The mountain’s microclimate is notoriously changeable. We were soon cloaked in clouds. Wind drove icy snow into our faces.

Without shelter or a handy cardboard box to build an igloo, we would die unless we got into the valley fast. Stumbling downwards was our only hope. We zigzagged, pulling each other out of drifts and bashing knees against hidden rocks. Finally, we came to a narrow farm track.

It led to a stone farm building, which we could dimly see through the gloom. We banged on the door. It opened with a welcome light and gust of warm air. A  surprised ruddy face Farmer’s wife greeted us.

‘’Come in. Come in.’’

Yer shouldn’t be out in this. What were you thinking?’’

The feeling began to return to our numb toes and fingers in front of a blazing log fire, accompanied by the shooting pains of chilblains.

Hot mutton stew brought back some joy. Soon, our clothes were steaming on a wooden stand. We were dressed in old farmers’ clothes, several sizes too large.

There was no telephone.

So, we were there till it was possible to walk to a phone. Maternally, she tucked us up in beds for the night.

Next day was a clear, bright morning. We rode a tractor to a red phone box. I called home.

Mum answered.

‘’Thank God!

Your Dad’s up there waiting to hear from the mountain rescue team.

They’ve been out all night.’’

 

We went back to the farm. Dad drove us home. Brother Guy and the rest of the group had returned to Manchester. No doubt Guy had prayed that our bodies would be recovered. He was not in dad’s good books.

 

Fast forward 11 years. I’m a gung-ho green beret in the Mortar Platoon of Royal Marine Reserves Merseyside.

If the Russians attacked NATO, the mission of two Marine Commandos, about 1500 lightly armed men, was to get to arctic Norway and help the Norwegians to hold off a Russian army coming down from their bases in the Kola Peninsula. Easy!

Clearly, a little training would be useful.

The men of the Royal Marine Arctic and Mountain Warfare Cadre are the UK’s best experts in fighting and surviving in extremely cold weather. They trained other marines in climbing, cross-country skiing, combat and survival in extreme temperatures.

We were looking forward to it. After the green beret course, we could do anything, or so we thought.

We were trucked out to the training area in Snowcats, light enclosed vehicles with extremely wide tracks. It was -6 Fahrenheit, -26C. We were already chilled to the marrow and looking forward to a night in a warm hut.

We were shown how to dig a hole in the snow for two men and how to roof it with our gas capes. Two guys slept head to toe huddled together. This was no longer fun.

The oil in our rifles froze the mechanism. We were shown how to stop that happening.

We were also instructed in lots of other crazy antics. Rappelling down icy cliffs was the least entertaining. I was awful at skiing; the damned things would not stay parallel and tried to make me do the splits.

Fortunately, the Russians never decided to pay Norway a friendly visit, at least not yet.

I like living in Costa Rica where cold is 12 C.