Cold Feet

Gray skies, snow, slush, sleet, and hail

A large silver object exploded from the snow bank and shot across the two-lane road. I slammed on my brakes and cried, “What-the-hell?”

As my car skidded on black ice, narrowly avoiding a tailspin, a second shape flashed by, a snowmobile with a hulking male driver dressed in dappled orange camouflage. Next came a nine person convoy, pulsating antifreeze and oblivious to traffic laws or my thumping, over-caffeinated heart. Irritated by their complete indifference, I glanced to the passenger’s seat. Damn! My pasties had tumbled to the floor. These were not the small cup-like covers for the nipples of a striptease dancer, but were small delectable meat pies.

Weeks before, in the comfort of my heated apartment on the outskirts of my college campus, I had planned this road trip to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to see my boyfriend, because I was horny and hungry for pasties. Thoughts of those savory pies together with urges from my frisky hormones persuaded me to drive to Marquette, the second snowiest city in the contiguous United States.

Hours into the grueling drive, twinges of doubt bomb shelled my brain. Gray skies, snow, slush, sleet, and hail made the minutes grind. “Buck up,” I told myself. “This will be way more fun than frolicking on a white sandy beach and sipping Margaritas.” My three roommates had tried to persuade me to vacation with them in sunny Florida. When I refused, they declared me certifiably and stupidly in love. While they packed skimpy bikinis, I packed fleecy long underwear and boots.

After crossing the scenic Mackinac Bridge, connecting the two sections of Michigan, I pulled into a pasty stand to get my fix. Actually, I bought several and tenderly placed the warm meat pies beside me on the passenger seat to nibble as I drove. I liked to eat. I liked it a lot. Habitually overeating pies and food in general made me a rather hefty girl.

Sex, I also liked. A fact consummated on Mackinac Island, the summer resort where I had worked and met my new boyfriend. During our brief romance, he talked glowingly of life in the Upper Peninsula, alluding to our future there amid the great outdoors. His words painted a glorious fantasy of skipping through the northern woods with all our worldly goods strapped to our backs, living off the bountiful land on nuts, berries and fresh game, with the added luxury of store-bought granola and ramen noodles.

I sighed thinking of his lean, muscular body. My roommates were mean to say I was making a mistake. Summer love could shine hotter in the winter just, for example, like the delectable pasties, which tasted even better in the wintertime.

Though it snows in my home state of Ohio, I hadn’t anticipated such an abundance of the white stuff or there being so many winter-wonderland lunatics. Was this state my destiny? Michigan seemed like a lonely, call-of-the-wild country where hungry timber wolves could leap out to devour me and my meat pies.

Upon arriving in Marquette, nestled on the banks of frozen Lake Superior, my equally horny boyfriend delivered the expected exuberant hello in his unmade bed, then handed me a home-brewed beer.

While talking, he habitually scratched his sparse brown stubble, possibly to stimulate new follicles. “We drink a lot in the winter,” he said, abrading his chin, “so my housemate and I brew our own beer.” He popped one open for himself.

“Wow, brilliant,” I gushed, as if he’d rescued me from a speeding snowmobile rather than rolled me in the hay.

Mark turned and screamed, “CONNOR, COME MEET MY GIRLFRIEND.”

I tore my eyes off Mark’s becoming long johns to survey his ratty rental. The small kitchen, decorated in a malodorous shade of petrified grease, harmonized perfectly with the sink full of dirty dishes. Very gross with a lingering smell of burnt beans and rotten bananas. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “No doubt you cleaned for my visit.”

He smiled. “How did you guess?”

A thin, long-haired redhead, wearing a purple afghan over his bare shoulders, shuffled into the kitchen. “Hellooo,” he said with a head bob. “What do you think of our home-brew?”

I held the bottle up as if admiring the murky color. “Delicious. Very full bodied.”

Connor grinned like he knew I was lying. “Beth thinks it tastes like a sick rat swam in the vat and peed.”

A woman’s voice yelled from another room, “Quit telling lies, you Scottish half-wit!”

“Beth,” Connor yelled back, “come meet Mark’s girlfriend.”

Out flew a wiry, curly haired woman dressed only in an oversized, green plaid work shirt and pink wool socks. “I said that several rats died, not peed.”

The next morning, after stuffing myself with buckwheat pancakes, Mark stretched his long arms and said, “Let’s go for a hike. There’s a mountain peak where we can see a sensational view of the lake.”

“Yeah!” Beth and Connor cried in hearty unison.

I agreed, though I would’ve preferred to read the newspaper in my cozy pajamas, while nursing a hot cup of coffee.

The four of us loaded into Connor’s van and headed to a park on the outskirts of town. It hadn’t snowed for hours, so the roads were relatively clear. When we reached our destination, ours was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Not a good sign, I thought. There were two trails into the woods; naturally the best view was up the steep one.

At first I kept pace, but it was damn hard work. The three enthusiasts scampered with ease along the snowy path, whereas I staggered. Try as I might, I fell behind. My thin companions waited and when I drew near, bounded off again. White feathery snow hung from branches and muffled the sound of my labored breathing and faltering footsteps. After a while, Mark came back and asked, “Are you all right?”

Panting, I craned my head to look at him. He was tall, but now he hovered above me like a towering redwood. “Nooo,” I whimpered and pointed down. Snow came up to my knees, whereas he stood lightly on top.

He followed my gaze and frowned. “Oh, you’re sinking.”

“Yes, like a rock, or rather two rocks.”

He scratched his chin in thought. “Hmmm. You need snowshoes. For your size, you do have little feet.”

I blinked, not knowing whether to take that as a compliment or a put down.

Mark offered to take smaller steps, so if I followed his footprints, I might not sink.

No such luck, I sunk to solid ground. Each heart-thumping step took tremendous effort, pulling myself out of one deep hole and sinking into the next. My feet were like hot meteorites smashing into Mother Earth. It was simple physics. The weight of my chunky body put enormous pressure on my feet. Contact with the fluffy snow offered scant resistance to the heavy downward force of my itsy-bitsy boots.

“Go on ahead without me,” I wheezed.

“Don’t you want to get to the top of the mountain?” Mark asked. “It’s only about a mile further.”

“Nooo,” I said with a flash of annoyance.

He tilted his head, completely perplexed. “Are you sure?”

I groaned and pointed as if directing traffic. “Go!”

As he sprinted away to join his athletic friends, I heaved a great sigh of relief. My fantasy plan to be his outsy-doorsy wife seemed utterly ridiculous. But being alone in the wild woods, strangely, felt good. I relaxed and relished the white solitary view from where I stood. I didn’t need to see his mountain top.

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