BREAK OUT THE FOOT MASHIE!

Oh sure, you betcha, yeah, yeah yeah, snow-mageddon is on the way says the forecast and wait for it, Bishop is in the bullseye. Yawn. Heard it before, seen it evaporate like a puff of a Jr. high student’s vape exhaust. Snore. 

Just in case, since it is getting cloudy and sort of cold, I’d better go to the grocery store so I don’t have to cannibalize those ancient frozen tater-tots and that frosted over, Covid-era chunk of some sort of meat in the freezer. And toilet paper, another Covid-era angst-fest I don’t have to angst over anymore. Until I’m down to one roll. Ah the memories. 

Whoa, whoa, whoa, what is this? Little white specs falling from the sky. Gotta be kidding. Nope. Snow. Even better it’s being driven sideways by the wind. Better find a warmer coat then my ratty little fleece that has been in service all winter except for that string of 70-degree days when a shirt was just fine. My coat inventory reveals two black fleeces, a red fleece (“why, oh why,” the winter fashion Gods ask), a rain shell, a canvas jacket that sheds rain but isn’t warm, and finally, a little heftier jacket making this year’s winter debut. 

Okay, maybe my Colorado-warm knit cap? It’s in here somewhere, but I haven’t seen it in over a year. Not there. Oh well. Death Valley National Park ball cap – hot, right? 

Off I go and it’s now an official blizzard. Which feels good. Wind-whipped snow stinging my face, bouncing off my frosty little ears and nose. I leave my coat open to get a good chill and let snow pile on my shirt. It finally feels like winter. 

When I finally come out of the store it’s a serious blizzard, almost a whiteout with snow sticking on the shrubbery and cars. What a hoot. Almost forgot such things can happen here in the Paris of the West. 

Now I’m getting excited. Snow is piling up on sidewalks and coating tree limbs. Snowing and blowing so hard I can barely see streetlights as night falls. Mushy, wet, heavy snow, the classic Sierra Cement. 

Time to get ready for the morning and “digging out.” 

So, look in the closet. Where did all these sweaters come from? Oh, I remember. I used to wear sweaters over a shirt in the winter. Crazy. Barely remember those cold days. For years all I’ve needed is a nice flannel shirt. And a fleece. It’s probably been a decade since I informed anyone who would listen that, “it’s colder than a well digger’s ass.” (Sorry, not sorry for using my Dad’s favorite saying.) Anyway, if it’s even sort of cold in the morning I might wear a sweater for old times’ sake. 

I won’t wear it over one of these heavy duty flannel shirts from L.L. Bean. Montana warm. Parked ever since I got to Bishop. I will only look longingly at my Pendelton wool shirts, who have been winter bystanders for years.  

Boots. Lots of light, low-cut boots that seem to be fine these days for winter duty. The high-tops are stuck in back, almost under the bed. 

Night brings more snow and the whomp whomp of snow falling off tree branches and tree branches falling off trees. Winter stuff. Measures about 5 inches of soggy snow. Great. A veritable deluge. 

Morning is sunny. Sort of warm, which is disappointing. First on the list is brushing off the car. Long-sleeve long underwear (I will not call it base layer, dammit) and a flannel shirt, boots, gloves, Death Valley hat and I’m in the snow. Don’t even need a fleece. Sigh. Ice crusted snow on the car. Nice. Sweep it all off and the sun takes care of the leftovers. Now it’s time for a favorite winter pastime: driving over the piles of slushy snow plowed into long strips on residential streets, splashing snow and water everywhere. I doesn’t take much to entertain me. After a couple laps around the neighborhood I park and eyeball my short sidewalk. 

Shovel? Surely you jest. I had one years ago, but it broke and I tossed it. Still, the snow is 3-4 inches deep and mushy and heavy. I break out the “foot mashie.” Golfers and golf history buffs know what I mean: when you find your wayward golf ball in the rough, kick it with a “foot mashie” and report, “there it is, edge of the fairway.”

I go down the sidewalk kicking snow off 30-feet of skinny concrete. 

Almost break a sweat. 

Jon Klusmire of Bishop is almost ready to give away two of his four winter comforters.